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FIRST  COMPLETE  AMERICAN  EDITION. 


N  E  W-Y  0  R  K  : 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 


CONTENTS  OF  VOLUME  II. 


HINTS  FOR  FORMING  THE  CHARACTER 
OF  A  YOUNG  PRINCESS. 

Page 

Chap.  I — Introductory  Chapter,  . 

Chap.  II — On  the  Acquisition  of  Knowledge, 
Chap.  Ill — On  the  Importance  of  forming  the 

Mind, . 

Chap.  IV — The  Education  of  a  Sovereign  a 

Specific  Education, . 

Chap.  V — Importance  of  Studying  Ancient 
History,  ........ 

Chap.  VI — Laws — Egypt — Persia, 

Chap.  VII — Greece, . 

Chap.  VIII — Rome, . 

Chap.  IX — Characters  of  Historians,  who 
were  themselves  concerned  in  the  transac¬ 
tions  which  they  record,  .... 

Chap.  X— Reflections  on  Histoiy — Ancient 

Historians, . 

Chap.  XI — English  History— Mr.  Hume,  . 

Chap.  XII — Important  Eras  of  English  His¬ 
tory — Alfred — King  John— Henry  VII.,  . 

Chap.  XIII — Queen  Ehzabeth,  . 

Chap.  XIV— Moral  Advantages  to  be  drawn 
from  the  Study  of  History,  independent  of 
the  examples  it  exhibits— It  proves  the  Cor¬ 
ruption  of  Human  Nature — It  denionstrates 
the  superintending  power  of  Providence — 
illustrated  by  Instances,  .... 

Chap.  XV — On  the  Distinguishing  Characters 
of  Christianity,  .  . 

Chap.  XVI — On  the  Scripture  Evidences  of 
Christianity.  The  Christian  Religion  pecu¬ 
liarly  adapted  to  the  Exigencies  of  Man; 
and  especially  calculated  to  supply  the  De¬ 
fects  of  Heathen  Philosophy,  . 

Chap.  XVII — The  use  of  History  in  teaching 
the  Choice  of  Favourites — Flattery — Our 
Taste  Improved  in  the  Arts  of  Adulation — 

The  Dangers  of  Flattery  exemplified. 

Chap.  XVIil — Religion  necessary  to  the  well¬ 
being  of  States, . 

Chap.  XIX — Integrity  the  true  pohtical  Wis¬ 
dom,  . 

Chap.  XX — On  the  True  Arts  of  Popularity, 

Chap.  XXI — The  importance  of  the  Royal 
Example  in  promoting  Loyalty — On  False 
Patriotism — Public  Spirit, 

Chap.  XXII — On  the  Graces  of  Deportment 
— The  Dispositions  necessary  for  Business 
— Habits  of  Domestic  Life, 

Chap.  XXIII — On  the  Choice  of  Society — 
Sincerity  the  Bond  of  Familiar  Intercourse 
— Liberality — ^Instances  of  Ingratitude  in 
Princes — On  raising  the  tone  of  Conversa¬ 
tion — And  of  Manners,  .... 

Chap.  XXIV — On  the  Art  of  Moral  Calcula¬ 
tion,  and  forming  a  Just  Estimate  of  Things 

and  Persons, . 

Chap.  XXV — On  Erroneous  Judgment — 
Character  of  Queen  Christina  of  Sweden 
— Comparison  of  Christina  with  Alfred,  . 

Chap.  XXVI — Observations  on  the  Age  of 
Louis  XI V.  and  on  Voltaire,  ...  69 


25 

26 
29 

31 

33 


35 


38 


41 


46 

49 

53 

56 


59 


60 


61 


64 


67 


Page 

Chap.  XXVII — An  examination  of  the  Claims 
of  those  Princes  who  aspired  to  the  appel¬ 
lation  of  the  GREAT,  ....  72 

Chap.  XXVIII— Books,  ....  76 

Chap.  XXIX — Of  Periodical  Essay  Writers, 
particularly  Addison  and  Johnson,  .  .  79 

Chap.  XXX — Books  of  Amusement,  .  .  82 

Chap.  XXXI — Books  of  Instruction,  .  .  85 

Chap.  XXXII — The  Holy  Scriptures — The 

Old  Testament, . £7 

Chap.  XXXIII — The  Holy  Scriptures — The 

New  Testament . 89 

Chap.  XXXIV — On  the  abuse  of  Terms — 
Enthusiasm — Superstition — Zeal  for  Reli¬ 
gious  opinions  no  proof  of  Religion,  .  92 

Chap.  XXXV — The  Reformation,  .  .  96 

Chap.  XXXVI — On  the  importance  of  Reh- 
gious  Institutions  and  Observances — They 
are  suited  to  the  nature  of  Christianity,  and 
particularly  adapted  to  the  character  of  Man,  98 
Chap.  XXXVII— Of  the  Established  Church 

of  England, . 100 

Chap.  XXXVni — Superintendence  of  Provi¬ 
dence  manifested  in  the  Local  Circum¬ 
stances,  and  in  the  Religious  History  of  Eng¬ 
land,  . 104 

Chap.  XXXIX — The  same  subject  continued 
— tolerant  Spirit  of  the  Church — Circum¬ 
stances  which  led  to  the  Revolution,  and  to 
the  Providential  Succession  of  the  House 

of  Hanover, . 109 

Chap.  XL — On  Christianity  as  a  Principle  of 
Action,  especially  as  it  respects  Supreme 
Rulers, . H3 

CHRISTIAN  MORALS. 

Chap.  I — On  the  writers  of  Pious  Books,  .  118 
Chap.  II — On  Providence,  ....  123 
Chap.  Ill — Practical  use  of  the  Doctrine  of 

Providence, . 127 

Chap.  IV — Thy  win  be  done,  .  .  .131 

Chap.  V — On  Parable,  ....  134 
Chap.  VI — On  the  Parable  of  the  Talents,  .  137 
Chap.  VII — On  Influence,  considered  as  a 

Talent, . 140 

Chap.  VIII — OnTime,  considered  as  a  Talent,  144 
Chap.  IX — On  Charity,  .  i  .  .  146 

Chap.  X — On  Prejudice,  ....  150 
Chap.  XI — Particular  Prejudices,  .  .  154 

Chap.  XII — Farther  Causes  of  Prejudice,  .  158 
Chap.  XIII — Humility,  the  only  true  Greatness,  160 
Chap.  XIV — On  Retirement,  .  .  .  165 

Chap.  XV — Dangers  and  Advantages  of  Re¬ 
tirement,  . 169 

Chap.  XVI — An  Inquiry,  why  some  Good 
Sort  of  People  are  not  better,  .  .  ,  172 

Chap.  XVII — The  Inquiry,  why  some  Good 
Sort  of  People  are  not  better,  continued,  175 
Chap.  XVIII — Thoughts  respectfully  suggest¬ 
ed  to  Good  Sort  of  People,  .  .  .179 

Chap.  XIX — On  Habits,  ....  183 
Chap.  XX — On  the  Inconsistency  of  Chris¬ 
tians  vfith  Christianity,  ....  188 


CONTENTS. 


iV 

Page 

Chap.  XXI — Expostulation  with  the  Incon¬ 
sistent  Christian,  '  .  .  .  •  •  191 

Chap.  XXII — Reflections  of  an  Inconsistent 
Christian  after  a  serious  perusal  of  the  Bible,  195 
Chap.  XXIII— The  Christian  in  the  World,  196 
Chap.  XXIV — Difficulties  and  Advantages  of 
the  Christian  in  the  World,  .  .  .  200 

Chap.  XXV— Candidas,  .  .  .  .205 

Chap.  XXVI — The  established  Christian,  .  210 

AN  ESSAY  ON  THE  CHARACTER  AND 
PRACTICAL  WRITINGS  OF  ST.  PAUL. 

Chap.  I — Introductory  Remarks  on  the  Mo¬ 
rality  of  Paganism,  showing  the  necessity 
of  Christian  Revelation,  ....  217 
Chap.  Il^On  the  Historical  Writers  of  the 

New  Testament, . 221 

Chap.  Ill — On  the  Epistolatory  Writers  of  the 
New  Testament,  particularly  Saint  Paul,  224 
Chap.  IV — Saint  Paul’s  Faith,  a  Practical 

Principle, . 227 

Chap.  V — The  Morality  of  Saint  Paul,  .  230 
Chap.  VI — The  disinterestedness  of  St.  Paul,  234 
Chap.  VII — Saint  Paul’s  Prudence  in  his 
Conduct  towards  the  Jews,  .  .  .  238 

Chap.  VIII — Saint  Paul’s  J udgment  in  his  in¬ 
tercourse  with  the  Pagans,  .  .  .  242 

Chap.  IX — On  the  general  Principle  of  Saint 

Paul’s  Writings, . 246 

Chap.  X — On  the  Style  and  Genius  of  Saint 

Paul, . 252 

Chap.  XI — Saint  Paul’s  Tenderness  of  Heart,  257 
Chap.  XII — St.  Paul’s  Heavenly  Mindedness,  261 
Chap.  XIII — A  General  View  of  the  Qualities 
of  Saint  Paul — His  Knowledge  of  Human 
Nature — His  Delicacy  in  giving  Advice  or 
Reproof— His  Integrity,  ....  265 
Chap.  XIV — St.  Paul  on  the  Love  of  Money,  270 
Chap.  XV — On  the  Genius  of  Christianity,  as 

seen  m  Saint  Paul, . 273 

Chap.  XVI — Saint  Paul’s  respect  for  consti¬ 
tuted  Authorities, . 277 

Chap.  XVII — Saint  Paul’s  Attention  to  infe¬ 
rior  Concerns, . 281 

Chap.  XVIII — Saint  Paul  on  the  Resurrection,  284 
Chap.  XIX — Saint  Paul  on  Prayer,  Thanks¬ 
giving,  and  Religious  Joy,  .  .  .  287 

Chap.  XX — Saint  Paul  an  Example  to  Fa¬ 
miliar  Life,  .  .  .  .  .  .  291 

Chap.  XXI — On  the  superior  Advantages  of 
the  present  Period,  for  the  attainment  of 
Knowledge,  Religion,  and  Happiness,  .  295 
Chap.  XXII — Conclusion — Cursory  Inquiry 
into  some  of  the  Causes  which  Impeded 
general  Improvement,  ....  298 

CCELEBS  IN  SEARCH  OF  A  WIFE,  .  304 

FOREIGN  SKETCHES. 

Foreign  Associations, . 437 

French  Opinions  of  English  Society,  .  .  440 

English  Opinion  of  French  Society,  .  .  443 

England’s  Best  Hope, . 449 

DOMESTIC  SKETCHES. 

On  Soundness  in  Judgment  and  Consistency 
in  Conduct,  .  .  .  .  .  .  454 

Novel  Opinions  in  Religion,  ....  456 
Ill  effects  of  the  late  Secession,  .  .  .  461 

Exertions  of  Pious  Ladies,  ....  465 
High  Profession,  and  Negligent  Practice,  .  466 
Auricular  Confession,  .  ...  471 


Page 

Unprofitable  Reading . 471 

The  Borderers, . 47.7 

REFLECTIONS  ON  PRAYER. 

On  the  Corruption  of  Human  Nature,  .  477 
False  Notions  of  the  Dignity  of  Man,  shown 
from  his  Helplessness  and  Dependance,  .  479 
The  Obligation  of  Prayer  Universal— Regular 
Seasons  to  be  observed — The  Skeptic  and 
the  Sensualist  reject  Prayer,  .  .  .  481 

Errors  in  Prayer,  which  may  hinder  its  being 
answered — The  Proud  Man’s  Prayer — The 
Patient  Christian — False  Excuses,  under 
the  Pretence  of  Inability,  ....  483 
God  our  Father — Our  Unwillingness  to  please 
Him — Form  of  Prayer — Great  and  Little 
Sins — All  Sin  an  Offence  against  God — Ben¬ 
efit  of  Habitual  Prayer,  ....  487 
The  Doctrine  of  Imputed  Sanctification, 
newly  adopted — The  old  one,  of  Progressive 
Sanctification,  newly  rejected — Both  Doc¬ 
trines  injurious  to  Prayer — St.  Paul’s  Char¬ 
acter,  . 489 

Character  of  those  who  expect  Salvation  for 
their  Good  Works — Of  those  who  depend 
on  a  careless  Nominal  Faith — Both  these 
Characters  unfavourable  to  Prayer — Chris¬ 
tianity  a  Religion  of  Love,  which  disposes 
to  Prayer,  exhibited  in  a  third  Charaetter,  491 
Prayer — The  condition  of  its  attendant  Bles¬ 
sings — Useless  Contention  about  Terms,  .  493 
Vain  Excuses  for  the  Neglect  of  Prayer— The 
Man  of  Business— Case  of  Nehemiah — 
Prayer  against  the  Fear  of  Death— Charac¬ 
ters  to  whom  Prayer  is  Recommended,  .  495 
The  Consolation  of  Prayer— Its  Perpetual 

Obligation,  • . 499 

On  Intercessory  Prayer,  ....  500 
The  Praying  Christian  in  the  World — The 
Promise  of  Rest  to  the  Christian,  .  .  502 

The  Lord’s  Prayer,  a  Model  both  for  our  De¬ 
votion  and  our  Practice — It  teaches  the 
Duty  of  Promoting  Schemes  to  advance 

the  Glory  of  God, . 505 

Conclusion, . 508 

SPIRIT  OF  PRAYER. 

Chap.  I — The  Necessity  of  Pray^er,  founded 
on  the  Corruption  of  Human  Nature,  .  512 

Chap.  II — The  Duty  of  Prayer,  inferred  from 
the  Helplessness  of  Man,  .  .  .  514 

Chap.  Ill — Prayer  :  its  Definition,  .  .  515 

Chap.  IV — The  efficacy  of  Prayer,  .  .  519 

Chap.  V — Vain  Excuses  for  the  Neglect  of 

Prayer, . 522 

Chap.  VI — Characters  who  reject  Prayer,  .  525 

Chap.  VII — Errors  in  Prayer,  .  .  .  527 

Chap.  VIII — The  Lord’s  Prayer,  .  .  .  530 

Chap.  IX — The  Lord’s  Prayer  continued, 
THY  WILL  BE  DONE,  .  .  .532 

Chap.  X — Scheme  of  Prayer  proposed  for 
YoungPersons,  on  the  Model  of  the  Lord’s 

Prayer, . 534 

Chap.  XI — Perseverance  in  Prayer  and  Praise,  537 
Chap.  XII— Intercessory  Prayer,  .  .  540 

Chap.  XIII — Practical  Results  of  Prayer,  ex¬ 
hibited  in  the  Life  of  the  Christian  in  the 

World, . 542 

Chap.  XIV — The  Consolations  of  Prayer  in 
Affliction,  Sickness,  and  Death,  .  ,  545 


Essays  on  Various  Subjects, 
Moriana, 


.  550 
.  576 


HINTS 

TOWARDS  FORMING  THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  YOUNG  PRINCESS. 

I  call  that  a  complete  and  generous  education,  which  fits  a  person  to  perform  justly,  skilfully 
and  magnanimously,  all  the  offices  both  of  public  and  private  life,  of  peace,  and  of  war. — Milton, 


TO  THE  RIGHT  REVEREND  THE  LORD  BISHOP  OF  EXETER. 

Mv  Lord. — Could  it  have  been  foreseen  by  the  author  of  the  following  pages,  that  in  the  case 
of  the  illustrious  person  who  is  the  subject  of  them,  the  standard  of  education  would  have  been 
set  so  high ;  and  especially,  that  this  education  would  be  committed  to  such  able  and  distinguish¬ 
ed  hands,  the  work  might  surely  have  been  spared.  But  as  the  work  was  gone  to  the  press  be¬ 
fore  that  appointment  was  announced,  which  must  give  general  satisfaction,  it  becomes  impor¬ 
tant  to  request,  that  if  the  advice  suggested  in  any  part  of  the  work  should  appear  presumptuous, 
your  lordship,  and  still  more  the  public,  who  might  be  more  forward  than  your  lordship  in  charg¬ 
ing  the  author  with  presumption,  will  have  the  candour  to  recollect,  that  it  was  offered  not  to 
the  learned  bishop  of  Exeter,  but  to  an  unknown,  and  even  to  an  imaginary  preceptor. 

Under  these  circumstances,  your  lordship  will  perhaps  have  the  goodness  to  accept  the  dedica¬ 
tion  of  the  following  pages ;  not  as  arrogantly  pointing  out  duties  to  the  discharge  of  which  you 
are  so  competent,  but  as  a  mark  of  the  respect  and  esteem  with  which  I  have  the  honour  to  be. 
My  lord,  your  lordship’s  most  obedient  and  most  faithful  servant, 

Aprils,  1805.  THE  AUTHOR, 


PREFACE. 

If  any  book,  written  with  an  upright  and  disinterested  intention,  may  be  thought  to  require 
an  apology,  it  is  surely  the  slight  work  which  is  now,  with  the  most  respectful  deference,  sub¬ 
mitted,  not  to  the  public  only,  but  especially  to  those  who  may  be  more  immediately  interested  in 
the  important  object  which  it  has  in  view. 

If  we  were  to  inquire  what  is,  even  at  the  present  critical  period,  one  of  the  most  momentous 
concerns  which  can  engage  the  attention  of  an  Englishman,  who  feels  for  his  country  like  a 
patriot,  and  for  his  posterity  like  a  father ;  what  is  that  object  of  which  the  importance  is  not 
bounded  by  the  shores  of  the  British  islands,  nor  limited  by  our  colonial  possessions ; — with 
which,  in  its  consequences,  the  interests,  not  only  of  all  Europe,  but  of  the  whole  civilized  world,, 
may  hereafter  be  in  some  measure  implicated ;  what  Briton  would  hesitate  to  reply,  the  educa¬ 
tion  of  the  Princess  Charlotte  of  Wales  ? 

After  this  frank  confession  of  the  unspeakable  importance  of  the  subject  in  view,  it  is  no  wonder 
if  the  extreme  difficulty,  as  well  as  delicacy  of  the  present  undertaking,  is  acknowledged  to 
be  sensibly  felt  by  the  author. 

It  will  too  probably  be  thought  to  imply  not  only  officiousness,  but  presumption,  that  a  private 
individual  should  thus  hazard  the  obtrusion  of  unsolicited  observations  on  the  proper  mode  of 
forming  the  character  of  an  English  princess. — It  may  seem  to  involve  an  appearance  of  un  war 
rantable  distrust,  by  implying  an  apprehension  of  some  deficiency  in  the  plan  about  to  be  adopted 
by  those,  whoever  they  may  be,  on  whom  this  great  trust  may  be  devolved  :  and  to  indicate  self- 
conceit,  by  conveying  an  intimation,  after  so  strong  an  avowal  of  the  delicacy  and  difficulty  of  the 
task,  that  such  a  deficiency  is  within  the  powers  of  the  author  to  supply. 

The  author,  however,  earnestly  desires,  as  far  as  it  may  be  possible  to  obviate  these  antici¬ 
pated  charges,  by  alleging  that  under  this  free  constitution,  in  which  every  topic  of  national 
policy  is  openly  canvassed,  and  in  which  the  prerogative  of  the  crown  form  no  mean  part  of  the 
liberty  of  the  subject,  the  principles  which  it  is  proper  to  instil  into  a  royal  personage,  become 
a  topic,  which  if  discussed  respectfully,  may  without  offence,  exercise,  the  liberty  of  the  British 
press. 

The  writer  is  very  far,  indeed,  from  pretending  to  offer  any  thing  approaching  to  a  sytem  of 
instruction  for  the  royal  pupil,  much  less  from  presuming  to  dictate  a  plan  of  conduct  to  the  pre¬ 
ceptor.  What  is  here  presented,  is  a  mere  outline,  which  may  be  filled  up  by  far  more  able  hands  : 
a  sketch  which  contains  no  consecutive  details,  which  neither  aspires  to  regularity  of  design^  nor 
exactness  of  execution. 

To  awaken  a  lively  attention  to  a  subject  of  such  moment,  to  point  out  some  circumstances 
connected  with  the  early  season  of  improvement,  but  still  more  with  the  subsequent  stages  of  life ; 
to  offer,  not  a  treatise  on  education,  but  a  desultory  suggestion  of  sentiments  and  principles ;  to 
convoy  instruction,  not  so  much  by  preceptor  by  argpment,  as  to  exemplify  it  by  illustrations 
and  examples;  and,  above  all,  to  stimulate  the  wise  and  the  good  to  exertions  far  more  effectual 
these  are  the  real  motives  which  have  given  birth  to  this  slender  performance. 


6 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Had  tlie  Yoyal  pupil  been  a  prince,  these  hints  would  never  have  been  obtruded  on  the  world, 
as  it  would  then  have  been  naturally  assumed,  that  the  established  plan  usually  adopted  in  such 
cases  would  have  been  pursued.  Nor  does  the  author  presume  in  the  present  instance,  to  in¬ 
sinuate  a  suspicion,  that  there  will  be  any  want  of  a  large  and  liberal  scope  in  the  projected  sys¬ 
tem,  or  to  intimate  an  apprehension  that  the  course  of  study  will  be  adapted  to  the  sex,  rather 
than  to  the  circumstances  of  the  princess. 

If,  however,  it  should  be  a.sked,  why  a  stranger  presumes  to  interfere  in  a  matter  of  such  high 
concern  ?  It  may  be  answered  in  the  words  of  an  elegant  critic,  that  in  classic  story,  when  a  superb 
and  lasting  monument  was  about  to  be  consecrated  to  beauty,  every  lover  was  permitted  to  carry 
a  tribute. 

The  appejarance  of  a  valuable  elementary  work  on  the  principles  of  Christianity,  which  has 
been  recently  published  in  our  language,  translated  from  the  German  under  the  immediate  pa¬ 
tronage  of  an  august  personage,  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  benefit  to  her  illustrious  daughters,  as 
it  is  an  event  highly  auspicious  to  the  general  interests  of  religion,  so  is  it  a  circumstance  very 
encouraging  to  the  present  undertaking. 

It  is  impossible  to  write  on  such  points  as  are  discussed  in  this  little  work  without  being  led  to 
draw  a  comparison  between  the  lot  of  a  British  subject,  and  that  of  one  who  treats  on  similar  topics 
under  a  despotic  government. — The  excellent  archbishop  of  Cambray,  with  every  advantage 
which  genius,  learning,  and  profession,  and  situation  could  confer;  the  admired  preceptor  of 
the  duke  of  Burgund}’-,  appointed  to  the  office  by  the  king  himself,  was  yet  in  the  beautiful  work 
which  he  composed  lor  the  use  of  his  royal  pupil,  driven  to  the  necessity  of  couching  his  instruc¬ 
tions  under  a  fictitious  narrative,  and  of  sheltering  behind  the  veil  of  fable,  the  duties  of  a  just 
sovereign,  and  the  blessings  of  a  good  government :  he  was  aware,  that  even  under  this  disguise, 
his  delineation  of  both  would  too  probably  be  construed  into  a  satire  on  the  personal  errors  of 
his  own  king,  and  the  vices  of  the  French  government,  and  in  spite  of  his  ingenious  discretion, 
the  event  justified  his  apprehensions. 

Fortunate  are  the  subjects  of  that  free  and  happy  country  who  are  not  driven  to  have  recourse 
to  any  such  expedients  ;  who  may,  without  danger,  dare  to  express  temperately  what  they  think 
lawfully  }  who,  in  describing  the  most  perfect  form  of  government,  instead  of  recurring  to  poetic 
invention,  need  only  delineate  that  under  which  they  themselves  live;  who,  in  sketching  the  cha¬ 
racter,  and  shadowing  out  the  duties  of  a  patriot  king,  have  no  occasion  to  turn  their  eyes  from 
their  own  country  to  the  throne  of  Ithaca  or  Salentum. 


HINTS 

TOWARDS  FORMING  THE  CHARACTER  OF  A  YOUNG  PRINCESS. 


INTRODUCTORY  CHAPTER, 

We  are  told  that  when  a  sovereign  of  ancient 
times,  who  wished  to  be  a  mathematician,  but 
was  deterred  by  the  difficulty  of  attainment, 
asked,  whether  he  could  not  be  instructed  in 
some  easier  method,  the  answer  which  he  re¬ 
ceived  was,  that  there  was  no  royal  road  to 
geometry.  The  lesson  contained  in  this  reply 
ought  never  to  be  lost  sight  of,  in  that  most  im¬ 
portant  and  delicate  of  all  undertakings,  the 
education  of  a  prince  ! 

It  is  a  truth  which  might  appear  too  obvious 
to  require  enforcing,  and  yet  of  all  others  it  is  a 
truth  most  liable  to  be  practically  forgotten,  that 
the  same  subjugation  of  desire  and  will,  of  in¬ 
clinations  and  tastes,  to  the  laws  of  reason  and 
conscience,  which  every  one  wishes  to  see  pro¬ 
moted  in  the  lowest  ranks  of  society,  is  still 
more  necessary  in  the  very  highest,  in  order  to 
the  attainment  either  of  individual  happiness, 
or  of  general  virtue,  to  public  usefulness,  or  to 
private  self-enjoyment. 

Where  a  prince,  therefore,  is  to  be  educated, 
his  own  welfare  no  less  than  that  of  his  people, 
humanity  no  less  than  policy,  prescribe,  that 
the  claims  and  privileges  of  the  rational  being 
should  not  be  suffered  to  merge  in  the  peculiar 
rights  or  exemptions  of  the  expectant  sovereign. 
If,  in  such  cases,  the  wants  and  weaknesses  of 


human  nature  could  indeed  be  wholly  effaced, 
as  easily  as  they  are  kept  out  of  sight,  there 
would  at  least  be  some  resonable  plea  against 
the  charge  of  cruelty.  But  when,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  the  most  elevated  monarch  must  still 
retain  every  natural  hope  and  fear,  every  af¬ 
fection  and  passion  of  the  heart,  every  frailty 
of  the  mind,  and  every  weakness  of  the  body, 
to  which  the  meanest  subject  is  liable ;  how  ex¬ 
quisitely  inhuman  must  it  be  to  provide  so  sedu¬ 
lously  for  the  extrinsic  accident  of  transient 
greatness,  as  to  blight  the  growth  of  substantial 
virtue,  to  dry  up  the  fountains  of  mental  and 
moral  comfort,  and  in  short  to  commit  the  ill- 
fated  victim  of  such  mismanagement  to  more, 
almost,  than  human  dangers  and  difficulties, 
without  even  the  common  resources  of  the  least 
favoured  of  mankind. 

Yet,  must  not  this  be  the  unaggravated  con¬ 
sequence  of  not  accustoming  the  royal  child  to 
that  salutary  control  which  the  corruption  of 
our  nature  requires,  as  its  indispensable  and 
earliest  corrective  ?  If  those  foolish  desires, 
which  in  the  great  mass  of  mankind  are  provi¬ 
dentially  repressed  by  the  want  of  means  to 
gratify  them,  should,  in  the  case  of  royalty,  be 
thought  warrantable,  because  every  possible 
gratification  is  within  reacli,  what  would  bt  the 
result,  but  the  full  blown  luxuriance  of  fblly, 
vice,  and  misery  1  The  laws  of  human  naturo 


THE  WORKS  O  HANNAH  MORE. 


7 


will  not  bend  to  human  greatness ;  and  by  tliese 
immutable  laws  it  is  determined,  that  happiness 
and  virtue,  virtue  and  self-command,  self-com¬ 
mand  and  early  habitual  self-denial,  should  be 
joined  together  in  an  indissoluble  bond  of  con¬ 
nexion. 

The  first  habit,  therefore,  to  be  formed  in  every 
human  being,  and  still  more  in  the  offspring  and 
heir  of  royalty,  is  that  of  patience,  and  even 
cheerfulness,  under  postponed  and  restricted 
gratification.  And  the  first  lesson  to  be  taught 
is,  that  since  self-command  is  so  essential  to  all 
genuine  virtue  and  real  happiness,  where  others 
cannot  restrain  us,  there,  especially,  we  should 
restrain  ourselves.  That  illustrious  monarch, 
Gustavus  Adolphus,  was  so  deeply  sensible  of 
this  truth,  that  when  he  was  surprised  by  one 
of  his  officers  in  secret  prayer  in  his  tent,  he 
said,  ‘  Persons  of  my  rank  are  answerable  to 
God  alone  for  their  actions ;  this  gives  the  ene¬ 
my  of  mankind  a  peculiar  advantage  over  us ;  an 
advantage  which  can  only  be  resisted  by  prayer, 
and  reading  the  Scriptures.’ 

As  the  mind  opens,  the  universal  truth  of  this 
principle  may  be  exemplified  in  innumerable  in¬ 
stances,  by  which  it  may  be  demonstrated,  that 
man  is  a  rational  being  only  so  far  as  he  can 
thus  command  himself.  That  such  a  superiority 
to  the  passions  is  essential  to  all  regular  and 
steady  performance  of  duty  ;  and  that  true  gra¬ 
tification  is  thus,  and  thus  only  insured,  because, 
by  him  who  thus  habitually  restrains  himself, 
not  only  every  lawful  pleasure  is  most  perfectly 
njoyed ;  but  every  common  blessing,  for  which 
the  sated  voluptuary  has  lost  all  relish,  becomes 
a  source  of  the  most  genuine  pleasure,  a  source 
of  pleasure  which  is  never  exhausted,  because 
such  common  blessings  are  never  wholly  with¬ 
held. 

The  mind  should  be  formed  early,  no  less  than 
the  person :  and  for  the  same  reason.  Provi¬ 
dence  has  plainly  indicated  childhood  to  be  the 
season  of  instruction,  by  communicating  at  that 
period,  such  flexibility  to  the  organs,  such  re¬ 
tention  to  the  memory,  such  quickness  to  the 
apprehension,  such  inquisitiveness  to  the  temper, 
such  alacrity  to  the  animal  spirits,  and  such  im¬ 
pressibility  to  the  affections,  as  are  not  possessed 
at  any  subsequent  period.  We  are  therefore 
bound  by  every  tie  of  duty  to  follow  these  obvi¬ 
ous  designations  of  Providence,  by  moulding 
that  flexibility  to  the  most  durable  ends ;  by 
storing  that  memory  with  the  richest  know¬ 
ledge  ;  by  pointing  that  apprehension  to  the 
highest  objects ;  by  giving  to  that  alacrity  its 
best  direction  ;  by  turning  that  inquisitiveness 
to  the  noblest  intellectual  purposes ;  and,  above 
all,  by  converting  that  impressibility  of  heart  to 
the  most  exalted  moral  use. 

If  this  be  true  in  general,  much  more  forcibly 
does  it  apply  to  the  education  of  princes  !  No- 
thing  short  of  the  soundest,  most  rational,  and, 
let  me  add,  most  religious  education,  can  coun¬ 
teract  the  dangers  to  which  they  are  exposed. 
If  the  highest  of  our  nobility,  in  default  of  some 
better  way  of  guarding  against  the  mischiefs  of 
flatterers  and  dependents,  deem  it  expedient  to 
commit  their  sons  to  the  wholesome  equality  of 
a  public  school,  in  order  to  repress  their  aspiring 
notions,  and  check  the  tendencies  of  their  birth  ; 


— If  they  find  it  necessary  to  counteract  the  per- 
nicious  influence  of  domestic  luxury,  and  the 
corrupting  softness  of  domestic  indulgence,  by 
severity  of  study  and  closeness  of  application  ; 
how  much  more  indispensable  is  the  spirit  of  this 
principle  in  the  instance  before  us  ?  The  highest 
nobility  have  their  equals,  their  competitors,  and 
even  their  superiors.  Those  who  are  born  with¬ 
in  the  sphere  of  royalty  are  destitute  of  all  such 
extrinsic  means  of  correction,  and  must  be 
wholly  indebted  for  their  safety  to  the  soundness 
of  their  principles,  and  the  rectitude  of  their  ha¬ 
bits.  Unless,  therefore,  the  brightest  light  of 
reason  be,  from  the  very  first,  thrown  upon  their 
path,  and  the  divine  energies  of  our  holy  reli¬ 
gion,  both  restraining  and  attractive,  be  brought 
as  early  as  possible  to  act  upon  their  feelings, 
the  children  of  royalty,  by  the  very  fate  of  their 
birth,  would  be  ‘  of  all  men  most  miserable.’ 

Let  it  not,  however,  be  supposed,  that  any  im¬ 
practicable  rigour  is  here  recommended  ;  or  that 
it  is  conceived  to  be  necessary  that  the  gay  pe¬ 
riod  of  childhood  should  be  rendered  gloomy  or 
painful,  whether  in  the  cottage  or  the  palace. 
The  virtue  which  is  aimed  at,  is  not  that  of  the 
stoic  philosophy ;  nor  do  the  habits  which  are 
deemed  valuable,  require  the  harshness  of  a 
Spartan  education.  Let  nature,  truth,  and  rea. 
son,  be  consulted  ;  and,  let  the  child,  and  espe¬ 
cially  the  royal  child,  be  as  much  as  possible, 
trained  according  to  their  simple  and  consistent 
indications.  The  attention,  in  such  instances 
as  the  present,  should  be  the  more  watchful  and 
unremitting,  as  counteracting  influences  are,  in 
so  exalted  a  station,  necessarily  multiplied  ;  and 
every  difficulty  is  at  its  greatest  possible  height. 
In  a  word,  let  not  common  sense,  which  is  uni¬ 
versal  and  eternal,  be  sacrificed  to  the  capricious 
tastes  of  the  child,  or  to  the  pliant  principles  of 
any  who  may  approach  her.  But  let  the  virtue 
and  the  happiness  of  the  royal  pupil  be  as  sim¬ 
ply,  as  feelingly,  and  as  uniformly  consulted,  as 
if  she  were  the  daughter  of  a  private  gentleman. 
May  this  attention  to  her  moral  and  mental  cul¬ 
tivation  be  the  supreme  concern,  from  honest  re¬ 
verence  to  the  offspring  of  such  a  race,  from  a 
dutiful  regard  to  her  own  future  happiness,  and 
from  reasonable  attention  to  the  weJl-being  of 
those  millions,  whose  earthly  fate  may  be  at 
this  moment  suspended  on  lessons,  and  habits, 
received  by  one  providentially  distinguished 
female  ! 


CHAP.  II. 

On  the  Acquisition  of  Knowledge. 

The  course  of  instruction  for  the  princeBB 
will,  doubtless,  be  wisely  adapted,  not  only  to 
the  duties,  but  to  the  dangers  of  her  rank.  The 
probability  of  her  having  one  day  functions  to 
discharge,  which,  in  such  exempt  cases  only, 
fall  to  the  lot  of  females,  obviously  suggests  the 
expediency  of  an  education  not  only  superior  to, 
but  in  certain  respects,  distinct  from,  that  of 
other  women.  What  was  formerly  deemed  ne¬ 
cessary  in  an  instance  of  this  nature,  may  bo 
inferred  from  the  well-known  attainments  of  the 


8 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


unfortunate  lady  Jane  Grey  ;  and  still  more  from 
the  ho  less  splendid  aequirements  of  queen  Eli¬ 
zabeth.  Of  the  erudition  of  the  latter,  we  have 
particular  account  from  one,  who  was  the  fittest 
in  that  age  to  appreciate  it,  the  celebrated  Roger 
Aschasm.  He  tells  us,  that  when  he  read  over 
with  her  the  orations  of  Eschines  and  Demos¬ 
thenes  in  Greek,  she  not  only  understood,  at 
first  sight,  the  full  force  and  propriety  of  the 
language,  and  the  meaning  of  the  orators,  but 
that  she  comprehended  the  whole  scheme  of  tire 
laws,  customs,  and  manners  of  the  Athenians. 
She  possessed  an  exact  and  accurate  knowledge 
of  the  Scriptures,  and  had  committed  to  memory 
most  of  the  striking  passages  in  them.  She  had 
also  learned  by  heart  many  of  the  finest  parts  of 
Thucydides  and  Xenophon,  especially  those 
which  relate  to  life  and  manners.  Thus  were 
her  early  years  sedulously  employed  in  laying 
in  a  large  stock  of  materials  for  governing  well. 
To  what  purpose  she  improved  them,  let  her  il¬ 
lustrious  reign  of  forty-five  years  declare ! 

If  the  influence  of  her  erudition  on  her  subse¬ 
quent  prosperity  should  be  questioned  ;  let  it  be 
considered,  that  her  intellectual  attainments  sup¬ 
ported  the  dignity  of  her  character,  under  foibles 
and  feminine  weaknesses,  which  would  other¬ 
wise  have  sunk  her  credit :  she  had  even  ad¬ 
dress  enough  to  contrive  to  give  to  those  weak¬ 
nesses  a  certain  classic  grace.  Let  it  be  consi¬ 
dered  also,  that  whatever  tended  to  raise  her 
mind  to  a  level  with  those  whose  services  she 
was  to  use,  and  of  whose  counsels  she  was  to 
avail  herself,  proportionably  contributed  to  that 
mutual  respect  and  confidence  between  the  queen 
and  her  ministers,  without  which,  the  results  of 
her  government  could  not  have  been  equally 
successful.  Almost  every  man  of  rank  was  then 
a  man  of  letters,  and  literature  was  valued  ac¬ 
cordingly.  Had,therefore,  deficiency  of  learning 
been  added  to  inferiority  of  sex,  we  might  not 
at  this  day  have  the  reign  of  Elizabeth  on  which 
to  look  back,  as  the  period  in  which  administra¬ 
tive  energy  seemed  to  attain  the  greatest  possible 
perfection. 

Yet,  though  an  extended  acquaintance  with 
ancient  authors  will  be  necessary  now,  as 
it  was  then,  in  the  education  of  a  princess,  a  ge¬ 
neral  knowledge  of  ancient  languages,  it  is  pre¬ 
sumed,  may  be  dispensed  with.  The  Greek 
authors,  at  least,  may  doubtless  be  read  with 
sufficient  advantage  through  the  medium  of  a 
translation  ;  the  spirit  of  the  original  being,  per¬ 
haps,  more  transfusible  into  the  English,  than 
into  any  other  modern  tongue.  But  are  there 
not  many  forcible  reasons  why  the  Latin  lan¬ 
guage  should  not  be  equally  omitted  ?*  Besides 
the  advantage  of  reading,  in  their  original  dress, 
the  historians  of  that  empire,  the  literature  of 
Rome  is  peculiarly  interesting,  as  being  the 
most  satisfactory  medium  through  which  the 
moderns  can  obtain  an  intimate  knowledge  of 
the  ancient  world.  As  the  Latin  itself  is  a  mo¬ 
dification  of  one  of  the  Greek  dialects,  so  the 
Roman  philosophers  and  poets,  having  formed 

*  The  royal  father  of  the  illustrious  pupil  is  said  to 
possess  the  princely  accomplishment  of  a  pure  classical 
taste.  Of  his  love  for  polite  learning,  the  attention 
which  he  is  paying  to  the  recovery  of  certain  of  the  lost 
works  of  some  of  the  Roman  authors  is  an  evidence. 


themselves,  as  much  as  possible,  on  Grecian  mo¬ 
dels,  present  to  us  the  nearest  possible  transcripts 
of  those  masters  whom  they  copy.  Thus,  by  an 
acquaintance  with  the  Latin  language,  we  arc 
brought  into  a  kind  of  actual  contact  not  only 
with  the  ancient  world,  but  with  that  portion  of 
it  which,  having  the  most  direct  and  the  fullest 
intercourse  with  the  other  parts,  introduces  us, 
in  a  manner  the  most  informing  and  satisfactory 
to  classical  and  philosophical  antiquity  in  gene¬ 
ral.  But  what  is  still  more,  the  Latin  tongue 
enables  us  for  ourselves,  without  the  intermedia¬ 
tion  of  any  interpreter,  to  examine  all  the  par¬ 
ticular  circumstances  in  manners,  intercourse, 
modes  of  thinking  and  speaking,  of  that  period 
which  Eternal  Wisdom  chose  (probably  because 
it  was  ever  after  to  appear  the  most  luminous  ia 
the  whole  retrospect  of  history)  as  fittest  for  the 
advent  of  the  Messiah,  and  the  bringing  life  and 
immortality  to  light  by  the  gospel. 

If  to  this  may  be  added  lesser  yet  not  unim¬ 
portant  considerations,  we  would  say,  that  by 
the  acquaintance  which  the  Latin  language 
would  give  her  with  the  etymology  of  words  , 
she  will  learn  to  be  more  accurate  in  her  defini¬ 
tions,  as  well  as  more  critically  exact  and  ele¬ 
gant  in  the  use  of  her  own  language ;  and  her 
ability  to  manage  it  with  gracefulness  and  vigour 
will  be  considerably  increased.* 

Of  the  modern  languages,  if  the  author  dares 
hazard  an  opinion,  the  French  and  German  seem 
the  roost  necessary.  The  Italian  appears  less 
important,  as  those  authors  which  seem  more 
peculiarly  to  belong  to  her  education,  such  as 
Davilla,  Guicciardin,  and  Beccaria,  may  be  read 
either  in  French  or  English  translations. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  a  personage,  un¬ 
der  her  peculiar  circumstances,  should  have 
much  time  to  spare  for  the  acquisition  of  what 
are  called  the  fine  arts  ;  nor,  perhaps,  is  it  to  be 
desired.  To  acquire  them  in  perfection,  would 
steal  away  too  large  a  portion  of  those  precious 
hours  which  will  barely  suffice  to  lay  in  the  va¬ 
rious  rudiments  of  indispensable  knowledge  ; 
and,  in  this  fastidious  age,  whatever  falls  far 
short  of  perfection,  is  deemed  of  little  worth.  A 
moderate  skill  in  music,  for  instance,  would  pro¬ 
bably  have  little  other  effect,  than  to  make  the 
listeners  feel,  as  Farinelli  is  said  to  have  done, 
who  used  to  complain  heavily  that  the  pension 
of  20001.  a  year,  which  he  had  from  the  king  of 
Spain,  was  compensation  little  enough  for  his 
being  sometimes  obliged  to  hear  his  majesty 
play.  Yet  this  would  be  a  far  less  evil  than 
that  to  which  excellence  might  lead.  We  can 
think  of  few  things  more  to  be  deprecated,  than 
that  those  who  have  the  greatest  concerns  to 
pursue,  should  have  their  tastes  engaged,  per¬ 
haps  monopolized,  by  trifles.  A  listener  to  the 
royal  music,  if  possessed  of  either  wisdom  or 
virtue,  could  not  but  feel  his  pleasure  at  the 
most  exquisite  performance  abated,  by  the  ap¬ 
prehension  that  this  perfection  implied  the  ne¬ 
glect  of  matters  far  more  essential. 

•  Who  does  not  consider  as  one  of  the  most  interest  ■ 
ing  passages  of  modern  history,  that  which  relates  the 
ellect  produced  by  an  eloq-uent  Latin  oration  pronounc¬ 
ed  in  a  full  assembly,  by  the  late  empress  Maria  The¬ 
resa,  in  the  bloom  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  so  late  aa 
the  year  1740  ?  Antiquity  produces  nothing  more  touch¬ 
ing  of  the  kind. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


D 


Besides,  to  excel  in  those  arts,  which,  though 
merely  ornamental,  are  yet  well  enough  adapted 
to  ladies  who  have  only  a  subordinate  part  to  fill 
in  life,  would  rather  lessen  than  augment  the 
dignity  of  a  sovereign.  It  was  a  truly  royal  re¬ 
ply  of  Themistocles,  when  he  was  asked  if  he 
could  play  on  the  lute — ‘  No,  but  if  you  will 
give  me  a  paltry  village  I  may  perhaps  know 
how  to  improve  it  into  a  great  city.’ 

These  are  imperial  arts,  and  worthy  kings. 

As  to  these  inferior  accomplishments,  it  is  not 
desirable,  and  is  it  not  sufficient  that  a  sovereign 
should  possess  that  general  knowledge  and  taste 
which  give  the  power  of  discriminating  excel¬ 
lence,  so  as  judiciously  to  cherish,  and  liberally 
to  reward  it  ? 

But,  not  only  in  works  of  mere  taste  ;  even  in 
natural  history,  botany,  experimental  philoso¬ 
phy,  and  other  generally  valuable  sciences,  a 
correct  but  unlaboured  outline  of  knowledge,  it 
is  presumed,  will,  in  the  present  instance,  be 
thought  sufficient.  Profitable  and  delightful  as 
these  pursuits  are  to  others  (and  no  one  more 
admires  them  than  the  writer  of  this  essay)  yet 
the  royal  personage  must  not  be  examining 
plants,  when  she  should  be  studying  laws  ;  nor 
investigating  the  instincts  of  animals,  when  she 
should  be  analyzing  the  characters  of  men.  The 
time  so  properly  devoted  to  these  studies  in  other 
educations,  will  be  little  enough  in  this,  to  attain 
that  knowledge  of  general  history,  and  especially 
that  accurate  acquaintance  with  the  events  of 
our  own  country,  which,  in  her  situation,  are 
absolutely  indispensable. 

Geography  and  chronology  have  not  unfitly 
been  termed  the  two  eyes  of  history.  With 
chronology  she  should  bo  completely  acquainted. 
It  is  little  to  know  events,  if  we  do  not  know  in 
what  order  and  succession  they  are  disposed.  It 
is  necessary  also  to  learn  how  the  periods  of 
computation  are  determined.  Method  does  not 
merely  aid  the  memory,  it  also  assists  the  judg¬ 
ment,  by  settling  the  dependence  of  one  event 
upon  another.  Chronology  is  the  grand  art  of 
historical  arrangement.  To  know  that  a  man 
of  distinguished  eminence  has  lived,  is  to  know 
little,  unless  we  know  when  he  lived,  and  who 
were  his  contemporaries.  Indistinctness  and 
confusion  must  always  perplex  that  understand¬ 
ing,  in  which  tlie  annals  of  past  ages  are  not 
thus  consecutively  linked  together. 

Would  it  not  be  proper  always  to  read  history 
with  a  map,  in  order  to  keep  up  in  the  mind  the 
indissoluble  connexion  between  history  and  geo¬ 
graphy  ;  and  that  a  glance  of  the  country  may 
recall  the  exploits  of  the  hero,  or  the  virtues  of 
the  patriot  who  has  immortalized  it  ? 

Respecting  the  study  of  geography,  I  would 
observe  that  many  particulars,  which  do  not 
seem  to  have  been  considered  by  the  generality 
of  writers,  ought  to  be  brought  before  the  view 
of  a  royal  pupil.  The  effects  of  local  situation, 
and  geographical  boundary,  on  the  formation 
and  progress  of  nations  and  empires. — The  con- 
sequences,  for  example,  which  have  resulted  as 
well  in  the  political,  as  in  the  civil  and  religious 
circumstances  of  mankind,  from  the  Mediterra¬ 
nean  being  so  aptly  interposed,  not  so  much  as 
VoL.  II. 


it  should  seem  to  be  a  common  barrier,  as  to 
form  a  most  convenient  and  important  medium 
of  intercourse  between  Europe,  Asia,  and  Afri¬ 
ca. — The  effect  of  this  great  Naumachia  of  the 
ancient  world,  in  transferring  empire  from  east 
to  west ; — the  want  of  tides  in  the  Mediterrane¬ 
an,  so  as  to  adapt  this  scene  of  early  maritimo 
adventure  to  the  rudeness  of  those  who  were  first 
to  navigate  it,  and  whose  success  might  have 
been  fatally  impeded,  by  that  diversity  of  cur¬ 
rents,  which  in  other  seas  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  tides  is  perpetually  creating. 

In  connection  with  this,  though  somewhat 
locally  remote  from  it,  is  to  be  remarked  the  re¬ 
gularity  of  the  monsoons  in  the  Erythreean*  sea, 
by  means  of  which,  the  earlier  traders  between 
Africa  and  India  were  carried  across  the  Per¬ 
sian  gulf,  without  the  exercise  of  that  skill,, 
which  as  yet  did  not  exist.  And,  as  if  to  facili¬ 
tate  the  conveyance  of  those  most  interesting 
commodities  to  the  Mediterranean,  in  order  that 
the  commerce  of  that  inland  ocean  might  never 
want  an  adequate  stimulus,  the  Red  Sea  is  car¬ 
ried  onward,  till  it  is  separated  from  the  Medi- 
teranean  by  a  comparatively  narrow  isthmus  : 
an  isthmus  that  seems  providentially  to  have 
been  retained,  that  while  the  maratime  activity 
and  general  convenience  of  the  ancient  world 
was  provided  fbr,  there  might  still  be  sufficient 
difficulty  in  the  way,  to  excite  to  a  more  extend¬ 
ed  circumnavigation,  wffien  the  invention  of  the 
compass,  the  improvement  of  maritime  skill, 
and  the  general  progress  of  human  society, should 
concur  in  bringing  on  the  proper  season. 

And,  in  this  geographic  sketch,  let  notthc  re¬ 
markable  position  of  Judea  be  forgotten  :t  placed- 
in  the  very  middle  parts  of  the  old  world  (whose 
extent  may  be  reckoned  from  the  pillars  of  Her 
cules  to  ‘  the  utmost  Indian  isle  Tabrobane,’) 
as  the  sun  in  the  centre  of  the  solar  system,  and 
at  the  top  of  the  Mediterranean,  both  that  it 
might  be  within  the  vortex  of  great  events,  and 
also  that  when  the  fulness  of  time  should  come, 
it  might  be  most  conveniently  situated  for  pour¬ 
ing  forth  that  light  of  truth,  of  which  it  was  des¬ 
tined  to  be  the  local  origin,  upon  all  the  nations 
of  the  earth,  and  especially  on  the  Roman  em¬ 
pire.  Such  are  the  less  common  particulars  to 
which  attention  may  advantageously  be  drawn- 
With  geography  in  general  should  of  course  be 

*  A  name  given  formerly  to  all  that  portion  of  the 
sea  which  lies  between  Arabia  and  India,  though  latter¬ 
ly  confined  to  the  Arabian  gulf. 

t  It  is  worthy  of  notice,  that  in  all  probability  Judea 
was  the  country  by  means  of  which  a  trade  was  first 
opened  between  the  Mediterranean  and  India.  David 
had  taken  from  the  Edomites  two  cities  at  the  Red  Sea, 
Ezion-Geber  and  Elath;  these,  we  are  told,  Solomon 
made  sea-ports,  and  colonized  them  with  navigators, 
furnished  by  the  king  of  Tyre,  of  whom  it  is  said,  S' 
Chron.  viii.  18,  that  he  sent  unto  Solomon  ships  and., 
servants,  who  had  knowledge  of  the  sea,  and  they  went 
with  the  servants  of  Solomon  to  Ophir;  and,  1  Kings 
X.  22,  we  are  told  that  Solomon  had  at  sea  a  navy  of 
Tarshish  with  the  navy  of  Hiram,  which  came  once  in 
three  years,  bringing  gold  and  silver,  ivory,  apes,  and 
peacocks.  Thus,  Tyre,  the  great  emporium  of  the 
Mediterranean  was  evidently  indebted  to  David  and 
Solomon,  for  access  to  that  commerce  of  the  east,  whicli 
was  carried  on  by  means  of  the  Red  Sen,  and  brought 
from  the  above-mentioned  ports,  across  the  isthmus  of 
Suez,  probably  to  the  same  place  where  the  Tyrians  it» 
later  times  unshipped  their  Asiatic  couunodities,  tho 
port  of  Rhinocorura. 


10 


THE  WORKb  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


connected  some  knowledge  of  the  natural  and 
civil  history  of  each  country  ;  its  chief  political 
revolutions,  its  alliances,  and  dependencies;  to¬ 
gether  with  the  state  of  its  arts,  commerce,  na¬ 
tural  productions,  government,  and  religion. 


CHAP.  Ill 

On  the  importance  of  forming  the  mind. 

It  is  of  the  highest  importance  that  the  royal 
pupil  should  acquire  an  early  habit  of  method 
and  regularity  in  her  studies.  She  should,  there¬ 
fore,  be  particularly  guarded  against  that  de¬ 
sultory  manner  of  reading,  too  common  at  this 
day,  and  particularly  with  women.  She  should 
be  trained  always  to  study  some  valuable  pur¬ 
pose,  and  carefully  to  attend  to  the  several  way- 
marks,  by  means  of  which  that  end  may  most 
elFectually  be  attained.  She  should  be  accus¬ 
tomed  to  call  forth  the  forces  of  her  mind,  and 
to  keep  them  alert,  well  disciplined,  and  ready 
for  service.  She  should  so  cultivate  settled  prin¬ 
ciples  of  action,  as  to  acquire  the  habit  of  ap¬ 
plying  them,  on  demand,  to  the  actual  occasions 
of  life ;  and  should  possess  a  promptitude,  as 
well  as  soundness,  in  deducing  consequences, 
and  drawing  conclusions.  Her  mind  should  be 
exercised  with  as  much  industry  in  the  pursuit 
of  moral  truth  and  useful  knowledge,  as  that  of 
a  young  academic  in  the  studies  of  his  profes¬ 
sion.  The  art  of  reigning  is  the  profession  of  a 
prince.  And,  doubtless,  it  is  a  science  which 
requires  at  least  as  much  preparatory  study  as 
any  other.  Besides,  one  part  of  knowledge  is 
often  so  necessary  for  reflecting  light  on  another 
part,  that  perhaps  no  one  who  does  not  under¬ 
stand  many  things,  can  understand  any  thing 
well. 

But,  whatever  may  be  the  necessary  degree 
of  knowledge,  it  is  most  certain  that  it  cannot 
be  attained  amidst  the  petty  avocations  which 
occupy  a  modern  lady’s  time. — Knowledge  will 
not  come  by  nature  or  by  chance.  Precepts  do 
not  always  convey  it.  Talents  do  not  always 
insure  it.  It  is  the  fruit  of  pains.  It  is  the  re¬ 
ward  of  application, 

Dii  laboribus  omnia  vendunt. 

Let  her  ever  bear  in  mind,  she  is  not  to  study 
that  she  may  become  learned,  hut  that  she  may 
become  wise.  It  is  by  such  an  acquisition  of 
knowledge  as  is  here  recommended,  that  her 
mind  must  be  so  enlarged  and  invigorated  as  to 
prepare  her  for  following  wise  counsels,  without 
blindly  yielding  to  fortuitous  suggestions  ;  as  to 
ertable  her  to  trace  actions  into  their  multifari¬ 
ous  consequences,  and  to  discover  real  analogies 
without  being  deceived  by  superficial  appear¬ 
ances  of  resemblance.  It  is  thus  that  she  must 
be  secured  from  the  dominion  of  the  less  en¬ 
lightened.  This  will  preserve  her  from  credu¬ 
lity;  prevent  her  from  overrating  inferior  talents, 
and  help  her  to  attain  that  nil  admirari,  which 
is  so  necessary  for  distinguishing  arrogant  pre¬ 
tension  front  substantial  merit.  It  will  aid  her 
to  appreciate  the  value  of  those  around  her  ;  will 
assist  hef  penetration  in  what  regards  her 


friends  ;  preserve  her  from  a  blind  prejudice  in 
choosing  them,  from  retaining  them  through  fear 
or  fondness,  and  from  changing  them  through 
weakness  or  caprice.  ‘  When  we  are  abused 
through  specious  appearances,’  says  the  judi¬ 
cious  Hooker,  ‘  it  is  because  reason  is  negligent 
to  search  out  the  fallacy.’  But  he  might  have 
added,  if  reason  be  not  cultivated  early,  if  it  be 
not  exercised  constantly,  it  will  have  no  eye  for 
discernment,  no  heart  for  vigorous  exertion. 
Specious  appearances  will  perpetually  deceive 
that  mind  which  has  been  accustomed  to  acqui¬ 
esce  in  them  through  ignorance,  blindnees,  and 
inaction. 

A  prince  should  be  ignorant  of  nothing  which 
it  is  honourable  to  know ;  but  he  should  look  on 
mere  acquisition  of  knowledge  not  as  the  end  to 
be  rested  in,  but  only  as  the  means  of  arriving 
at  some  higher  end.  He  may  have  been  well 
instructed  in  history,  belles  lettres,  philosophy, 
and  languages,  and  yet  have  received  a  defective 
education,  if  the  formation  of  his  judgment  has 
been  neglected.  For,  it  is  not  so  important  to 
know  every  thing,  as  to  know  the  exact  value  of 
every  thing,  to  appreciate  what  we  learn,  and  to 
arrange  what  we  know. 

Books  alone  will  never  form  the  character. 
Mere  reading  would  rather  tend  to  make  a  pe¬ 
dantic,  than  an  accomplished  prince.  It  is  con¬ 
versation  which  must  unfold,  enlarge,  and  apply 
tlie  use  of  books.  Without  that  familiar  com¬ 
ment  on  what  is  read,  which  will  make  a  most 
important  part  of  the  intercourse  between  a  royal 
pupil  and  the  society  around  him,  mere  reading 
might  only  fill  the  mind  with  fallacious  models 
of  character,  and  false  maxims  of  life.  It  is 
conversation  which  must  develope  what  is  ob¬ 
scure,  raise  what  is  low,  correct  what  is  defective, 
qualify  what  is  exaggerated,  and  gently  and  al¬ 
most  insensibly  raise  the  understanding,  form 
the  heart,  and  fix  the  taste  ;  and  by  giving  just 
proportions  to  the  mind,  teach  it  the  power  of 
fair  appreciation,  draw  it  to  adopt  what  is  rea¬ 
sonable,  to  love  what  is  good,  to  taste  what  is 
pure,  and  to  imitate  what  is  elegant. 

But  this  is  not  to  be  effected  by  cold  rules, 
and  formal  reflections  ;  by  insipid  dogmas,  and 
tedious  sermonizing.  It  should  be  done  so  in¬ 
directly,  so  discreetly,  and  so  pleasantly,  that 
the  pupil  shall  not  be  led  to  dread  a  lecture  at 
every  turn,  nor  a  dissertation  on  every  occur¬ 
rence.  While  yet  such  an  ingenious  and  cheer¬ 
ful  turn  may  be  given  to  subjects  apparently  un¬ 
promising,  old  truths  may  be  conveyed  by  such 
new  images,  that  the  pupil  will  wonder  to  find 
herself  improved  when  she  thought  she  was  only 
diverted.  Folly  may  be  made  contemptible,  af¬ 
fectation  ridiculous,  vice  hateful,  and  virtue 
beautiful,  by  such  seemingly  unpremeditated 
means,  as  shall  have  the  effect,  without  having 
the  effort,  of  a  lesson.  Topics  must  not  be  so 
much  proposed  as  insinuated. 

But  above  all,  there  should  be  a  constant,  but 
imperceptible  habit  of  turning  the  mind  to  a  love 
of  TRUTH  in  all  its  forms  and  aspects  ;  not  only 
in  matters  of  grave  morality,  but  in  matters  of 
business,  of  common  intercourse,  and  even  of 
taste ;  for  there  is  a  truth  both  in  moral  and 
mental  taste,  little  short  of  the  exactness  of  ma¬ 
thematical  truth  ;  and  the  mind  should  acquire 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


li 


an  habit  of  seeking  perfection  in  every  thing. 
This  habit  should  be  so  early  and  insensibly 
formed,  that  when  the  pupil  comes  afterwards 
to  meet  with  maxims,  and  instances  of  truth 
and  virtue,  in  historical  and  moral  writings,  she 
may  bring  to  the  perusal  tastes,  tempers,  and 
dispositions  so  laid  in,  as  to  have  prepared  the 
mind  for  their  reception.  As  this  mode  of 
preparatory  and  incidental  instruction  will  be 
gradual  and  inwoven,  so  it  will  be  deep  and 
durable ;  but  as  it  will  be  little  obvious  to  ordi¬ 
nary  judges,  it  will  excite  less  wonder  and  ad¬ 
miration  than  the  usual  display  and  exhibition 
so  prevalent  in  modern  education.  Its  effects 
will  be  less  ostensible,  but  they  will  be  more 
certain. 

When  it  is  considered  how  short  is  that  pe¬ 
riod  of  life  in  which  plain  unvarnished  truth 
will  be  likely  to  appear  in  all  its  naked  simpli¬ 
city  before  princes,  is  there  a  moment  of  that 
happy,  that  auspicious  season  to  be  lost,  for 
presenting  it  to  them  in  all  its  lovely  and  engag¬ 
ing  forms  ?  It  is  not  enough  that  they  should 
possess  truth  as  a  principle  ;  they  should  cherish 
it  as  an  object  of  affection,  delight  in  it  as  a 
matter  of  taste,  and  dread  nothing  so  much  as 
false  colouring  and  artifice. 

He  who  possesses  a  sound  principle,  and 
strong  relish  of  truth  in  his  own  mind,  will 
possess  a  touchstone  by  which  to  try  this 
quality  in  others,  and  which  will  enable  him  to 
detect  false  notions,  to  see  through  false  man¬ 
ners,  and  to  despise  false  attractions.  This 
discerning  faculty  is  the  more  important,  as  the 
high  breeding  of  every  polished  society  pre¬ 
sents  so  plausible  an  imitation  of  goodness,  as 
to  impose  on  the  superficial  observer,  who, 
satisfied  with  the  image  and  superscription, 
never  inquires  whether  the  coin  be  counterfeit 
or  sterling. 

The  early  habit  of  sifting  questions,  turning 
about  a  truth,  and  examining  an  argument  on 
all  sides,  will  strengthen  the  intellectual  powers 
of  the  royal  pupil ;  prevent  her  thoughts  from 
wandering  ;  accustom  her  to  weigh  fairly  and 
resolve  soundly ;  will  conquer  irresolution  in 
her  mind ;  preserve  her  from  being  easily  de¬ 
ceived  by  false  reasoning,  startled  by  doubts, 
and  confounded  by  objections.  She  will  learn 
to  digest  her  thoughts  in  an  exact  method,  to 
acquire  a  logical  order  in  the  arrangement  of 
them,  to  possess  precision  in  her  ideas,  and  its 
natural  concomitant,  perspicuity  in  her -expres¬ 
sion  ;  all  which  will  be  of  the  highest  impor¬ 
tance  to  one  who  may  hereafter  have  so  much 
to  do  and  to  say  in  public. 

With  the  shades  of  expressions  she  should 
also  be  well  acquainted,  and  be  habituated  to 
use  the  most  apposite  and  the  most  correct; 
such  are  neither  too  high  nor  too  low,  too  strong 
nor  too  weak,  for  the  occasion,  such  as  are  ob¬ 
vious,  but  not  vulgar,  accurate  but  not  pedantic, 
elegant  but  not  artificial. 

The  memory  should  be  stored  with  none  but 
the  best  things,  that  when,  hereafter,  the  judg¬ 
ment  is  brought  into  exercise,  it  may  find  none 
but  the  best  materials  to  act  upon.  Instead, 
therefore,  of  loading  the  memory,  might  it  not 
be  useful  to  establish  it  into  a  rule  to  read  to  her 
.every  day,  as  an  amusement,  and  distinctly 


from  all  regular  instruction,  a  passage  from  the 
history  of  England,  a  story  out  of  Plutarch,  or 
any  similar  author  ;  and  require  of  her  to  repeat 
it  afterwards,  in  her  own  words  ?  This  wouldi 
not  only  add,  daily,  one  important  fact  to  her 
stock  of  knowledge,  but  would  tend  to  form  a 
perspicuous  and  elegant  style. — Occasion  would 
also  be  furnished  for  observing  whether  she  ex¬ 
hibited  that  best  proof  of  good  sense,  the  seizing 
on  the  prominent  features  of  the  story,  laying 
less  stress  on  what  was  less  important. 

But  while  accuracy  is  thus  sought  the  still 
more  important  habit  of  comprehensiveness 
must  not  be  overlooked.  Her  mind  should  be 
trained  to  embrace  a  wide  compass ;  it  should 
be  taught  to  take  in  a  large  whole,  and  then  sub¬ 
divide  it  into  parts ;  each  of  which  should  be 
considered  distinctly,  yet  connectedly,  with 
strict  attention  to  its  due  proportions,  relative 
situations,  its  bearings  witli  respect  to  the  others, 
and  the  dependence  of  each  part  on  the  whole. 
Where,  however,  so  many  things  are  to  be 
known,  and  so  many  to  be  done,  it  is  impossi¬ 
ble  to  attend  equally  to  all.  It  is  therefore  im¬ 
portant,  that,  in  any  case  of  competition,  the 
less  material  be  loft  unlearned  and  undone ;  and 
that  petty  details  never  fill  the  time  and  mind, 
at  the  expense  of  neglecting  great  objects. 

For  those,  therefore,  who  have  much  business 
and  little  time,  it  is  a  great  and  necessary  art  to 
learn  to  extract  the  essential  spirit  of  an  author 
from  the  body  of  his  work,  to  know  how  to  seize 
on  the  vital  parts ;  to  discern  where  his  strength 
lies ;  and  to  separate  it  from  those  portions  of 
the  work  which  are  superfluous,  collateral,  or 
merely  ornamental. 

On  the  subject  of  economizing  time,  the 
writer  would  have  been  fearful  of  incurring  the 
charge  of  needless  strictness,  by  suggesting  the 
utility  of  accustoming  princes  to  be  read  to 
while  they  are  dressing,  could  not  the  actual 
practice  of  our  admirable  queen  Mary  be  ad¬ 
duced  to  sanction  the  advice. — That  excellent 
princess,  from  a  conscientious  regard  to  the 
value  of  time,  was  either  read  to  by  others,  or 
condescended,  herself,  to  read  aloud,  that  those 
who  were  employed  about  her  person  might 
share  the  benefit,  which  she  enhanced  by  such 
pleasant  and  judicious  remarks  as  the  subject 
suggested.  But  there  is  an  additional  reason 
why  the  children  of  the  great  would  be  benefited 
by  this  habit;  for  it  would  not  only  turn  idle 
moments  to  some  account,  but  would  be  of  use  in 
another  way,  by  cutting  ofl'  the  fairest  occasions 
which  tlieir  inferior  attendants  can  have  for 
engaging  them,  by  frivolous  or  flattering  dis¬ 
course. 

It  would  be  well  to  watch  attentively  the  bent 
of  the  mind  in  the  hours  of  relaxation  and 
amusement,  when  caution  is  dismissed  by  the 
pupil,  and  control  by  the  preceptor ;  when  no 
studies  are  imposed,  and  no  specific  employ¬ 
ment  suggested.  In  fact  when  vigilance  ap¬ 
pears  to  sleep,  it  should  be  particularly  on  the 
alert,  in  order  to  discern  those  tendencies  and 
dispositions  which  will  then  most  naturally  un¬ 
fold  themselves ;  and  because  that  the  heart, 
being  at  those  seasons  less  under  discipline, 
will  be  more  likely  to  betray  ijls  native  charac¬ 
ter.  And  as  the  regulatibn  of  the  temper  is 


12 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  part  of  education  on  which  the  whole  hap-  j 
piness  of  life  most  materially  depends,  no  occa-  1 
sion  should  be  neglected,  no  indication  slighted, 
•no  counteraction  omitted,  which  may  contribute 
to  accomplish  so  important  an  end. 

The  peculiar  defects,  not  merely  such  faults 
as  are  incident  to  childhood,  but  the  predomi¬ 
nating  faults  of  the  individual,  should  be  care¬ 
fully  watched,  lest  they  acquire  strength  through 
neglect,  when  they  might  have  been  diminished 
by  a  counteracting  force.  If  the  temper  be 
restless,  ardent,  and  impetuous,  weariness  and 
discontent  will,  hereafter,  fill  up  the  dreary  in¬ 
tervals  between  one  animating  scene  and  an¬ 
other,  unless  the  temper  be  subdued  and  tran¬ 
quillized  by  a  constant  habit  of  quiet,  though 
varied,  and  interesting  occupation.  Few  things 
are  more  fatal  to  the  mind,  than  to  depend  for 
happiness  on  the  contingent  recurrence  of 
events,  business,  and  diversions,  which  inflame 
and  agitate  it ;  for  as  they  do  not  often  occur, 
the  intervals  which  are  long  are  also  languid  ; 
the  enjoyment  is  factitious  happiness  ;  the  pri¬ 
vation  is  actual  misery. 

Reading,  therefore,  has,  especially  to  a 
prince,  its  moral  uses,  independently  of  the  na¬ 
ture  of  the  study  itself.  It  brings  no  small 
gain,  if  it  secure  him  from  the  dominion  of 
turbulent  pursuits  and  agitating  pleasures.  If 
it  snatch  him  on  the  one  hand,  from  public 
schemes  of  ambition  and  false  glory ;  and  if  it 
rescue  him  on  the  other,  from  the  habit  of  form¬ 
ing  petty  projects  of  incessant  diversion,  the 
rudiments  of  a  trifling  and  useless  life. 

Knowledge,  therefore,  is  often  the  preserva¬ 
tive  of  virtue,  and,  next  to  right  habits  of  senti¬ 
ment  and  conduct,  the  best  human  source  of 
happiness.  Could  Louis  the  fourteenth  have 
read,  probably  the  edict  of  Nantz  had  not  been 
revoked.  But  a  restless  temper,  and  a  vacant 
mind,  unhappily  lighting  on  absolute  power, 
present,  in  this  monarch,  a  striking  instance  of 
the  fatal  effects  of  ignorance  and  the  calamity 
of  a  neglected  education.  He  had  a  good  na¬ 
tural  understanding,  loved  business,  and  seem¬ 
ed  to  have  a  mind  capable  of  comprehending  it. 
Many  of  his  recorded  expressions  are  neat  and 
elegant.  But  he  was  uninstructed  upon  system  ; 
cardinal  Mazarine,  with  a  view  to  secure  his  own 
dominion,  having  withheld  from  him  all  the 
necessary  means  of  education.  Thus,  he  had 
received  no  ideas  from  books  ;  he  even  hated  in 
others  the  learning  which  he  did  not  himself 
possess  :  the  terms  wit  and  scholar,  were  in  his 
mind,  terms  of  reproach ;  the  one  as  implying 
satire,  the  other  pedantry.  He  wanted  not 
application  to  public  affairs ;  and  habit  had 
given  him  some  experience  in  them.  But  the 
apathy  which  marked  his  latter  years  strongly 
illustrated  the  infelicity  of  an  unfurnished  mind. 
This,  in  the  tumult  of  his  brighter  days,  amidst 
the  succession  of  intrigues,  the  splendour  of 
festivity,  and  the  bustle  of  arms,  was  scarcely 
felt.  But  ambition  and  voluptuousness  cannot 
always  be  gratified.  Those  ardent  passions, 
which  in  youth  were  devoted  to  licentiousness, 
in  the  meridian  of  life  to  war,  in  a  more  advanc¬ 
ed  age  to  bigotry  and  intolerance,  not  only  had 
never  been  directed  by  religion,  but  had  never 
been  softened  by  letters — After  he  had  re¬ 


nounced  his  mistresses  at  home,  and  his  unjust 
wars  abroad,  even  though  his  mind  seems  to 
have  acquired  some  pious  tendencies,  his  life 
became  a  scene  of  such  inanity  and  restlessness, 
that  he  was  impatient  at  being,  for  a  moment, 
left  alone.  He  had  no  intellectual  resources. 
The  agitation  of  great  events  had  subsided. 
From  never  having  learned  either  to  employ 
himself  in  reading  or  thinking,  his  life  became 
a  blank,  from  which  he  could  not  be  relieved  by 
the  sight  of  his  palaces,  his  gardens,  and  his 
aqueducts, ‘the  purchase  of  depopulated  villages 
and  plundered  cities. 

Indigent  amid  all  his  possessions,  he  ex¬ 
hibited  a  striking  confirmation  of  the  decla¬ 
ration  of  Solomon,  concerning  the  unsatisfying 
nature  of  all  earthly  pleasures ;  and  showed, 
that  it  is  in  vain  even  for  kings  to  hope  to  ob¬ 
tain  from  others  those  comforts,  and  that  con¬ 
tentment,  which  man  can  derive  only  from  with¬ 
in  himself. 


CHAP.  IV. 

The  Education  of  a  Sovereign  a  specific  Educa¬ 
tion. 

The  formation  of  the  eharacter  is  the  grand 
object  to  be  accomplished.  This  should  be  con¬ 
sidered  to  be  not  so  much  a  separate  business, 
as  a  sort  of  centre  to  which  all  the  rays  of  in¬ 
struction  should  be  directed.  All  the  studies 
it  is  presumed,  of  the  royal  pupil  should  have 
some  reference  to  her  probable  future  situation. 
Is  it  not,  therefore,  obviously  requisite  that  her 
understanding  be  exercised  in  a  wider  range 
than  that  of  others  of  her  sex;  and  that  her  prin¬ 
ciples  be  so  established,  on  the  best  and  surest 
foundation,  as  to  fit  her  at  once  for  fulfilling  the 
peculiar  demands,  and  for  resisting  the  peculiar 
temptations  of  her  station  7  Princes  have  been 
too  often  inclined  to  fancy,  that  they  have  few 
interests  in  common  with  the  rest  of  mankind, 
feeling  themselves  placed  by  Providence  on  an 
eminence  so  much  above  them.  But  the  great 
aim  should  be,  to  correct  the  haughtiness  which 
may  attend  this  superiority,  without  relinquish¬ 
ing  the  truth  of  the  fact.  Is  it  not,  therefore, 
the  business  of  those  who  have  the  care  of  a 
royal  education,  not  so  much  to  deny  the  reality 
of  this  distance,  or  to  diminish  its  amount,  as  to 
account  for  its  existence,  and  point  out  the  uses 
to  which  it  is  subservient  ? 

A  prince  is  an  individual  being,  whom  the 
hand  of  Providence  has  placed  on  a  pedestal  of 
peculiar  elevation :  but  he  should  learn,  that  he 
is  placed  there  as  the  minister  of  good  to  others ; 
that  the  dignity  being  hereditary,  he  is  the  more 
manifestly  raised  to  that  elevation,  not  by  his 
own  merit,  but  by  providential  destination  ;  by 
those  laws,  which  he  is  himself  bound  to  observe 
with  the  same  religious  fidelity  as  the  meanest 
of  his  subjects.  It  ought  early  to  be  impressed 
that  those  appendages  of  royalty,  with  which 
human  weakness  may  too  probably  be  fascinated, 
are  intended  not  to  gratify  the  feelings,  but  to 
distinguish  the  person  of  the  monarch  ;  that,  in 
themselves,  they  are  of  little  value ;  that  thev 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


13 


are  beneath  the  attachment  of  a  rational,  and  of 
no  substantial  use  to  a  moral  being ;  in  short, 
that  they  are  not  a  subject  of  a  triumph,  but  are 
to  be  acquiesced  in  for  the  public  benefit,  and 
from  regard  to  that  weakness  of  our  nature, 
which  subjects  so  large  a  portion  of  every  com¬ 
munity  to  the  influence  of  their  imagination, 
and  their  senses. 

While,  therefore,  a  prince  is  taught  the  use 
of  those  exterior  embellishments,  which,  as  was 
before  observed,  designate,  rather  than  dignify 
his  station  ;  while  he  is  led  to  place  the  just  va¬ 
lue  on  every  appendage  which  may  contribute 
to  give  him  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  multi¬ 
tude ;  who  not  being  just  judges  of  what  con¬ 
stitutes  true  dignity,  are  consequently  apt  to 
reverence  the  royal  person  exactly  so  far  as  they 
see  outward  splendour  connected  with  it ;  should 
not  a  royal  pupil  himself  be  taught,  instead  of 
overvaluing  that  splendour,  to  think  .  it  a  hum¬ 
bling,  rather  than  an  elevating  consideration, 
that  so  large  a  part  of  the  respect  paid  to  him, 
should  be  owing  to  such  extrinsic  causes,  to 
causes  which  make  no  part  of  himself?  Let 
him  then  be  taught  to  gratify  the  public  with  all 
the  pomp  and  circumstance  suitable  to  royalty  ; 
but  let  him  never  forget,  that  though  his  station 
ought  always  to  procure  for  him  respect,  he 
must  ever  look  to  his  own  personal  conduct,  for 
inspiring  veneration,  attachment,  and  affection; 
and  ever  let  it  be  remembered  that  this  affection 
is  the  strongest  tie  of  obedience  ;  that  subjects 
like  to  see  their  prince  great,  when  that  great¬ 
ness  is  not  produced  by  rendering  them  less ; 
and  as  the  profound  Selden  observes,  ‘  the  people 
will  always  be  liberal  to  a  prince  who  spares 
them,  and  a  good  prince  will  always  spare  a 
liberal  people.’ 

This  is  not  a  period  when  any  wise  man 
would  wish  to  diminish  e'itlier  the  authority,  or 
the  splendour  of  kings.  So  far  from  it,  he  will 
support  with  his  whole  weight,  an  institution 
which  the  licentious  fury  of  a  revolutionary  spi¬ 
rit  has  rendered  more  dear  to  every  Englishman. 
On  no  consideration,  therefore  would  he  pluck 
even  a  feather  from  those  decorations  of  royalty, 
which,  by  a  long  association,  have  become  inti¬ 
mately  connected  with  its  substance.  In  short, 
every  wise  inhabitant  of  the  British  isles  must 
feel,  that  he  who  would  despoil  the  crown  of  its 
jewels,  would  not  be  far  from  spoiling  the  wearer 
of  his  crown.  And  as  nothing  but  domestic 
folly  or  frenzy  would  degrade  the  monarch  from 
his  due  elevation,  so  democratic  envy  alone 
would  wish  to  strip  him,  not  only  of  a  single 
constituent  of  real  greatness,  but  even  of  a  sin¬ 
gle  ornamental  appendage  on  which  the  people 
have  been  accustomed  to  gaze  with  honest  joy. 

Nevertheless,  those  outrages  which  have  lately 
been  committed  against  the  sanctity  of  the 
throne,  furnish  new  and  most  powerful  reasons 
ibr  assiduously  guarding  princes  by  every  re- 
spe  Jtful  admonition,  against  any  tendency  to 
exceed  their  just  prerogatives,  and  for  checking 
every  rising  properrsity  to  overstep,  in  the  slight¬ 
est  degree,  their  well-defined  rights. 

At  the  same  time  it  should  be  remembered, 
that  there  may  be  no  less  dangerous  faults  on 
the  other  side,  and  that  want  of  firmness  in 
maintaining  just  rights,  or  of  spirit  in  the  prompt 


and  vigorous  exercise  of  necessary  authority 
may  prove  as  injurious  to  the  interests  of  a  com¬ 
munity  as  the  most  lawless  stretch  of  power. 
Defects  of  this  very  kind  were  evidently  among 
the  causes,  of  bringing  down,  on  the  gentlest  of 
the  kings  of  France,  more  calamities  than  had 
ever  resulted  from  the  most  arbitrary  exertion 
of  power  in  any  of  his  predecessors.  Feebleness 
and  irresolution,  which  seems  to  be  little  more 
than  pardonable  weaknesses  in  private  persons, 
may,  by  their  consequences,  prove  in  princes 
fatal  errors  ;  and  even  produce  the  effect  of  great 
crimes.  Vigour  to  secure,  and  opportunity  to 
exert  their  constitutional  power,  is  as  essential 
as  moderation  not  to  exceed  it.* 

It  serves  to  show  the  inestimable  value  of 
well-defined  laws,  and  the  importance  of  making 
the  prince  acquainted  with  them,  that  Louis  the 
thirteenth  conceived  a  jealousy  respecting  his 
own  power,  because  he  did  not  understand  the 
nature  of  it ;  and  his  favourites  were  unable  or 
unwilling  to  instruct  him.  But  his  usurpation 
of  extraordinary  power  tended  to  exalt  his  mi¬ 
nister  still  more  than  himself;  and  in  setting 
the  king  above  the  laws,  he  still  set  the  cardinal 
above  the  king. 

The  power  of  the  monarchs  of  France  had 
never  been  defined  by  any  written  law.  Charles 
V.  Louis  IX.  and  perhaps  a  very  few  other  wise 
and  temperate  princes,  did  not  conceive  their 
power  to  be  above  the  laws,  but  approved  of 
those  moderating  maxims  which  had  become, 
by  degrees,  the  received  usages  of  the  state,  and 
which,  while  they  seemed,  in  some  measure, 
a  constitutional  check  upon  the  absolute  power 
of  the  crown,  formed  also  a  guard  against  that 
popular  licentiousness,  which,  in  a  pure  despot¬ 
ism,  appears  to  be  the  only  resource  left  to  the 
people.  But  France  has  had  few  monarchs  like 
Charles  V.  and  still  fewer  like  Louis  IX.  Henry 
IV.  seems  to  have  found  and  observed  the  happy 
medium.  He  was  at  once  resolute  and  mild; 
determined  and  affectionate;  politic  and  humane. 
The  firmness  of  his  mind,  and  the  active  vigour 
of  his  conduct,  always  kept  pace  with  the  gen¬ 
tleness  of  his  language.  He  fought  for  his  pre¬ 
rogatives  bravely,  and  defended  them  vigorously; 
yet,  it  is  said,  he  ever  carefully  avoided  the  use 
of  the  term.  He  also  loved  and  sought  popular¬ 
ity,  but  he  never  sacrificed  to  it  any  just  claim, 
nor  ever  made  a  concession  which  did  not  also 
tend  to  guard  the  real  prerogatives  of  the  crown.t 
And  it  seems  to  be  the  true  wisdom  of  a  prince, 
that,  as  he  cannot  be  too  deliberate  in  his  coun¬ 
cils,  nor  too  cautious  in  his  plans,  so  when  those 
counsels  are  well  matured,  and  those  plans  well 

*  May  it  not  be  observed,  without  risking  the  impu¬ 
tation  of  flattery,  that  perhaps  never,  in  the  liistory  of 
tlie  world,  has  any  country  been  so  uninterruptedly 
blessed  with  that  very  teinperainfint  of  government, 
which  is  here  implied,  as  this  empire  has  been  under 
the  dominion  of  the  house  of  Hanover  ?  There  has,  on 
no  occasion  been  a  want  of  firmness;  but  with  that 
firmness,  there  has  been  a  conscientious  regard  to  the 
principles  of  the  constitution.  Who  can  at  this  moment 
pretend  to  pronounce  how  much  we  owe  to  the  steady 
integrity  w'hich  is  so  obviously  possessed  by  our  present 
sovereign  ?  And  who  does  not  remember  with  what 
good  effect  his  resolute  composure  and  dignified  firmness 
were  exerted  during  a  scene  of  the  greatest  alarm  which 
has  occurred  in  his  reign— the  riots  of  the  year  1780. 

t  III  ne  se  deficit  pas  des  loix,  purccc[u’il  se  fioit  en  lui 
meme.— i?«  Rett. 


14 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


digested  he  cannot  be  too  decisive  in  their  exe¬ 
cution. 

It  was  not,  indeed,  under  the  actual  rule  of 
monarchs,  however  arbitrary,  that  royal  autho¬ 
rity  was  raised  to  its  highest  pitch  in  France. 
It  was  Richelieu,  who,  under  a  regency,  rapidly 
established  such  a  system  of  tyranny,  as  the 
boldest  sovereign  had  seldom  dared  to  attempt. 
He  improved  on  all  the  anterior  corruptions ; 
and,  as  a  lively  French  author  says,  tried  to  con¬ 
ceal  their  being  corruptions,  by  erecting  them 
into  political  maxims.  Mazarin,  with  inferior 
ability,  which  would  not  have  enabled  him  to 
give  the  impulse,  attempted  still  more  to  accele¬ 
rate  the  movement  of  that  machine  which  his 
predecessor  had  set  a  going  with  such  velocity ; 
and  a  civil  war  was  the  consequence. 

Happily,  the  examples  of  neither  the  kings, 
the  laws,  nor  the  constitution  of  France,  can  be 
strictly  applicable  to  us.  Happily  also,  we  live 
at  a  time,  when  genuine  freedom  is  so  com¬ 
pletely  established  among  us :  when  the  consti¬ 
tution,  powers,  and  privileges  of  parliament  are 
so  firmly  settled ;  the  limits  of  the  royal  pre¬ 
rogative  so  exactly  defined,  and  so  ftllly  under¬ 
stood ;  and  the  mild,  moderate,  and  equitable 
spirit  of  the  illustrious  family  in  which  it  is  in¬ 
vested,  is  withall  so  conspicuous,  that  as  Black- 
stone  observes,  ‘  topics  of  government,  which, 
like  the  mysteries  of  the  Bona  Dea,  were  for¬ 
merly  tliought  too  sacred  to  be  divulged  to  any 
but  the  initiated,  may  now,  without  the  smallest 
offence,  be  fully  and  temperately  discussed.’ 

At  this  tumultuous  period,  when  we  have  seen 
almost  all  the  thrones  of  Christendom  trembling 
to  their  foundation ;  we  have  witnessed  the  Bri¬ 
tish  constitution,  like  the  British  oak,  confirmed 
and  rooted  by  the  shaking  of  that  tremendous 
blast,  which  has  stripped  kingdoms  of  their 
crowns,  levelled  the  fences  and  inclosures  of 
law,  laid  waste  the  best  earthly  blessings  of 
mankind,  and  involved  in  desolation  a  large  part 
of  the  civilized  world.  When  we  have  beheld 
absolute  monarchies,  and  republican  states,  alike 
ravaged  by  the  tempest,  shall  we  not  learn  still 
more  highly  to  prize  our  own  unparalleled  po¬ 
litical  edifice,  built  with  such  fair  proportions, 
on  principles  so  harmonious  and  so  just,  that 
one  part  affords  to  another  that  support  which, 
in  its  turn,  it  receives;  while  each  lends  strength, 
as  well  as  stability  to  all  ? 

How  slender  is  the  security  of  unlimited 
power,  let  the  ephemeral  reigns  of  eastern  des¬ 
pots  declare  !  A  prince  who  governs  a  free  peo¬ 
ple,  enjoys  a  safety  which  no  despotic  sovereign 
ever  possessed.  The  latter  rules  singly ;  and 
where  a  revolution  is  meditated,  the  change  of 
a  single  person  is  soon  effected.  But  where  a 
sovereign’s  power  is  incorporated  with  the  pow¬ 
ers  of  parliament,  and  the  will  of  the  people  who 
elect  parliaments,  the  kingly  state  is  fenced  in 
with,  and  intrenched  by  the  other  states.  He 
relies  not  solely  upon  an  army.  He  relies  on 
his  parliament,  and  on  his  people, — a  sure  re¬ 
source,  while  he  involves  his  interests  with 
theirs  !  This  is  the  happiness,  the  beauty,  and 
the  strength  of  that  three-fold  bond  which  ties 
oor  constitution  together.  Counsellors  may  mis¬ 
lead,  favourites  may  betray,  even  armies  may 
d^ert,  and  navies  may  mutiny,  but  laws,  as 


they  are  the  surest  guides  of  action,  so  are  they 
the  surest  guards  from  danger. 

Well  might  the  view  of  this  well-founded 
power  produce  the  remark  which  it  drew  forth 
from  a  sagacious  Frenchman,*  who  was  com¬ 
paring  the  solid  constitutional  authority  of  the 
British  monarch,  with  the  more  specious,  but 
less  secure  fabric  of  the  despotism  of  the  kings 
of  France — ‘  That  a  king  of  England,  who  act¬ 
ed  according  to  the  laws,  was  the  greatest  of 
all  monarchs  !’ 

But  while  the  convulsions  of  other  govern¬ 
ments,  built  on  less  permanent  principles,  have 
riveted  our  affection  to  our  own ;  and  while  an 
experimental  acquaintance  with  the  miseries  of 
anarchy  most  naturally  lead  us,  as  subjects,  to 
a  strong  sense  of  the  duty  of  obedience : — with 
equal  zeal  would  we  wish  it  to  be  inculcated  on 
princes,  that  they  should  be  cautious  never  to 
multiply  occasions  for  exacting  that  obedience ; 
that  they  should  use  no  unnecessary  compulsion 
by  seizing  as  a  debt  what  good  subjects  are  al¬ 
ways  willing  to  pay  as  a  duty  :  and  what  is 
then  only  to  be  relied  upon,  when  it  is  sponta¬ 
neous  and  cordial. 

It  is  observable,  that  those  monarchs  who  have 
most  sedulously  contended  for  prerogative,  have 
been  among  the  feeblest  and  the  least  capable 
of  exercising  it ;  and  that  those  who  have  strug¬ 
gled  most  earnestly  for  unjust  power,  have  sel¬ 
dom  enjoyed  it  themselves,  but  have  made  it 
over  to  mistresses  and  favourites.  This  is  par 
ticularly  exemplified  in  two  of  our  weakest  and 
most  unhappy  princes,  Edward  II.  and  Richard 
II. — Whether  it  was  that  this  very  imbecility 
made  them  more  contentious  about  their  pre¬ 
rogative,  and  ipore  obstinate  in  resisting  the  de¬ 
mands  of  parliament;  or  that  their  favourites 
stimulated  them  to  exactions,  the  benefit  of 
which  was  to  be  transferred  to  themselves.  The 
character  of  Edward  HI.  (notwithstanding  his 
faults)  was  consistently  magnanimous.  He  was 
not  more  brave  than  just.  He  was  attentive  to 
the  dignity  of  his  crown  in  proportion  to  that 
magnanimity,  and  to  the  creation  and  execution 
of  laws  in  proportion  to  that  justice;  and  he 
took  no  important  steps  without  the  advice  of 
parliament.  The  wretched  reign  and  miserable 
catastrophe  of  each  of  the  two  first-named 
princes,  furnish  a  striking  contrast  to  the  energy 
and  popularity  of  the  last ;  of  whom  Hume  ob¬ 
serves,  ‘  that  his  domestic  government  was  even 
more  admirable  than  his  foreign  conquests;’  and 
of  whom  Selden  says,  ‘  that  one  would  think  by 
his  actions  that  he  never  was  at  home,  and  by 
his  laws  that  he  never  was  abroad.’ 

A  wise  and  virtuous  prince  will  ever  bear  in 
mind  the  grand  distinction  between  his  own  si¬ 
tuation  and  that  of  his  minister.  The  latter  is 
but  the  precarious  possessor  of  a  transient  autho¬ 
rity  ;  a  mere  tenant  at  will,  or,  at  most,  for  life- 
Hc  himself  is  the  hereditary  and  permanent 
possessor  of  the  property.  The  former  may  be 
more  tempted  to  adopt  measures  which,  though 
gainful  or  gratifying  at  the  present,  will  be  pro¬ 
bably  proddetive  of  future  mischief  to  the  estate 
But  surely  the  latter  may  be  justly  expected  to 
take  a  longer  and  wider  view ;  and  considering 

*  Qourville. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


15 


the  interests  of  his  posterity  no  less  than  his 
own,  to  reject  all  measures  which  are  likely  to 
disparage  their  inheritance,  or  injure  their  te¬ 
nure.  He  will  trace  the  misfortunes  of  our  first 
Charles  to  the  usurpation  of  the  Tudors  ;  and 
mark  but  too  natural  a  connexion  between  the 
unprincipled  domination  and  profuse  magnifi¬ 
cence  of  Louis  XIV.,  and  the  melancholy  fate  of 
his  far  better  and  moi-e  amiable  successor.  He 
will  remember  the  solid  answer  of  the  Spartan 
king,  who  being  reproached  by  a  superficial  ob¬ 
server  with  having  left  the  regal  power  impaired 
to  his  posterity,  replied,  ‘  No  ;  for  he  had  left  it 
more  secure,  therefore  more  'permanent'  A 
arge  and  just  conception  of  interest,  therefore, 
no  less  than  of  duty,  will  prompt  a  wise  prince 
to  reject  all  measures  which,  while  they  appear 
to  flatter  the  love  of  dominion,  naturally  inhe¬ 
rent  in  the  mind  of  man,  by  holding  forth  the 
present  extension  of  his  power,  yet  tend  obsti¬ 
nately  to  weaken  its  essential  strength,  to  make 
his  authority  the  object  of  his  people’s  jealousy, 
rather  than  of  their  affection ;  to  cause  it  to  rest 
on  the  uncertain  basis  of  military  power,  rather 
than  on  the  deep  and  durable  foundations  of  the 
constitution. 

In  order  to  enable  him  the  better,  therefore, 
to  know  the  true  nature  and  limits  of  his  autho¬ 
rity,  he  will  endeavour  to  develope  the  constitu¬ 
tional  foundations  on  which  it  rests.  Sovereigns, 
even  female  sovereigns,  though  they  cannot  have 
leisure  to  become  fully  acquainted  with  the  vast 
mass  of  our  laws,  ought  at  least  to  imbibe  the 
spirit  of  them.  If  they  be  not  early  taught  the 
general  principles  of  our  laws  and  constitution, 
they  may  be  liable,  from  the  flatterers  to  whom 
they  may  be  exposed,  to  hear  of  nothing  but  the 
power  which  they  may  exert,  or  the  influence 
which  they  may  exercise,  without  having  their 
attention  directed  to  those  counteracting  princi¬ 
ples,  which,  in  a  limited  monarchy  like  ours, 
serve,  in  numberless  ways,  to  balance  and  re¬ 
strain  that  power. 

It  should  be  worked  into  a  principle  in  the 
mind,  that  it  is  in  consideration  of  the  duties 
which  the  laws  impose  on  a  prince,  that  those 
laws  have  secured  to  him  either  dignity  or  pre¬ 
rogative  ;  it  being  a  maxim  of  the  law,  that  pro¬ 
tection  and  allegiance  are  reciprocal.  With  the 
impression  of  the  power,  the  splendour,  and  the 
dignity  of  royalty,  the  ideas  of  trust,  duty,  and 
responsibility,  should  be  inseparably  interwoven. 
It  should  be  assiduously  inculcated,  that  the 
LAWS  form  the  very  basis  of  the  throne  ;  the  root 
and  ground-work  of  the  monarch’s  political  ex¬ 
istence.  One  peculiar  reason  why  a  prince 
ought  to  know  so  much  of  the  laws  and  consti¬ 
tution,  as  to  be  able  to  determine  what  is,  and 
what  is  not,  an  infringement  of  them,  is,  that  he 
may  be  quick  sighted  to  the  slightest  approxi¬ 
mation  of  ministers  towards  any  such  encroach¬ 
ments.  A  farther  reason  is,  that  by  studying 
the  laws  and  constitution  of  the  country,  he  may 
become  more  firmly  attached  to  them,  not  merely 
by  national  instinct,  and  fond  prejudice,  because 
they  are  his  own,  but  from  judgment,  reason, 
knowledge,  discrimination,  preference,  habit, 
obligation, — in  a  word,  because  they  are  the 
best. 

But  as  this  superficial  sketch  proposes  not  to 


be  an  essay  on  political,  but  moral  instruction, 
these  remarks  are  only  hazarded,  in  order  to  in¬ 
timate  the  peculiar  turn  which  the  royal  educa¬ 
tion  ought  to  take.  If  a  sovereign  of  England 
be,  in  such  a  variety  of  respects,  supreme,  it  fol¬ 
lows,  not  only  that  his  education  should  be  libe¬ 
ral,  large,  and  general,  but  that  it  should,  more¬ 
over,  be  directed  to  a  knowledge  of  those  depart¬ 
ments  in  which  he  will  be*  called  to  preside. 

As  supreme  magistrate  and  the  source  of  all 
judicial  power,  he  should  be  adequately  acquaint¬ 
ed,  not  only  with  the  law  of  nature  and  of  na¬ 
tions,  but  particularly  with  the  law  of  England. 
As  possessing  the  power  of  declaring  war,  and 
contracting  alliances,  he  should  be  thoroughly 
conversant  with  those  authors  who,  with  the 
soundest  judgment,  the  deepest  moral  views,  and 
the  most  correct  precision,  treat  of  the  great 
principles  of  political  justice  ;  who  best  unfold 
the  rights  of  human  nature,  and  the  mischiefs 
of  unjust  ambition.  He  should  be  competently 
acquainted  with  the  present  state  of  the  different 
governments  of  Europe,  with  w;hich  that  of 
Great  Britain  may  have  any  political  relation 
and  he  should  be  led  to  exercise  that  intuitive 
discernment  of  character  and  talents,  which  will 
enable  him  to  decide  on  the  choice  of  ambassa¬ 
dors,  and  other  foreign  ministers,  whom  it  is 
his  prerogative  to  appoint. 

As  he  is  the  fountain  of  honour,  from  which 
proceed  titles,  distinctions,  and  offices,  he  should 
be  early  accustomed  to  combine  a  due  attention 
to  character,  with  the  examination  of  claims, 
and  the  appreciation  of  services  ;  in  order  that 
the  honours  of  the  subject  may  reflect  no  disho¬ 
nour  on  the  prince.  Those  whose  distinguished 
lot  it  is  to  bestow  subordinate  offices  and  inferior 
dignities,  should  evince,  by  the  judgment  with 
which  they  confer  them,  how  fit  they  themselves 
are  to  discharge  the  highest. 

Is  he  supreme  head  of  the  church  ?  Hence 
arises  a  strong  obligation  to  be  acquainted  with 
ecclesiastical  history  in  general,  as  well  as  with 
the  history  of  the  church  of  England  in  particu¬ 
lar.  He  should  learn,  not  merely  from  habit 
and  prescription,  but  from  an  attentive  compa¬ 
rison  of  our  national  church  with  other  ecclesi. 
astical  institutions,  to  discern  both  the  distin- 
guishing  characters  and  appropriate  advantages 
of  our  church  establishment.  He  ought  to  in¬ 
quire  in  what  manner  its  interests  are  inter¬ 
woven  with  thtise  of  the  state,  so  far  as  to  be 
inseparable  from  them.  He  should  learn,  that 
from  the  supreme  power,  with  which  the  laws 
invest  him  over  the  church,  arises  a  most  awful 
responsibility,  especially  in  the  grand  preroga¬ 
tive  of  bestowing  the  higher  ecclesiastical  ap¬ 
pointments;  a  trust  which  involves  consequences 
far  too  extensive  for  human  minds  to  calculate ; 
and  which  a  sovereign,  even  amid  all  the  dazzling 
splehdour  of  royalty,  while  he  preserves  tender¬ 
ness  of  conscience,  and  quickness  of  sensibility, 
will  not  reflect  on  without  trepidation.  While 
history  offers  numberless  instances  of  the  abuse 
of  this  power,  it  records  numberless  striking  ex¬ 
amples  of  its  proper  application.  It  even  pre¬ 
sents  some,  in  which  good  sense  has  operated 
usefully  in  the  absence  of  all  principle. — When 
a  profligate  ecclesiastic  applied  for  prefermen* 
to  the  profligate  duke  of  Orleans,  while  regen 


16 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


of  France,  urging  as  a  motive,  that  he  should  be 
dishonoured  if  the  duke  did  not  make  him  a  bi¬ 
shop — ‘  And  I,’  replied  the  regent,  ‘  shall  be  dis¬ 
honoured  if  I  do.’ 


CHAP.  V 

On  the  importance  of  studying  Ancient  History. 

Those  pious  persons  do  not  seem  to  understand 
the  true  interests  of  Christianity,  who  forbid  the 
study  of  pagan  literature.  That  it  is  of  little 
value,  comparatively  with  Christian  learning, 
does  not  prove  it  to  be  altogether  without  its 
usefulness.  In  the  present  period  of  critical  in- 
vestigation,  heathen  learning  seems  to  be  justly 
appreciated,  in  the  scale  of  letters;  the  wisdom 
and  piety  of  some  of  our  most  eminent  contem¬ 
poraries  having  successfully  applied  it  to  its  no¬ 
blest  office,  by  rendering  it  subservient  to  the 
purposes  of  Revelation,  in  multiplying  the  evi¬ 
dences,  and  illustrating  the  proofs.  Thus  the 
Christian  emperor,  when  he  destroyed  the  hea¬ 
then  temples,  consecrated  the  golden  vessels,  to 
adorn  the  Christian  churches. 

In  this  enlightened  period.  Religion,  our  reli¬ 
gion  at  least,  does  not,  as  in  her  days  of  dark¬ 
ness,  feel  it  necessary  to  degrade  human  learn¬ 
ing,  in  order  to  withdraw  herself  from  scrutiny. 
The  time  is  past,  when  it  was  produced  as  a  se¬ 
rious  charge  against  saint  Jerome,  that  he  had 
read  Homer ;  when  a  doctor  of  the  Sorbonne 
penitently  confessed,  among  his  other  sins,  that 
the  exquisite  muse  of  Virgil  had  made  him  weep 
■for  the  woes  of  Dido ;  and  when  the  works  of 
Tacitus  were  condemned  to  the  flames,  from  the 
papal  chair,  because  the  author  was  not  a  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic.  It  is  also  curious  to  observe  a 
papist  persecuting  the  memory  of  a  pagan  on 
the  ground  of  his  superstition  !  Pope  Gregory 
the  great,  expelled  Livy  from  every  Christian 
library  on  this  account ! 

The  most  acute  enemy  of  Christianity,  the 
emperor  Julian,  v/ho  had  himself  been  bred  a 
Christian  and  a  scholar,  well  understood  what 
was  most  likely  to  hurt  its  cause.  He  knew  the 
use  which  the  Christians  were  making  of  ancient 
authors,  and  of  rhetoric,  in  order  to  refute  error, 
and  establish  truth. — ‘  They  fight  us,’  said  he, 
‘by  the  knowledge  of  our  own  Authors;  shall 
we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  stabbed  with  our  own 
swords  1’  He  actually  made  a  law  to  interdict 
Iheir  reading  Homer  and  Demosthenes  ;  prohi¬ 
bited  to  their  schools  the  study  of  antiquity,  and 
ordered  that  they  should  confine  themselves,  to 
the  explanation  of  Matthew  and  Luke,  in  the 
churches  of  the  Galileans. 

It  can  never  be  too  soon,  for  the  royal  pupil, 
to  begin  to  collect  materials  for  reflection,  and 
for  action.  Her  future  character  will  much  de- 
pend  on  the  course  of  reading,  the  turn  of  tem¬ 
per,  the  habit  of  thought  now  acquired,  and  the 
standard  of  morals  now  fixed.  The  acquisition  | 
of  present  taste  will  form  the  elements  of  her 
subsequent  character.  Her  present  acquire¬ 
ments,  it  is  true,  will  need  to  be  matured  by  her 
after  experience  ;  but  experience  will  operate  to 
'.omparatively  little  purpose,  where  only  a  slen- 


der  stock  has  been  laid  in  for  it  to  work  upon  ; 
and  where  these  materials  for  forming  the  charac¬ 
ter  have  not  been  previously  prepared.  Things 
must  be  known  before  they  are  done.  The  part 
should  be  studied  before  it  is  acted,  if  we  expect 
to  have  it  acted  well. 

Where  much  is  to  be  learned,  time  must  be 
economised;  and  in  the  judicious  selection  of 
pagan  literature,  the  discernment  of  the  precep¬ 
tor  will  be  particularly  exercised.  All  those 
writers,  however  justly  celebrated,  who  have 
employed  much  learning,  in  elaborating  points 
which  add  little  to  the  practical  wisdom  or  vir¬ 
tue  of  mankind ;  all  such  as  are  rather  curious 
than  useful,  or  ingenious  than  instructive,  should 
be  passed  over ;  nor  need  she  bestow  much  at¬ 
tention  on  points,  which,  though  they  may  have 
been  accurately  discussed,  are  not  seriously  im¬ 
portant.  Dry  critical  knowledge,  though  it  may 
be  correctly  just ;  and  mere  chronicles  of  events, 
though  they  may  be  strictly  true,  teach  not  the 
things  she  wants.  Such  authors  as  Sallust,  who, 
in  speaking  of  turbulent  innovators,  remarks, 
that  they  thought  the  very  disturbance  of  things 
established  a  sufficient  bribe  to  set  them  at  wordc  ; 
those  who,  like  this  exquisite  historian,  unfold 
the  internal  principles  of  action,  and  dissect  the 
hearts  and  minds  of  their  personages,  who  de¬ 
velops  complicated  circumstances,  furnish  a  clue 
to  trace  the  labyrinth  of  causes  and  effects,  and 
assign  to  every  incident  its  proper  motive,  will 
be  eminently  useful.  But,  if  she  be  taught  to 
discern  the  merits  of  writers,  it  is  that  she  may 
become  not  a  critic  in  books,  but  in  human  na¬ 
ture. 

History  is  the  glass  by  which  the  royal  mind 
should  be  dressed.  If  it  be  delightful  for  a  pri¬ 
vate  individual  to  enter  with  the  historian  into 
every  scene  which  he  describes,  and  into  every 
event  which  he  relates ;  to  be  introduced  into 
the  interior  of  the  Roman  senate,  or  the  Atheni 
an  areopagus;  to  follow  Pom pey  to  Pharsalia, 
Miltiades  to  Marathon,  or  Marlborough  to  Blen- 
heim  ;  how  much  more  interesting  will  this  be 
to  a  sovereign  ?  To  him  for  whom  senates  de¬ 
bate,  for  whom  armies  engage,  and  who  is  him¬ 
self  to  be  a  prime  actor  in  the  drama !  Of  how 
much  more  importance  is  it  to  him,  to  possess 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  all  the  successive  go¬ 
vernments  of  that  world,  in  a  principal  govern¬ 
ment  of  which  he  is  one  day  to  take  the  lead. 
To  possess  himself  of  the  experience  of  ancient 
states,  of  the  wisdom  of  every  antecedent  age  ! 
To  learn  moderation  from  the  ambition  of  one, 
caution  from  the  rashness  of  another,  and  pru¬ 
dence  perhaps  from  the  indiscretion  of  both  !  To 
apply  foregone  examples  to  his  own  use ;  adopt¬ 
ing  what  is  excellent,  shunning  what  is  errone¬ 
ous,  and  omitting  what  is  irrelevant! 

Reading  and  observation  are  the  two  grand 
sources  of  improvement ;  but  they  lie  not  equal¬ 
ly  open  to  all.  From  the  latter,  the  sex  and  ha- 
bits  of  a  royal  female,  in  a  good  measure,  ex¬ 
clude  her.  She  must  then,  in  a  greater  degree, 

I  depend  on  the  formation  which  books  afford, 
opened  and  illustrated  by  her  preceptor.  Though 
her  personal  observation  must  be  limited,  her 
advantages  from  historical  sources  may  be  large 
and  various. 

If  history  for  a  time,  especially  during  the 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAiVNAH  MORE. 


17 


reign  of  the  prince  whose  actions  are  recorded, 
sometimes  misrepresent  characters,  the  dead, 
CTcn  the  royal  dead,  are  seldom  flattered;  unless, 
which  indeed  too  frequently  happens,  the  writer 
is  deficient  in  that  just  conception  of  moral  excel¬ 
lence,  which  teaches  to  distinguish  what  is  splen¬ 
did  from  what  is  solid.  But,  sooner  or  later,  his¬ 
tory  does  justice.  She  snatches  from  oblivion, 
or  reproach,  the  fame  of  those  virtuous  men, 
whom  corrupt  princes,  not  contented  with  hav¬ 
ing  sacrificed  them  to  their  unjust  jealousy, 
would  rob  also  of  their  fair  renown.  When 
Arulenus  Rusticus  was  condemned  by  Domitian, 
for  having  written  with  its  deserved  eulogium, 
the  life  of  that  excellent  citizen,  Thrasea  Foetus  ; 
when  Senecio  was  put  to  death  by  the  same 
emperor,  for  having  *rendered  the  like  noble 
justice  to  Helvidius  Priscus — when  the  his¬ 
torians  themselves,  like  the  patriots  whom  they 
celebrated  were  sentenced  to  death,  their  books 
also  being  condemned  to  the  flames ;  when 
Fannia,  the  incomparable  wife  of  Helvidius, 
was  banished,  having  the  courage  to  carry  into 
exile  that  book  which  had  been  the  cause  of  it ; 
a  book  of  which  her  conjugal  piety  had  furnish¬ 
ed  the  materials^ — ‘  In  the  fire  which  consumed 
these  books,’  says  the  author  of  the  life  of  Agri¬ 
cola,  the  tyrants  imagined  that  they  had  stifled 
the  very  utterance  of  the  Roman  people,  abolish¬ 
ed  the  lawful  power  of  the  senate,  and  forced 
mankind  to  doubt  of  the  very  evidence  of  their 
senses.  Having  expelled  philosophy,  and  exiled 
science,  they  flattered  themselves  that  nothing, 
which  bore  the  stamp  of  virtue,  would  exist.* 
— But  history  has  vindicated  the  noble  sufferers. 
Foetus  and  Helvidius  will  ever  be  ranked  among 
the  niost  honourable  patriots  ;  while  the  empe¬ 
ror,  who,  in  destroying  their  lives  could  not  in¬ 
jure  their  reputation,  is  consigned  to  eternal 
infamy. 

The  examples  which  history  records,  furnish 
faithful  admonitions  to  succeeding  princes,  re¬ 
specting  the  means  by  which  empires  are 
erected  and  overturned.  They  show,  by  what 
arts  of  wisdom,  or  by  neglect  of  those  arts, 
little  states  become  great,  or  great  states  fall 
into  ruin ;  with  what  equity  or  injustice  w’ars 
have  been  undertaken  ;  with  what  ability  or  in¬ 
capacity  they  have  been  conducted  ;  with  what 
sagacity  or  short-sightedness  treaties  have  been 
formed.  How  national  faith  hath  been  main¬ 
tained,  or  forfeited.  How  confederacies  have 
been  made,  or  violated.  History,  which  is  the 
amusement  of  other  men,  is  the  school  of  princes. 
They  are  not  to  read  it  merely  as  the  rational 
occupation  of  a  vacant  hour,  but  to  consult  it, 
as  a  storehouse  of  materials  for  the  art  of  govern¬ 
ment. 

There  is  a  splendour  in  heroic  actions,  which 
fires  the  imagination,  and  forcibly  lays  hold  on 
the  passions.  Hence,  the  poets  were  the  first, 
and,  in  the  rude  ages  of  antiquity,  the  only  his¬ 
torians.  They  seized  on  whatever  was  dazzling, 
in  character,  or  shining  in  action ;  exaggerated 
heroic  qualities,  immortalized  patriotism,  and 
deified  courage.  But  instead  of  making  their 
heroes  patterns  to  men,  they  lessened  the  utility 
of  their  example  by  elevating  them  into  gods. 

•  Beginningof  Tacitus’s  life  of  Agricola. 

voL.  ir  a 


Hence  however  arose  the  first  idea  of  history ; 
of  snatching  the  deeds  of  illustrious  men  from 
the  delusions  of  fable ;  of  bringing  down  ex¬ 
travagant  powers,  and  preter-natural  faculties 
within  the  limits  of  human  nature  and  possibi 
lity ;  and  reducing  overcharged  characters  to 
the  size  and  shape  of  real  life ;  giving  proper 
tion,  order  and  arrangement  to  the  widest  scheme 
of  action,  and  to  the  most  extended  duration  of 
time. 


CHAF.  VI. 

Laws — Egypt — Persia. 

But  however  the  fictions  of  poetry  might  have 
given  being  to  history,  it  was  sage  political  in¬ 
stitutions,  good  governments,  and  wise  laws 
which  formed  both  its  solid  basis,  and  its  valuable 
superstructure.  And  it  is  from  the  labours  of  an 
cient  legislators,  the  establishment  of  states,  the 
foundation  of  government,  and  the  progress  of 
civil  society,  that  we  are  to  look  for  more  real 
greatness,  and  more  useful  instruction,  than 
from  all  the  extravagant  exploits  recorded  in 
fabulous  ages  of  antiquity. 

So  deep  is  the  reverential  awe  which  map- 
kind  have  uniformly  blended  with  the  idea  of 
laws,  that  almost  all  civilized  nations  have  af. 
footed  to  wrap  up  the  origin  of  them  in  the  ob¬ 
scurity  of  a  devout  mystery,  and  to  intimate 
that  they  sprang  from  a  divine  source.  This 
has  arisen  partly  from  a  love  to  the  marvellous, 
inherent  m  the  human  mind ;  partly  from  the 
vanity  of  a  national  fondness  in  each  country  for 
losing  their  original  in  the  trackless  paths  of 
impenetrable  antiquity.  Of  the  former  of  those 
tastes,  a  legislator,  like  Numa,  who  had  deep 
views  and  who  knew  how  much  the  people  re¬ 
verence  whatever  is  mysterious,  would  natu¬ 
rally  avail  himself.  And  his  supposed  divine 
communication  was  founded  in  his  consummate 
knowledge  of  the  human  mind  ;  a  knowledge 
which  a  wise  prince  will  always  turn  to  good 
account. 

But,  however  the  mysteriousness  of  the  origin 
of  laws  may  excite  the  reverence  of  the  vulgar, 
it  is  the  wise  only  who  will  duly  venerate  their 
sanctity,  as  they  alone  can  appreciate  their 
value.  Laws  are  providentially  designed,  not 
only  to  be  the  best  subsidiary  aid  of  Religion, 
where  she  is  operative,  but  to  be  in  some  sort 
her  substitute,  in  those  instances  where  her 
own  direct  operations  might  be  ineffectual.  For, 
even  where  the  immediate  law  of  God  is  little 
regarded,  the  civil  code  may  be  externally 
efficient,  from  its  sanctions  being  more  visible, 
palpable,  tangible.  And  human  laws  are  di¬ 
rectly  fitted  to  restrain  the  outward  acts  of 
those,  whose  hearts  are  not  influenced  by  the 
divine  injunctions-  Laws,  therefore,  are  the 
surest  fences  of  the  best  blessings  of  civilized 
life.  They  bind  society  together,  while  tliey 
strengthen  the  separate  interests  of  tliose  whom 
they  reciprocally  unite.  They  tie  the  hands  of 
depredation  in  the  poor,  and  of  oppression  in 
the  rich  :  protect  the  weak  against  the  encroach¬ 
ments  of  the  powerful,  and  draw  their  sacred 


18 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


shelter  round  all  that  is  dear  in  domestic,  or 
valuable  in  social  life.  They  are  the  truest 
guardians  of  the  dignity  of  the  throne,  and  the 
only  rampart  of  the  liberty  of  the  people. 

On  the  law  of  nature,  and  the  law  of  revela¬ 
tion  (where  revelation  is  known)  all  human 
laws  ought  to  depend.  That  a  rule  of  civil  con¬ 
duct  should  be  prescribed  to  man,  by  the  state 
in  which  he  lives,  is  made  necessary  by  nature, 
as  well  as  sanctioned  by  revelation.  Were  man 
uninsulated  being,  the  law  of  nature,  and  of 
revelation,  would  suffice  for  him ;  but,  for  aggre¬ 
gate  man,  something  more  than  even  municipal 
laws  becomes  requisite.  Divided  as  human 
beings  are,  into  separate  states,  and  societies, 
connected  among  themselves,  but  disconnected 
with  other  states,  each  requires  with  relation  to 
the  other,  certain  general  rules,  called  the  law 
of  nations,  as  much  as  each  state  needs  respect¬ 
ing  itself,  those  distinct  codes,  which  are  suited 
to  their  own  particular  exigencies.  On  the 
whole,  then,  as  the  natural  sense  of  weakness 
and  fear  impels  man  to  seek  the  protection,  and 
the  blessing  of  laws,  so  from  the  experience  of 
that  protection,  and  the  sense  of  that  blessing, 
his  reason  derives  the  most  powerful  argument 
to  desire  their  perpetuation  ;  and  his  providential 
destiny  becomes  his  choice. 

If,  therefore,  we  would  truly  estimate  the 
value  of  laws,  let  us  figure  to  ourselves  the 
misery  of  that  state  of  nature  in  which  there 
should  be  no  law,  but  that  of  the  strongest ;  no 
judge  to  determine  right,  or  to  punish  wrong  ; 
to  redress  suffering,  or  to  repel  injury ;  to  pro¬ 
tect  the  weak,  or  to  control  the  powerful. 

If,  under  the  prevalence  of  a  false,  and  even 
absurd  religion,  several  ancient  states,  that  of 
iri  particular  subsisted  in  so  much  splen¬ 
dour*  for  so  long  a  period,  and  afterwards  sunk 
into  such  abject  depression,  the  causes  of  both 
are  obvious.  The  laws  of  ancient  Egypt  were 
proverbial  for  their  wisdom.  It  has  not  escaped 
several  Christian  historians  that  it  was  the  hu¬ 
man  praise  of  him  who  was  ordained  to  be  the 
legislator  of  God’s  own  people,  that  he  was  skilled 
in  all  the  learning  of  the  Egyptians.  And  it 
was  meant  to  confer  an  high  eulogium  on  the 
wisest  of  the  kings  of  Israel,  that  his  wisdom- 
eclipsed  that  of  Egypt. 

The  laws  of  this  state  so  strongly  enforced 
mercy,  that  they  punished  with  death  those  who 
refused  to  save  the  life  of  a  fellow-creature  if 
attacked,  when  it  was  in  their  power.  The 
justice  of  the  Egyptian  laws  was  so  inflexible, 
that  the  kings  obliged  the  judges  to  swear  that 
they  would  never  depart  from  the  principles  of 
rectitude,  though  even  in  obedience  to  the  royal 
command.  Their  respect  for  individual  virtue, 

*  It  is  to  be  observed  that  this  splendour  alludes  to 
the  prosperity  arising  from  wise  political  institutions 
merely  ;  for  the  private  morals  of  Egypt  must  have  borne 
some  proportion  to  her  corrupt  idolatry,  which  after¬ 
wards  became  of  the  most  degrading  and  preposterous 
kind.  Her  wisdom,  we  must  therefore  infer,  was  chiefly 
political  wisdom.  Her  morality  seems  to  have  been,  in  a 
good  measure,  cultivated  with  a  view  to  aggrandize  the 
state,  and  in  violation  of  many  natural  feelings,  as  was 
the  case  in  Sparta.  Egypt  was  a  well  compacted 
political  society,  and  her  virtue  appears  to  have  been 
the  effect  of  political  discipline.  In  enumerating  her 
merits,  our  object  is  to  prove  the  great  important  of 
laws. 


and  for  that  reputation  which  follows  it,  was  so 
high,  that  a  kind  of  moral  inquisition  was  ap> 
pointed,  on  the  death  of  every  citizen,  to  inquire 
what  sort  of  life  he  had  lived,  that  his  memory 
might  be  accordingly  held  in  houour  or  detesta¬ 
tion.  From  the  verdict  of  this  solemn  tribunal, 
even  their  kings  themselves  were  notexempted. 

The  whole  aim  and  end  of  education  among 
them  was  to  inspire  a  veneration  for  govern¬ 
ment  and  RELIGION.  They  had  a  law  which  as¬ 
signed  some  employment  to  every  individual  of 
the  state.  And  though  the  genius  of  our  free 
constitution  would  justly  reprobate  what  indeed 
its  temperate  and  judicious  restraints  render 
unnecessary  among  us,  that  clause  which  di¬ 
rected  that  the  employment  should  be  perpe¬ 
tuated  in  the  same  familji,  yet,  perhaps,  the 
severe  moralist,  with  the  example  of  the  well- 
ordered  government  of  Egypt  before  his  eyes, 
might  reasonably  doubt  whether  a  law,  the 
effect  of  which  was  to  keep  men  in  their  places, 
though  it  might  now  and  then  check  the  career 
of  a  lofty  genius,  was  not  a  much  less  injury  to 
society  than  the  free  scope  which  was  afforded 
to  the  turbulent  ambition  of  every  aspiring 
spirit  in  the  Greek  democracies.  Bossuet,  who 
has,  perhaps,  penetrated  more  deeply  into  these 
subjects  than  almost  any  modern,  has  pronounc¬ 
ed  Egypt  to  be  the  fountain  of  all  political  wis¬ 
dom. 

What  afterwards  plunged  the  Egyptians  into 
calamity,  and  brought  final  dissolution  on  their 
government?  It  was  a  departure  from  its  con- 
stitutional  principles ;  it  was  the  neglect  and 
contempt  of  those  venerable  laws  which  for 
sixteen  centuries  had  constituted  their  glory 
and  their  happiness.  They  exchanged  the  love 
of  their  wise  domestic  institutions  for  the  am¬ 
bition  of  subduing  distant  countries.  One  of 
their  most  heroic  sovereigns  (as  is  not  unusual) 
was  the  instrument  of  their  misfortunes.  Sesos- 
tris  was  permitted  by  Divine  Providence  to 
diminish  the  true  glory  of  Egypt,  by  a  restless 
ambition  to  extend  her  territory.  This  splendid 
prince  abandoned  the  real  grandeur  of  govern¬ 
ing  wisely  at  home  for  the  false  glory  of  foreign 
conquests,  which  detained  him  nine  years  in 
distant  climates.  At  a  remote  period,  the  peo¬ 
ple,  weary  of  the  blessings  they  had  so  long  en¬ 
joyed  under  a  single  monarch,  weakened  the 
royal  power,  by  dividing  it  among  multiplied 
sovereigns. 

What  exalted  the  ancient  Persians  to  such 
lasting  fame  ?  The  equity  and  strict  execution 
of  their  LAWS.  It  wrs  their  sovereign  disdain 
of  falsehood  in  their  public  transactions.  Their 
considering  fraud  as  the  most  degrading  of 
vices,  and  thus  transfusing  the  spirit  of  their 
laws  into  their  conduct  It  was  that  love  of  jus¬ 
tice  (modern  statesmen  would  do  well  to  imi¬ 
tate  the  example)  which  made  them  oblige  them¬ 
selves  to  commend  the  virtues  of  their  enemies 
It  was  such  an  extraordinary  respect  for  educa¬ 
tion,  that  no  sorrow  was  ever  expressed  for  young 
persons  who  died  uninstructed.  It  was  bv  pay¬ 
ing  such  an  attention  to  the  children  of  the 
sovereign,  that,  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  they  were 
placed  under  the  care  of  four  statesmen  who 
excelled  in  different  talents.  By  one  they  were 
instructed  in  the  principles  of  justice ;  by  an 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


19 


other  they  were  taught  to  subdue  sensuality ;  by 
a  third  they  were  initiated  in  the  art  of  govern¬ 
ment  ;  and  by  a  fourth  in  the  duties  of  religion. 
Plato  has  given  a  beautiful  sketch  of  tliis  ac¬ 
complished  and  sublime  education. 

It  will  be  found  that  nearly  the  same  causes 
which  forwarded  the  ruin  of  Egypt,  contributed 
to  destroy  Persia ;  a  dereliction  of  those  funda¬ 
mental  principles  of  legislation  and .  morals  to 
which  it  had  been  indebted  for  its  long  prosperi¬ 
ty  and  grandeur. 

But  be  it  remembered,  that  the  best  human 
laws  will  not  be  exempt  from  the  imperfection 
inseparably  bound  up  with  all  human  things. 
Let  us  beware,  however,  of  those  innovators 
who,  instead  of  carefully  improving  and  vigour- 
ously  executing  those  laws  which  are  already 
established,  adopt  no  remedies  short  of  destruc¬ 
tion  ;  tolerate  no  improvement  short  of  creation ; 
who  are  carried  away  by  a  wild  scheme  of  vi¬ 
sionary  perfection,  which,  if  it  could  any  where 
be  found  to  exist,  would  not  be  likely  to  be  found 
jn  the  projects  of  men  who  disdain  to  avail  them¬ 
selves  of  ancient  experience  and  progressive 
wisdom.  Thucydides  was  a  politician  of  another 
cast ;  for  he  declared,  that  even  indifferent  laws, 
vigilantly  executed,  were  superior  to  the  best 
that  were  not  properly  obeyed.  Those  modern 
reformists,  who  affect  to  be  in  raptures  with  the 
Greek  republics,  would  do  well  to  imitate  the 
deliberation,  the  slowness,  the  doubt  with  which 
the  founder  of  the  Athenian  legislation  intro¬ 
duced  his  laws.  Instead  of  those  sudden  and 
instantaneous  constitutions  we  have  witnessed, 
which,  disdaining  the  slow  growth  of  moral 
births,  have  started  at  once,  full  grown,  from  the 
brain  of  the  projector,  and  were  as  suddenly 
superseded  as  rapidly  produced ;  Solon  would 
not  suffer  a  single  law  to  be  determined  on  and 
accepted  till  the  first  charm  of  novelty  was  past, 
and  the  first  heat  of  enthusiasm  had  cooled. 
What  would  the  same  capricious  theorists  say 
to  that  reverence  with  which  the  Egyptians, 
above  cited,  regarded  antiquity,  example,  cus¬ 
tom,  law,  prescription  ?  This  sage  people  con¬ 
sidered  every  political  novelty  with  a  jealousy 
equal  to  the  admiration  with  which  it  is  regarded 
by  the  new  school.  Trial,  proof,  experience, 
was  the  slow  criterion  by  which  they  ventured 
to  decide  on  the  excellence  of  any  institution. 
While,  to  the  licentious  innovator,  antiquity  is 
ignorance,  custom  is  tyranny,  order  is  intole¬ 
rance,  laws  are  chains.  But  the  end  has  cor¬ 
responded  with  the  beginning.  Their  ‘  baseless 
fabrics’  have  fallen  to  pieces  before  they  were 
well  reared  ;  and  have  exposed  their  superficial, 
but  self-sufficient  builders,  to  the  just  derision 
■of  mankind. 


CHAP.  VII. 

Greece. 

When  wc  contemplate  Greece,  and  especially 
when  we  fix  our  eyes  on  Athens,  our  admiration 
as  strongly,  I  had  almost  said,  is  irresistibly  ex¬ 
cited,  in  reflecting,  that  such  a  diminutive  spot 
concentrated  within  itself  whatever  is  great  and 


eminent  in  almost  every  point  of  view ;  whatever 
confers  distinction  on  the  human  intellect;  what¬ 
ever  is  calculated  to  inspire  wonder,  or  commu¬ 
nicate  delight.  Athens  was  the  pure  well-head 
of  poetry : 

.Hither,  as  to  their  fountain,  other  stars 

Repairing,  in  their  golden  urns  draw  light. 

It  was  the  theatre  of  arms,  the  cradle  of  the 
arts,  the  school  of  philosophy,  and  the  parent  of 
eloquence. 

To  bo  regarded  as  the  masters  in  learning, 
the  oraele  of  taste,  and  the  standard  of  polite¬ 
ness,  to  the  whole  civilized  world,  is  a  splendid 
distinction.  But  it  is  a  pestilent  mischief,  when 
the  very  renown  attending  such  brilliant  advan- 
tages  becomes  the  vehicle  for  carrying  into  other 
countries  the  depraved  manners  by  which  these 
pre-eminent  advantages  are  accompanied.  This 
was  confessedly-the  case  of  Greece  with  respect 
to  Rome.  Rome  had  conquered  Greece  by  her 
arms ;  but  whenever  a  subjugated  country  con¬ 
tributes,  by  her  vices,  to  enslave  the  state  which 
conquered  her,  she  amply  revenges  herself. 

But  the  perils  of  this  contamination  do  not 
terminate  with  their  immediate  consequences. 
The  ill  effects  of  Grecian  manners  did  not  cease 
with  the  corruptions  which  they  engendered  at 
Rome.  There  is  still  serious  danger,  lest,  while 
the  ardent  and  high  spirited  young  reader  con¬ 
templates  Greece  only  through  the  splendid  me¬ 
dium  of  her  heroes  and  her  artists,  her  poets  and 
her  orators  ;  while  his  imagination  is  fired  with 
the  glories  of  conquest,  and  captivated  with  the 
charms  of  literaturb,  that  he  may  lose  sight  of 
the  disorders,  the  corruptions,  and  the  crimes, 
by  which  Athens,  the  famous  seat  of  arts  and 
of  letters,  was  dishonoured.  May  he  not  be 
tinctured  (allowing  for  change  of  circumstances) 
with  something  of  that  spirit  which  inflamed 
Alexander,  when,  as  he  was  passing  the  Hydas- 
pes,  he  enthusiastically  exclaimed,  ‘  O  Atheni¬ 
ans  !  could  you  believe  to  what  dangers  I  ex¬ 
pose  myself,  for  the  sake  of  being  celebrated  by 
you !’ 

Many  of  the  Athenian  vices  originated  in  the 
very  nature  of  their  constitution  ;  in  the  very 
spirit  of  that  turbulent  democracy  which  Solon 
could  not  restrain,  nor  theablestof  his  successors 
control.  The  great  founder  of  their  legislation 
felt  the  dangers  inseparable  from  the  democratic 
form  of  government,  when  he  declared,  ‘  that  he 
had  not  given  them  the  best  laws,  but  the  best 
which  they  were  able  to  bear.’  In  the  very  esta¬ 
blishment  of  his  institutions,  he  betrayed  his 
distrust  of  this  species  of  government,  by  those 
guards  and  ramparts  which  he  was  so  assiduous 
in  providing  and  multiplying.  Knowing  him¬ 
self  to  be  incapable  of  setting  aside  the  popular 
power,  his  attention  was  directed  to  divest  it,  as 
much  as  possible,  of  its  mischiefs,  by  the  en¬ 
trenchments  that  he  strove  to  cast  about  it.  His 
sagacious  mind  anticipated  the  ill  effects  of  that 
republican  restlessness,  that  at  length  completely 
overturned  the  state  which  it  had  so  often  mo. 
naced,  and  so  constantly  distracted. 

This  unsettled  government,  which  left  the 
country  perpetually  exposed  to  the  tyranny  of 
the  few,  and  the  turbulence  of  the  many,  was 
never  bound  together  by  any  principle  of  union. 


20 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


by  any  bond  of  interest,  common  to  the  whole 
community,  except  when  the  general  danger, 
for  a  time,  annihilated  the  distinction  of  separate 
interests.  Tlie  restraint  of  laws  was  feeble;  the 
laws  themselves  were  often  contradictory;  often 
ill  ad  ministered ;  popular  inti  igues,  and  tumultu¬ 
ous  assemblies,  frequently  obstructing  their  ope¬ 
ration.  The  noblest  services  were  not  seldom 
rewarded  with  imprisonment,  exile,  or  assassi¬ 
nation.  Under  every  change,  confiscation  and 
proscription  were  never  at  a  stand  ;  and  the  only 
way  of  effacing  the  impression  of  any  revolution 
which  had  produced  these  outrages,  was  to  pro¬ 
mote  a  new  one,  which  engendered  in  its  turn, 
fresh  outrages,  and  improved  upon  the  antece¬ 
dent  disorders. 

By  tlijs  light  and  capricious  people,  acute  in 
their  feelings,  carried  away  by  every  sudden 
gust  of  passion,  as  mutable  in  their  opinions  as 
unjust  in  their  decisions,  the  most  illustrious 
patriots  were  first  sacrificed,  and  thep  honoured 
with  statues ;  their  heroes  were  murdered  as 
traitors,  and  then  reverenced  as  gods.  This 
wanton  abuse  of  authority,  this  rash  injustice, 
and  fruitless  repentance,  would  be  the  inevitable 
consequence  of  lodging  supreme  power  in  the 
hands  of  a  vain  and  variable  populace,  incon¬ 
stant  in  their  very  vices,  perpetually  vibrating 
between  irretrievable  crimes  and  ineffectual  re¬ 
grets. 

That  powerful  oratory,  which  is  to  us  so  just 
a  subject  of  admiration,  was,  doubtless,  no  in¬ 
considerable  cause  of  the  public  disorders.  And 
to  that  exquisite  talent,  which  constitutes  one  of 
the  chief  boasts  of  Athens,  we  may  look  for  one 
principal  source  of  her  disorders  • 

Those  ancients,  whose  resistless  eloquence 

Wielded  at  will  the  fierce  Democracy, 

Shook  th’  arsenal  and  fulmined  over  Greece 

To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes'  throne. 

When  we  consider  what  mighty  influence  this 
talent  gave  to  the  popular  leaders,  and  what  a 
powerful  engine  their  demagogues  possessed,  to 
work  upon  the  passions  of  the  multitude,  who 
composed  their  popular  assemblies ;  when  we 
reflect  on  the  character  of  those  crowds,  on  whom 
this  strirring  eloquence  was  exercised,  and  re¬ 
member  that  their  opinion  decided  on  the  fate 
of  the  country  :  all  this  will  contribute  to  ac¬ 
count  for  the  frequency  and  violence  of  the  pub¬ 
lic  commotions,  and  naturally  explains  why  that 
rhetorical  genius,  which  shed  so  bright  a  lustre 
on  the  country,  was,  from  the  nature  of  the 
constitution,  frequently  the  instrument  of  con¬ 
vulsing  it. 

While  the  higher  class,  in  many  of  the  Greek 
republics,  seemed  without  scruple  to  oppress 
their  inferiors,  the  populace  of  Athens  common¬ 
ly  exerted  the  same  hostile  spirit  of  resentment 
against  their  leaders. — Competition,  circumven¬ 
tion,  litigation,  every  artifice  of  private  fraud, 
every  stratagem  of  personal  injustice,  filled  up 
the  short  intervals  of  foreign  wars  and  public 
contests.  How  strikingly  is  St.  Paul’s  definition 
of  that  light  and  frivolous  propensity  of  the  Athe¬ 
nians  which  led  them  to  pass  the  day  only  ‘  to 
hear  or  tell  some  new  thing,’  illustrated  by  Plu¬ 
tarch’s  relation  of  the  illiterate  citizen,  who  voted 
Aristides  to  the  punishment  of  the  Ostracism  ! 


When  thi's  great  man  questioned  his  accuser, 
whether  Aristides  had  ever  injured  him?  He 
replied,  so  far  from  it,  that  he  did  not  even  know 
him,  only  he  was  quite  wearied  out  with  hearing 
him  every  where  called  the  just.  Besides  that 
spirit  of  envy  which  is  peculiarly  alive  in  de¬ 
mocracies,  to  have  heard  this  excellent  per¬ 
son  calumniated  would  have  been  a  refreshing 
novelty,  and  have  enabled  him,  to  ‘  tell  a  new 
thing.’ 

That  passionate  fondness  for  scenic  diversions 
which  led  the  Athenians  not  only  to  apply  part 
of  the  public  mor.)ey  to  the  support  of  the  thea¬ 
tres,  and  to  pay  for  the  admission  of  the  popu¬ 
lace,  but  also  made  it  a  capital  crime  to  divert 
this  fund  to  any  other  service,  even  to  the  ser¬ 
vice  of  the  slate,  so  sacred  was  this  application 
of  it  deemed  was  another  concurrent  cause  of 
the  profligacy  of  public  manners.*  The  abuses 
to  which  this  universal  invitation  to  luxury  and 
idleness  led  ;  the  licentiousness  of  that  purely 
democratic  spirit,  which  made  the  lowest  classes 
claim  as  a  right  to  partake  in  the  diversions  of 
the  highest ;  the  pernicious  productions  of  some 
of  the  comic  poets  ;  the  unbounded  license  in¬ 
troduced  by  the  mask  ;  the  voluptuousness  of 
their  musie,  whose  extraordinary  effects  it  would 
be  impossible  to  believe,  were  they  not  confirm¬ 
ed  by  the  general  voice  of  antiquity  :  all  these 
concurring  circumsljttices  induced  a  depravation 
of  morals  of  which  less  enlightened  countries 
do  not  often  piesent  an  example.  The  profane 
and  impure  Aristophanes  was  almost  adored, 
while  the  virtue  of  Socrates  not  only  procured 
him  a  violent  death,  bilt  (he  poet,  by  making  the 
philosopher  contemptible  to  the  populace,  paved 
the  way  to  his  unjust  sentence  by  the  judges. 
Nay,  perhaps  the  delight  which  the  Athenians 
took  in  the  impious  and  offensively  loose  wit  of 
this  dramatic  poet  rendered  them  more  deaf  to 
the  voice  of  that  virtue  which  was  taught  by 
Plato  and  of  that  liberty  in  which  they  had  once 
gloried,  and  which  Demosthenes  continued  to 
thunder  in  their  ears.  Their  rage  for  sensual 
pleasure  rendered  them  a  fit  object  for  the  pro¬ 
jects  of  Philip,  and  a  ready  prey  to  the  attacks 
of  Alexander. 

In  lamenting,  however,  the  corruptions  of  the 
theatre  in  Athens,  justice  compels  us  to  acknow¬ 
ledge,  that  her  immortal  tragic  poets,  by  their 
chaste  and  manly  compositions,  furnish  a  noble 
exception.  In  no  country  has  decency  and  pu¬ 
rity,  and,  to  the  disgrace  of  Christian  countries, 
let  it  be  added,  have  morality,  and  even  piety, 
been  so  generally  prevalent  in  any  theatrical 
compositions  as  in  what. 

*  Pericles,  not  being  rich  enough  to  supplant  his  com¬ 
petitor  by  acts  of  liberality,  procured  this  law  with 
a  view  to  make  his  court  to  the  people.  He  scrupled 
not,  in  order  to  sequre  their  attachment  to  his  person 
and  government,  by  thus  ‘  buying  them  with  their  own 
money,’  effectually  to  promote  their  natural  levity  and 
idleness,  and  to  corrupt  their  morals. — The  rulers  of  a 
neighbouring  nation  have  been  too  skilful  adepts  in  thrs 
art  of  corruption,  not  to  admire  and  eagerly  adopt  au 
example  so  suited  to  their  political  circumstances,  and 
so  congenial  to  their  national  frivolity.  Accordingly, 
an  unexampled  multitude  of  theatres  have  been  opened; 
and  in  order  to  allay  the  discontents  of  the  lower  class 
at  the  expense  of  their  time  and  morals,  the  price  of 
these  diversions  has  been  reduced  so  low  as  almost  to 
emulate  the  gratuitous  admission  of  the  Athenian  po¬ 
pulace. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


21 


- her  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 

In  chorus,  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence. 

Yet,  in  paying  a  just  and  warm  tribute  to  the 
moral  excellencies  of  these  sublime  dramatists, 
js  not  an  answer  provided  to  that  long  agitated 
question,  Whether  the  stage  can  be  indeed  made 
a  school  of  morals  ?  No  question  had  ever  a 
fairer  chance  for  decision  than  was  here  afford¬ 
ed.  If  it  be  allowed  that  there  never  was  a  more 
profligate  city  than  Athens  ;  if  it  be  equally  in¬ 
disputable  that  never  country  possessed  more 
unexceptionable  dramatic  poets  than  Eschylus, 
Sophocles  and  Euripides  ;  if  the  same  city  thus 
at  once  produced  the  best  physieians  and  the 
worst  patients,  what  is  the  result?  Do  the 
Athenian  annals  record  that  any  class  or  condi¬ 
tion  of  citizens  were  actually  reformed  by  con¬ 
stantly  freque-nting,  we  had  almost  said,  by  con¬ 
stantly  living  in  the  theatre  ? 

Plutarch,  who  severely  condemns  the  Atheni¬ 
ans,  had  too  just  a  judgment  to  censure  either 
the  excellence  of  the  poets,  or  the  good  taste  of 
the  people  who  admired  them.  But  he  blames 
them  for  that  excessive  passion  for  diversions, 
‘  which,’  says  he,  ‘  by  setting  up  a  new  object 
of  attachment,  had  nearly  extinguished  public 
virtue,  and  made  them  more  anxious  about  the 
fate  of  a  play  than  about  the  fate  of  ' their  coun¬ 
try.’* 

Such  were  the  manners  which  historians,  ora¬ 
tors,  and  poets  have  consigned  to  immortal  fame ! 
Such  were  the  people  for  whom  our  highly  edu¬ 
cated  youth  are  taught  to  feel  an  enthusiastic 
admiration !  Such  are  the  forms  of  government 
which  have  excited  the  envy,  and  partly  furnish¬ 
ed  the  model  to  the  bloody  innovators  and  frantic 
politicians  of  our  age  !  Madly  to  glory  in  the 
dream  of  liberty,  and  to  be  in  fact  the  victim  of 
changing  tyrants,  but  unchanging  tyranny.  This 
was  the  coveted  lot  of  ancient  Athens. — This  is 
the  object  of  reverence,  eulogy,  and  imitation  to 
a  large  portion  of  modern  Europe  ! 

In  reflecting  on  the  splendid  works  of  genius 
and  of  art  in  Athens,  as  opposed  to  the  vices  of 
her  government,  and  the  licentiousness  of  her 
morals, — will  it  be  thought  an  adequate  com¬ 
pensation  for  the  corruptions  of  both,  if  we  grant, 
as  we  are  disposed  to  do,  in  its  fullest  extent, 
tJiat  unparalleled  combination  of  talents,  which 
delighted  and  informed  the  rest  of  the  world? 
If  we  allow  that  this  elegance  of  taste  spread  so 
wide,  and  descended  so  low,  that  every  indivi¬ 
dual  of  an  Athenian  mob  might,  as  has  been 
triumphantly  a8serted,t  be  a  just  critic  of  dra¬ 
matic  composition  ?  That  the  ear  of  the  popu¬ 
lace  was  so  nicely  tuned  and  so  refined  a  judge 
of  the  delicacies  of  pronunciation,  than  an  Attic 
Jierb-woman  could  detect  the  provincial  accent 
of  a  learned  philosopher  ?  Is  it  even  a  sufficient 
compensation,  exquisite  as  we  allow  the  grati- 
fication  to  have  been,  that  the  spectator  might 
range  among  the  statues  of  Lysippus,  or  the 
oictures  of  Apelles,  or  the  critic  enjoy  the  still 
.nore  intellectual  luxury  of  listening  to  an  ora¬ 
tion  of  Demosthenes,  of  a  scene  of  Euripides, — 

*  See  Wortley  Montague,  on  the  Rise  and  Fall  of  An. 
tient  Republics. 

t  See  ail  elegant  paper  in  the  Adventurer,  in  which 
some  of  these  triumphs  of  Athens  are  asserted. 


while  the  rulers  of  so  accomplished  a  people 
were  in  general  dissolute,  tyrannical,  oppressive 
and  unjust ;  and  the  people  themselves  univer 
sally  sunk  into  the  most  degraded  state  of  man¬ 
ners  ;  immersed  in  the  last  excess  of  effeminacy; 
debased  by  the  most  excessive  sensuality,  fraud, 
idleness,  avarice,  gaming,  and  debauchery  ? 

If  here  and  there  the  eye  is  relieved,  and  the 
feelings  are  refreshed,  with  the  casual  appear¬ 
ance  of  a  Miltiades,  a  Cimon,  an  Aristides,  a 
Socrates,  a  Phocion,  or  a  Xenophon ;  yet 
these  thinly  scattered  stars  serve  less  to  re¬ 
trieve  the  Athenian  character,  by  their  solitary 
lustre,  or  even  by  their  confluent  radiance,  than 
to  overwhelm  it  with  disgrace,  by  the  atrocious 
injustice  with  which  these  bright  lumina¬ 
ries  were  treated  by  their  country.  The  eulo- 
gium  of  the  citizen  is  the  satire  of  the  state. 

While  we  observe  that  Greece  first  became 
powerful,  rich,  and  great,  through  the  energy 
of  her  people,  and  the  vigour  of  her  character, 
and  that  this  very  greatness,  power,  and  riches, 
have  a  natural  bias  towards  corruption ;  that 
while  they  happily  tend  to  produce  and  nourish 
those  arts,  which  in  their  just  measure  are  the 
best  embellishments  of  a  nation  ;  yet  carried  to 
excess,  and  misapplied  to  vicious  purposes,  tend 
to  weaken  and  corrupt  it ;  that  Athens,  by  her 
public  .and  private  vices,  and  by  her  very  refine¬ 
ment  in  politeness,  and  her  devotedness  to  the 
arts,  not  only  precipitated  her  own  ruin,; — but 
by  the  transplantation  of  those  arts,  encumbered 
with  those  vices,  ultimately  contributed  to  ruin 
Rome  also.  While  we  take  this  retrospect,  we, 
of  this  highly  favoured  land,  may  receive  an  aw- 
ful  admonition ;  we  may  make  a  most  instruc¬ 
tive  comparison  of  our  own  situation  with  re¬ 
spect  to  a  neighbouring  nation, — a  nation  which, 
under  the  rapidly-shifting  form  of  every  mode 
of  government,  from  the  despotism  of  absolute 
monarchy  to  a  republican  anarchy,  to  which  the 
royal  tyranny  was  comparative  freedom  ; — and 
now  again,  in  the  closing  scene  of  this  change¬ 
ful  drama,  to  the  heavy  subjugation  of  military 
despotism,  has  never  ceased  to  be  the  object  of 
childish  admiration,  of  passionate  fondness,  and 
servile  imitation,  to  too  many  in  our  own  coun¬ 
try  ;  to  persons,  too,  whose  rank  giving  them 
the  greatest  stake  in  it,  have  most  to  risk  by 
the  assimilation  with  her  manners,  and  most  to 
lose  by  the  adoption  of  her  principles.  And 
though,  through  the  special  Providence  and  un- 
deserved  mercies  of  God,  we  have  withstood  the 
flood  of  revolutionary  doctrines,  let  us,  taking 
warning  from  the  resemblance  above  pointed 
out,  no  longer  persist,  as  in  the  halcyon  days  of 
peace,  servilely  to  adopt  her  language,  habits, 
manners,  and  corruptions.  For  now  to  fill  up 
the  measure  of  our  danger,  her  pictures,  and  her 
statiies,  not  the  fruits  of  her  own  genius — for 
here  the  comparison  with  Athens  fails — but  the 
plunder  of  her  usurpation,  and  the  spoils  of  her 
injustice,  by  holding  out  new  baits  to  our  curi¬ 
osity,  and  new  attractions  to  our  admiration,  are 
in  danger  of  fatally  and  finally  accomplishing 
the  resemblance.  May  the  omen  be  averted ! 

Among  the  numberless  lessons  which  we  may 
derive  from  the  study  of  Grecian  history,_there 
is  one  which  cannot  be  too  often  inculcated, 
more  especially  as  it  is  a  fact  little  relished  by 


23 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


many  of  our  more  refined  wits  and  politicians, — 
we  mean  the  error  of  ascribing  to  arts,  to  litera¬ 
ture,  and  to  politeness,  that  power  of  softening 
and  correcting  the  human  heart,  which  is,  in 
truth,  the  exclusive  prerogative  of  religion. 
Really  to  mend  the  heart,  and  purify  the  prin¬ 
ciple,  is  a  deeper  work  than  the  most  finished 
cultivation  of  the  taste  has  ever  been  able  to  ef¬ 
fect.  The  polished  Athenians  were  among  the 
most  unjust  of  mankind  in  their  national  acts, 
and  the  most  cruel  towards  their  allies.  They 
remarkably  exemplify  the  tendency  of  acting  in 
a  body,  to  lesson  each  man’s  individual  consci¬ 
ousness  of  guilt  or  cruelty.  This  polite  people, 
in  their  political  capacity,  committed,  without 
scruple,  actions  of  almost  unparalleled  barbarity. 

Every  reflecting  class  of  British  and  especi¬ 
ally  of  Christian  readers  will  not  fail  to  peruse 
the  annals  of  this  admired  republic  with  senti¬ 
ments  of  deep  gratitude  to  heaven  for  the  vast 
superiority  of  our  own  national,  civil,  social,  mo¬ 
ral,  and  religious  blessings.  And  they  may  en¬ 
rich  the  catalogue  with  that  one  additional  ad¬ 
vantage,  which  Xenophon  thought  was  all  that 
Athens  wanted,  and  which  we  possess — We  are 
an  Island.*  The  sound  and  sober  politician 
will  see  most  strongly  illustrated,  in  the  evils 
of  the  Athenian  state  (though  dissimilar  in  some 
respects  from  modern  democracy)  the  blessings 
of  our  representative  government,  and  of  our 
deliverance  from  any  approximation  towards 
that  mob  government,  to  which  universal  suf¬ 
frage  would  be  the  natural  and  necessary  intro- 
Auction. 

The  delicate  and  refined  female  of  our  fa¬ 
voured  country  will  feel  peculiar  sensations  of 
thankfulness,  in  comparing  her  happy  lot  with 
the  degraded  state  of  women  in  the  politest  ages 
of  Greece.  Condemned  to  ignorance,  labour, 
and  obscurity  ;  excluded  from  rational  inter¬ 
course  ;  debarred  from  every  species  of  intel- 
Aectual  improvement  or  innocent  enjoyment ; 
they  never  seem  to  have  been  the  objects  of  re¬ 
spect  or  esteem;  in  the  conjugal  relation,  the 
servile  agent,  not  the  endeared  companion. 
Their  depressed  state  was,  in  some  measure, 
confirmed  by  illiberal  legal  institutions ;  and 
their  native  genius  was  systematically  restrain¬ 
ed  from  rising  above  one  degraded  level.  Sueh 
was  the  lot  of  the  virtuous  part  of  the  sex.  We 
forbear  to  oppose  to  this  gloomy  picture  the  pro¬ 
fligate  renown  to  which  the  bold  pretensions  of 
daring  vice  elevated  mercenary  beauty ;  nor 
would  we  glance  at  the  impure  topic,  but  to  re¬ 
mind  our  amiable  countrywomen,  that  immo¬ 
desty  in  dress,  contempt  of  the  sober  duties  of 
domestic  life,  a  boundless  appetite  for  pleasure, 
and  a  misapplied  devotion  to  the  arts,  were 
among  the  steps  which  led  to  this  systematic 
profession  of  shameless  profligacy,  and  to  the 
establishment  of  those  countenanced  corruptions 
which  raised  the  more  celebrated,  but  infamous, 
Athenian  women 

To  that  bad  eminence. 

Every  description  of  men,  who  know  how  to 
estimate  public  good  or'  private  happiness  will 
foyfully  acknowledge  the  visible  effect  which 

*  See  Montesquieu  Esprit  des  Loix.  vol.  ii.  p.  3. 


Christianity  has  had  independently  of  its  influ. 
ence  over  its  real  votaries)  in  improving  and 
elevating  the  general  standard  of  morals,  so  as 
considerably  to  rectify  and  raise  the  conduct 
of  those  who  are  not  directly  actuated  by  its 
principles.  And,  lastly,  to  say  nothing  of  a  pure 
church  establishment,  so  diametrically  the  re¬ 
verse  of  the  deplorably  blind  and  ignorant  rites 
of  Athenian  worship,* — who  can  contemplate, 
without  thankful  heart,  that  large  infusion  of 
Christianity  into  our  national  laws,  which  has 
set  them  so  infinitely  above  all  comparison 
with  the  admired  codes  of  Lycurgus  and  of 
Solon  ? 


CHAP.  VIII. 

Rome. 

If  the  Romans  from  being  a  handful  of  ban 
ditti,  rendered  themselves  in  a  short  period  lords 
of  the  universe  ; — if  Rome,  from  being  an  ordi¬ 
nary  town  in  Italy,  became  foremost  in  genius 
and  in  arms,  and  at  length  unrivalled  in  impe¬ 
rial  magnificence ;  let  it  be  remembered  that 
the  foundations  of  this  greatness  were  laid  in 
some  of  the  extraordinary  virtues  of  that  repub¬ 
lic.  The  personal  frugality  of  her  citizens ;  the 
remarkable  simplicity  of  their  manners ;  the 
habit  of.  transferring  from  themselves  to  the 
state  all  pretensions  to  external  consequence  and 
splendour ;  the  strictness  of  her  laws,  and  the 
striking  impartiality  of  their  execution ;  that 
inflexible  regard  to  justice,  which  led  them,  in 
the  early  ages  of  the  republic — so  little  was  the 
doctrine  of  expediency  in  repute  among  them — 
to  inflict  penalties  on  those  citizens  who  even 
conquered  by  deceit,  and  not  by  valour ;  that 
vigilant  attention  to  private  morals  which  the 
establishment  of  a  censorship  secured,  and  that 
zeal  for  liberty,  which  was  at  the  same  time  sup¬ 
ported  by  her  political  constitution. — These 
causes  were  the  true  origin  of  the  Roman  great¬ 
ness.  This  was  the  pedestal  on  which  her  co¬ 
lossal  power  was  erected ;  and  though  she  re¬ 
mained  mistress  of  the  world,  even  at  a  time 
when  these  virtues  had  begun  to  decline,  the 
first  impulse  not  having  ceased  to  operate,  yet  a 
discerning  eye  might  even  then  perceive  her 
growing  internal  weakness,  and  might  antici¬ 
pate  her  final  dissolution. 

Republican  Rome,  however,  has  been  much 
too  highly  panegyrised.  The  Romans,  had,  in¬ 
deed,  a  public  feeling,  to  which  every  kind  of 
private  affection  gave  way  ;  and  it  is  chiefly  on 
the  credit  of  their  sacrificing  their  individual 
interests  to  the  national  cause,  that  they  ac¬ 
quired  so  high  a  renown. 

It  may  not  be  unworthy  of  remark,  that  the 
grand  fundamental  principle  of  the  ancient  re¬ 
publics  (and  though  it  was  still  more  strikingly 
manifest  in  the  Grecian,  it  was  in  no  small  de¬ 
gree  the  case  with  republican  Rome)  was  dif¬ 
ferent  from  that  which  constitutes  the  essential 
principle  of  the  British  constitution,  and  even 
opposite  to  it.  In  the  former  the  public  was 
every  thing  ;  the  rights,  the  comforts,  the  ve^y 
*  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  ch.  xvii. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


23 


existence  of  individuals,  were  as  nothing.  With 
ns,  happily  the  case  is  very  different,  nay  even 
exactly  the  reverse.  The  well-being  of  the 
whole  community  is  provided  for,  by  effectually 
securing  the  rights,  the  safety,  the  comforts  of 
every  individual.  Among  the  ancients,  tlie 
grossest  acts  of  injustice  against  private  persons 
■were  continually  perpetrated  and  were  regarded 
as  beneath  account,  when  they  stood  in  the  way 
of  the  will,  the  interests,  the  aggrandizement, 
the  glory  of  the  state.  In  our  happier  country, 
not  the  meanest  subject  can  be  injured  in  his 
person  or  his  possessions.  The  little  stock  of 
the  artisan,  the  peaceful  cottage  of  the  peasant, 
is  secured  to  him  by  the  universal  superintend, 
ance,  and  the  strong  protection  of  the  public 
force.  The  state  is  justly  considered  as  made 
np  of  an  aggregate  of  particular  families ;  and 
it  is  by  securing  the  well  being  of  each,  that  all 
are  preserved  in  prosperity.  We  could  delight 
to  descant  largely  on  this  topic ;  and  surely  the 
contemplation  could  not  but  warm  the  hearts  of 
Britons  with  lively  gratitude  to  the  author  of  all 
their  blessings,  and  with  zealous  attachment  to 
that  constitution,  which  conveys  and  secures  to 
them  the  enjoyment  of  such  unequalled  happi¬ 
ness  !  But  we  dare  not  expatiate  in  so  wide  a 
Held.  Let  us,  however,  remark  the  degree  in 
which  the  benevolent  spirit  of  Christianity  is 
transfused  into  our  political  system.  As  it  was 
the  glory  of  our  religion  to  take  the  poor  under 
jier  instruction,  and  to  administer  her  consola¬ 
tions  to  the  wretched,  so  it  is  the  beauty  of  our 
constitution  that  she  considers  not  as  below  her 
•care,  the  seats  of  humble  but  honest  industry  ; 
the  peaceful  dwellings,  and  quiet  employments 
of  the  lover  of  domestic  comfort. 

Again — This  vital  spirit  of  our  constitution  is 
favourable  to  virtue,  as  well  as  congenial  with 
religion,  and  conducive  to  happiness.  It  checks 
that  spirit  of  injustice  and  oppression  which  is 
so  manifest  in  the  conduct  of  the  ancient  re¬ 
publics  towards  all  other  nations.  It  tends  to 
diffuse  a  general  sense  of  moral  obligation,  a 
continual  reference  to  the  claims  of  others,  and 
our  own  consequent  obligations  ;  in  short,  a  con¬ 
tinual  reference  to  the  real  rights  of  man;  a 
term  which,  though  so  shamefully  abused,  and 
converted  into  a  watch-word  of  riot  and  rebel¬ 
lion,  yet,  truly  and  properly  understood,  is  of 
sound  meaning  and  constant  application.  By 
princes  especially,  these  rights  should  ever  be 
kept  in  remembrance.  They  were,  indeed, 
never  so  well  secured,  as  by  that  excellent  in¬ 
junction  of  our  blessed  Saviour,  to  do  to  others 
as  we  would  have  them  to  do  to  us.  And  to 
•which  the  apostle’s  brief,  but  comprehensive 
directions,  form  an ,  admirable  commentary ; 
Honour  all  men — Ijove  your  brethren — Fear  God 
— Honour  the  king. 

But  to  return  to  the  Romans  ;  their  very  pa¬ 
triotism,  by  leading  them  to  thirst  for  yniver- 
sal  empire,  finally  destroyed  them,  being  no 
less  fatal  to  the.  morals,  than  to  the  greatness 
of  the  state.  Even  their  vaunted  public  spirit 
partly  originated  in  the  necessities  of  their 
situation.  They  were  a  little  state,  surrounded 
by  a  multitude  of  other  little  states,  and  they 
had  no  safety  but  in  union.  ‘Necessity  first 
roused  the  genius  of  war,  and  the  habits  of  ex¬ 


perienced  and  successful  valour  kept  him  awake 
The  love  of  wealth  and  power,  in  latter  ages, 
carried  on  what  original  bravery  had  begun; 
till,  in  the  unavoidable  vicissitude  of  human 
affairs,  Rome  perished  beneath  the  weight  of 
that  pile  of  glory  which  she  had  been  so  long 
rearing.’* 

Their  laws  and  constitution  were  naturally 
calculated  to  promote  their  public  spirit,  and  to 
produce  their  union.  Having  succeeded  in  re¬ 
pelling  the  attacks  of  the  small  rival  powers, 
and,  by  their  peculiar  fortune,  or  rather  by  the 
designation  of  Providence,  having  become  the 
predominating  power  in  Italy,  they  proceeded 
to  add  conquest  to  conquest,  making  in  the 
pride  of  conscious  superiority,  wars  ■  evidently 
the  most  unjust.  Yet  it  must  not  be  denied, 
that  the  occupation  which  progressive  conquests 
found  for  the  citizens,  communicated  a  peculiar 
hardiness  to  the  Roman  character,  and  served 
to  retard  the  growth  both  of  luxury  and  faction. 
That  public  spirit  which  might  be  justified  when 
it  applied  itself  to  wars  of  self-defence,  became 
by  degrees  little  better  than  the  principle  of  a 
band  of  robbers  on  a  great  scale ;  at  the  best,  of 
honourable  robbers,  who  for  the  sake  of  the 
spoil,  agree  fairly  to  co-operate  in  order  to  ob¬ 
tain  it,  and  divide  it  equally  when  it  is  obtained. 

This  public  spirit  seems  to  have  existed  so 
long  as  there  were  any  objects  of  foreign  ambi¬ 
tion  remaining,  and  so  long  as  any  sense  was 
left  to  foreign  danger.  Even  in  the  midst  of 
unlawful  and  unrelenting  war,  it  is  important  to 
bear  in  mind,  that  many,  of  the  ancient  virtues 
were  still  assiduously  cultivated  ;  the  laws  were 
still  had  in  reverence,  and,  in  spite  of  a  corrupt 
polytheism,  and  of  many  and  great  defects  in 
the  morality  and  the  constitution  of  Rome,  this 
was  the  salt  which,  for  a  time,  preserved  her. 
The  firmness  of  character,  and  deep  political 
sagacity  of  the  Romans,  seem  to  have  borne  an 
exact  proportion  to  each  other.  That  foreseeing 
wisdom,  that  penetrating  policy,  which  led 
Montesquieu  to  observe,  that  they  conquered 
the  world  by  maxims  and  principles,  seem  in 
reality,  to  have  insured  the  success  of  their 
conquests,  almost  more  than  their  high  national 
valour,  and  their  bold  spirit  of  enterprize. 

What  was  it  which  afterwards  plunged  Rome 
into  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation,  and  finally 
blotted  her  out  from  among  the  nations  ?  It  was 
her  renouncing  those  maxims  and  principles.  It 
was  her  departure  from  every  virtuous  and  self- 
denying  habit.  It  was  the  gradual  relaxation 
of  private  morals.  It  was  the  substitution  of 
luxury  for  temperance,  and  of  a  mean  and  nar¬ 
row  selfishness  for  public  spirit.  It  was  a  con¬ 
tempt  for  the  sober  manners  of  the  ancient  re¬ 
public,  and  a  dereliction  of  the  old  principles  of 
government,  even  while  the  forms  of  that  govern¬ 
ment  were  retained.  It  was  the  introduction  of 
a  new  philosophy  more  favourable  to  sensuality 
it  was  the  importation,  by  her  Asiatic  procon- 
suls,  of  every  luxury  which  could  pamper  that 
sensuality.  It  was,  in  short,  the  evils,  result¬ 
ing  from  those  two  passions  whiah  monopolized 
their  souls,  the  lust  of  power,  and  the  lust  of 
gold. — These  passions  operated  on  each  other,  as 

*  Carlo  Denina  on  the  ancient  Republics  of  Italy 


24 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


cause  and  effect,  action  and  reaction  ;  and  pro¬ 
duced  that  rapid  corruption  which  Sallust  de¬ 
scribes  with  so  much  spirit — Mores  majorum 
non  paulatim  ut  antea,  sed  torrentis  modo  pre- 
cipitati.  Profligacy,  venality,  peculation,  op¬ 
pression,  succeed  to  that  simplicity,  patriotism, 
and  high-minded  disinterestedness,  on  which 
this  nation  had  once  so  much  valued  itself,  and 
which  had  attracted  the  admiration  of  the  world. 
So  that  Rome,  in  the  days  of  her  pristine  seve¬ 
rity  of  manners,  and  Rome  in  the  last  period 
of  her  freedom,  exhibits  a  stronger  contrast  than 
will  he  found  between  almost  any  two  countries. 

This  depravation  does  not  refer  to  solitary  in¬ 
stances  to  the  shamelessness  of  a  Verres,  Or  the 
profligacy  of  a  Piso,  but  to  the  general  practice 
of  avowed  corruption  and  systematic  venality. 
By  the  just  judgment  of  Providence,  the  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  the  spoils  brought  home  from  the  con¬ 
quered  nations  corrupted  the  conquerors  ;  and  at 
length  compelled  Rome,  in  her  turn,  both  to  fly 
before  her  enemies,  and  to  bow  down  her  head 
under  the  most  intolerable  domestic  yoke. 
Rome  had  no  more  the  spirit  to  make  any  faint 
for  liberty  after  the  death  of  Caesar, 
th-i*-  ece  after  that  of  Alexander,  though  to 
eaeh  the  occasion  seemed  to  present  itself. 
Neither  state  had  virtue  enough  left  to  deserve,  or 
even  to  desire  to  be  free.  The  wisdom  of  Cato 
should,  in  the  case  of  Rome,  have  discovered 
this:  and  it  should  have  spared  him  the  fruit 
less  attempt  to  restore  liberty  to  a  country 
which  its  vices  had  enslaved,  and  have  preserv¬ 
ed  him,  even  on  his  own  principles,  from  self-de¬ 
struction. 

Among  the  causes  of  the  political  servitude 
of  Rome  may  be  reckoned,  in  a  considerable 
degree,  the  institution  of  the  Pretorian  bands, 
who,  in  a  great  measure,  governed  both  the 
Romans  and  the  emperors.  These  Pretorian 
bands  presented  the  chief  difliculty  in  the  way 
of  good  emperors,  some  of  whom  they  destroy¬ 
ed  for  attempting  to  reform  them ;  and  of  the 
bad  emperors  they  were  the  electors. 

In  perusing  the  Roman  history,  these,  and 
other  causes  of  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  em¬ 
pire,  should  be  carefully  shown ;  the  tendency 
of  private  vices  to  produce  factions,  and  the 
tendency  of  factions  to  overthrow  liberty ;  a 
spirit  of  dissension,  and  a  rapid  deterioration  of 
morals,  being  in  all  states,  the  most  deadly,  and, 
indeed,  the  inseparable  symptoms  of  expiring 
freedom.  The  no  less  baneful  influence  of 
arbitrary  power,  in  the  case  of  the  many  pro¬ 
fligate  and  cruel  emperors  who  succeeded, 
should  be  clearly  pointed  out. 

It  is  also  a  salutary  lesson  on  the  hunger  of 
conquest,  and  the  vanity  of  ambition,  to  trace 
the  Roman  power,  by  its  vast  accession  of  ter¬ 
ritory,  losing  in  solidity  what  it,  gained  in  ex¬ 
pansion  ;  furnishing  a  lasting  example  to  future 
empires,  who  trust  too  much  for  the  stability  of 
their  greatness  to  the  deceitful  splendour  of 
remote  acquisition,  and  the  precarious  support 
of  distant  colonial  attachment. 

Above  all,  the  fall  of  Rome  may  be  attributed, 
m  no  small  degree,  to  the  progress,  and,  gra¬ 
dually  to  the  prevalence  of  the  epicurean  philo¬ 
sophy,  and  to  its  effect  in  taking  away  that  re¬ 
verence  for  the  gods,  which  alone  could  pre¬ 


serve  that  deep  sense  of  the  sanctity  of  oaths 
for  which  Rome,  in  her  better  days,  had  been 
so  distinguished.  She  had  originally  establish 
ed  her  political  system  on  this  foar  of  the  gods  ; 
and  the  people  continued,  as  appears  from  Livy, 
to  practise  the  duties  of  their  religion*  (sueh  as 
it  was)  more  scrupulously  than  any  other  an- 
eient  nation.  The  most  amiable  of  the  Roman 
patriots  attributes  the  antecedent  success  and 
grandeur  of  his  country  to  their  conviction, 

‘  that  all  events  are  directed  by  a  Divine  Power  ;t 
and  Polybius,  speaking  merely  as  a  politician, 
accuses  some,  in  his  age,  of  rashness  and  absur¬ 
dity,  for  endeavouring  to  extirpate  the  fear  of 
the  gods ;  declaring,  that  what  others  held  to 
be  an  object  of  disgrace,  he  believed  to  be  the 
very  thing  by  which  the  republic  was  sustained. 
He  illustrates  his  position  by  adducing  the  con¬ 
duct  of  the  two  great  states,  one  of  which,  from 
its  adoption  of  the  doctrines  of  Epicurus  had  no 
sense  of  religion  left,  and  consequently  no  reve¬ 
rence  for  the  solemnities  of  an  oath;'  which  the 
other  retained  in  its  full  force.  ‘  If  among  the 
Greeks,’  says  he,  ‘  a  single  talent  only  be  in¬ 
trusted  to  those  who  have  the  management  of 
any  of  the  public  money,  though  they  give  ten 
written  sureties,  with  as  many  seals,  and  twice 
as  many  witnesses,  they  are  unable  to  dis¬ 
charge  the  trust  reposed  in  them  with  integrity, 
— while  the  Romans,  who,  in  their  magistracies 
and  embassies,  disburse  the  greatest  sums,  are 
prevailed  on  by  the  single  obligation  of  an  oath, 
to  perform  their  duty  with  inviolable  honesty.’? 

In  her  subsequent  total  dereliction  of  this 
integrity,  what  a  lesson  does  Rome  hold  out  to 
MS,  to  be  careful  not  to  lose  the  influences  of 
a  purer  religion !  To  guard,  especially,  against 
the  fatal  effects  of  a  needless  multiplication  of 
oaths,  and  the  light  mode  in  which  they  are  too 
frequently  administered  !  The  citizens  of  Rome, 
in  the  days  of  the  younger  Cato,  had  no  re¬ 
source  left  against  this  pressing  evil,  because  it 
was  in  vain  to  inculcate  a  reverence  for  their 
gods,  and  to  revive  the  influence  of  their  religion. 
But,  if  even  the  belief  of  false  gods  had  the 
power  of  conveying  political  and  moral  benefits, 
which  the  dark  system  of  atheism  annihilated, 
how  earnestly  should  WE  endeavour  to  remove 
and  diffuse  the  ancient  deference  for  the  true  re¬ 
ligion,  by  teaching  systematically  and  seriously, 
to  our  youth,  the  divine  principles  of  that  Christi¬ 
anity  which,  in  better  times,  was  the  honourable 
practice  of  our  forefathers,  and  which  can  alone 
restore  a  due  veneration  for  the  solemnity  of 
oaths.§ 

*  Nulla  unquam  respublica  sanctior,  nec  bonis  ex- 
emplis  ditior  fuit. 

t  See  Montague  on  the  Rise  and  Fall  of  ancient  Re¬ 
publics.  . 

t  Hampton’s  Polybius,  vol.  ii.  book  6.  on  the  e.\cei- 
lencies  of  the  Roman  government. 

§  The  admirable  Hooker  observes,  that  even  the  falsest 
religions  were  mixed  with  some  truths,  which  had  ‘  very 
notable  effects.’  Speaking  of  the  dread  of  perjury  in  the 
ancient  Romans,  he  adds,  '  It  was  their  hurt  untruly  to 
attribute  so  great  power  to  false  gods,  as  that  they  were 
able  to  prosecute,  with  fearful  tokens  of  divine  revenge, 
the  wilful  violation  of  oaths  and  e.xecrible  blasphemies, 
offered  by  deriders  of  religion  even  unto  those  false  g(«ls. 
Yet  the  right  belief  which  they  had,  that  to  perjury  ven¬ 
geance  is  due,  was  not  without  good  effect,  a.s  touching 
the  course  of  their  lives  who  feared  the  wilful  violation 
of  oaths.’  Ecclesiastical  Polity, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


26 


CHAP.  IX 

Characters  of  historians,  who  were  concerned  in 
the  transactions  which  they  record. 

Of  the  modern  writers  of  ancient  history,  the 
young  reader  will  find  that  Rollint  has,  in  one 
respect,  the  decided  superiority ;  We  mean  in 
his  practice  of  intermixing  useful  reflections  on 
events  and  characters.  But,  we  should  strongly 
recommend  the  perusal  of  such  portions  of  the 
original  ancient  historians,  as  a  judicious  pre¬ 
ceptor  would  select.  And,  in  reading  historians, 
or  politicians,  ancient  or  modern,  the  most  likely 
way  to  escape  theories  and  fables,  is  to  study 
those  writers  who  were  themselves  actors  in  the 
scenes  which  they  record. 

Among  the  principal  of  these  is — Thucydides, 
whose  opportunities  of  obtaining  information, 
whose  diligence  in  collecting  it,  and  whose  judg¬ 
ment  and  fidelity  in  recording  it,  have  obtained 
for  him  the  general  suffrage  of  the  best  judges  ; 
who  had  a  considerable  share  in  many  of  the 
events  which  he  records,  having  been  an  unfor¬ 
tunate,  though  meritorious  commander  in  the 
Peloponnesian  war,  of  which  he  is  the  incompa¬ 
rable  historian  ; — whose  chronological  accuracy 
is  derived  from  his  early  custom  of  preparing 
materials  as  the  events  arose ;  and  whose  ge¬ 
nius  confers  as  much  honour,  as  his  unmerited 
exile  reflects  disgrace,  on  his  native  Athens.  In 
popular  governments,  and  in  none  perhaps  so 
much  as  in  those  of  Greece,  the  ill  effects  or  mis¬ 
management  at  home  have  been  too  frequently 
charged  on  those  who  have  had  the  conduct  of 
armies  abroad  ;  yind  where  a  sacrifice  must  be 
made,  that  of  the  absent  is  always  the  most  easy. 
The  integrity  and  patriotism  of  Thucydides, 
however,  were  proof  against  the  ingratitude  of 
the  republic.  His  work  was  as  impartial  as  if 
Athens  had  been  just;  like  Clarendon,  ho  de¬ 
voted  the  period  of  his  banishment  to  the  com¬ 
position  of  a  history,  which  was  the  glory  of  the 
country  that  banished  him. — A  model  of  can¬ 
dour,  he  wrote  not  for  a  party  or  a  people,  but 
for  the  world ;  not  for  the  applause  of  his  age, 
but  the  instruction  of  posterity.  And  though 
his  energy,  spirit,  and  variety  must  interest  all 
readers  of  taste,  statesmen  will  best  know  his 
value,  and  politicians  will  look  up  to  him  as  a 
master. — Xenophon,  the  Attic  bee,  equally  ad¬ 
mirable  in  whatever  point  of  view  he  is  consi¬ 
dered  ;  a  consummate  general,  historian,  and 
philosopher  ;  who  carried  on  the  historic  series 
of  the  Greek  revolutions-from  the  period  at  which 
Thucydides  discontinued  it ;  like  him  was  driven 
into  banishment  from  that  country,  of  which  he 
was  so  bright  an  ornament, — 

And  with  his  exil’d  hours  enrich’d  the  world ! 

The  conductor  and  narrator  of  a  retreat  more 
honourable  and  more  celebrated  than  the  vic¬ 
tories  of  other  leaders ;  a  writer,  who  is  consi¬ 
dered  by  the  first  Roman  critic,  as  the  most  ex¬ 
quisite  model  of  simplicity  and  elegance  ;  and 
who  in  almost  all  the  transactions  which  he  re¬ 
lates,  magna  pars  fait. — Polybius,  trained  to  be 
a  statesman  in  the  Achcean  league,  and  a  war- 
•  The  writer  forbears  to  name  living  authors. 

VoL.  II. 


rior  at  the  conquest  of  Carthage ;  the  friend  of 
Scipio,  and  the  follower  of  Fabius;  and  who  is 
said  to  be  more  experimentally  acquainted  with 
the  wars  and  politics  of  which  he  treats,  than 
any  other  Greek.  He  is  however,  more  authen¬ 
tic  than  entertaining ;  and  the  votaries  of  certain 
modern  historians,  who  are  satisfied  with  an 
epigram  instead  of  a  fact,  who  like  turns  of  wit 
better  than  sound  political  reflections,  and  prefer 
an  antithesis  to  truth,  will  not  justly  appreciate 
the  merit  of  Polybius,  whose  love  of  authenticity 
induced  him  to  make  several  voyages  to  the 
places  of  which  his  subjects  led  him  to  speak. 
Cjesar,  of  whom  it  would  be  difficult  to  say, 
whether  h?  planned  his  battles  with  more  skill, 
fought  thorn  with  more  valour,  or  described 
them  with  more  ability ;  or  whether  his  sword 
or  pen  executed  his  purposes  with  more  celerity 
and  effect ;  but,  who  will  be  less  interesting  to 
the  general  reader,  than  to  the  statesman  and 
soldier.  His  commentaries,  indeed,  will  be  pe¬ 
rused  with  less  advantage  by  the  hereditary 
successor  of  the  sovereign  of  a  settled  constitu¬ 
tion,  than  by  those  who  are  struggling  with  the 
evils  of  civil  commotion.  Joinville,  whose  life 
of  his  great  master,  saint  Louis,  is  written  with 
the  spirit  of  the  ancient  nobles,  and  the  vivid 
earnestness  of  one,  who  saw  with  interest  what 
he  describes  with  fidelity  ;  having  been  compa¬ 
nion  to  the  king  in  the  expeditions  which  he  re¬ 
cord's.  Philippe  de  Comines,  who  possessed,  by 
his  personal  concern  in  public  affairs,  all  the 
avenues  to  the  political  and  historical  knowledge 
of  his  time,  and  whose  memoirs  will  be  admired 
while  acute  penetration,  sound  sense,  and  solid 
judgment  survive.  Davila,  who  learned  the  art 
of  war  under  that  great  master,  Henry  the  fourth 
of  France,  and  whose  history  of  the  civil  wars 
of  that  country  furnishes  a  variety  of  valuable 
matter ;  who  possesses  the  happy  talent  of  giving 
interest  to  details,  which  would  be  dry  in  other 
hands  ;  who  brings  before  the  eyes  of  the  reader,, 
every  place  which  ho  describes,  and  every  scene 
in  which  he  was  engaged  ;  while  his  intimate 
knowledge  of  business,  and  of  human  nature, 
enables  him  to  unveil  with  address,  the  myste¬ 
ries  of  negotiation,  and  the  subtleties  of  states, 
men.  This  excellent  work  is  disgraced  by  the 
most  disgusting  panegyrics  on  the  execrable 
Catharine  di  Medici,  an  offence  against  truth 
and  virtue,  too  glaring  to  be  atoned  for  by  any 
sense  of  personal  obligation.  In  consequence 
of  this  partiality,  he  speaks  of  the  massacre  of 
saint  Bartholomew,  as  slightly  as  if  it  had  been 
a  merely  common  act  of  necessary  rigour  on  a 
few  criminals  ;  an  execution  being  the  cool  term 
by  which  he  describes  that  tremendous  deed.*' 
Guicciardin,  a  diplUmatic  historian,  a  lawyer, 
and  a  patriot ;  whose  tedious  orations  and  florid 
style  cannot  destroy  the  merit  of  his  great  work  ; 
the  value  of  which  is  enhanced  by  the  piety  and 
probity  of  his  own  mind.  Sully,  the  intrepid 
warrior,  the  able  financier,  the  uncorrupt  minis¬ 
ter,  who  generally  regulated  the  deep  designs 
of  the  consummate  statesman,  by  the  inflexible 

Who  can  help  regretting  that  the  lustre  of  one  of 
the  most  elegant  works  of  antiquity,  Quintilian’s  Insti- 
tution  of  an  Orator,  should  be  in  a  similar  manner  tar¬ 
nished  by  the  most  preposterous  panegyrics  on  the  ena- 
poror  Domitian ! 


26 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


rules  of  religion  and  justice ;  whose  memoirs 
should  be  read  by  ministers,  to  instruct  them 
how  to  serve  kings ;  and  by  kings,  to  teach  them 
how  to  choose  ministers.  Cardinal  de  Retz, 
who  delineates  with  accuracy  and  spirit  the 
principal  actors  in  the  wars  of  the  Fronde,  in 
which  he  himself  had  been  a  chief  agent ;  who 
^evelopes  the  dissimulation  of  courts,  with  the 
skilfulness  of  an  adept  in  the  arts  which  he  un¬ 
folds,  yet  affeeling,  while  he  portrays  the  arti- 
fiees  of  others,  a  simplicity,  the  very  reverse  of 
his  real  character ;  while  his  levity  in  writing 
retains  so  much  of  the  licentiousness,  and  want 
of  moral  and  religious  principle  of  his  former 
life,  that  he  cannot  be  safely  recommended  to 
those  whose  principles  of  judgment  and  conduct 
are  not  fixed.  Yet,  his  characters  of  the  two 
famous  cardinal  prime  ministers  may  be  reac 
with  advantage  by  those,  whose  business  leads 
them  to  such  studies.  The  reader  of  de  Retz 
will  find  frequent  occasion  to  recognise  the  ho¬ 
mage  which  even  impiety  and  vice  pay  to  reli¬ 
gion  and  virtue,  while  the  abundant  corruptions 
of  popery  will  call  forth  from  every  considerate 
protestant,  devout  sensations  of  gratitude  to 
Heaven,  for  having  delivered  us  from  the  tyran¬ 
ny  of  a  system,  so  favourable  to  the  production 
of  the  rankest  abuses  in  the  church,  and  the 
grossest  superstition  in  the  people.  Temple,  the 
zealous  negotiator  of  the  triple  alliance,  and 
worthy,  by  his  spirit  and  candour,  to  be  the  as¬ 
sociate  of  De  Wit  in  that  great  business  which 
was  transacted  between  them,  with  the  liberal 
spirit,  and  honourable  confidence  of  private 
friendship.  His  writings  give  the  clearest  in¬ 
sight  into  the  period  and  events  of  which  he 
treats ;  and  his  easy,  though  careless  style,  and 
well-bred  manner,  would  come,  almost  more  than 
any  other,  under  the  description  of  what  may  be 
called  the  genteel^  did  not  his  vanity  a  little 
break  the  charm.  None,  however,  except  his 
political  writings,  are  meant  to  be  recommend¬ 
ed  ;  his  religious  opinions  being  highly  excep¬ 
tionable  and  absurd.  Yet  it  is  but  justice  to 
add,  that  his  unambitious  temper,  his  fondness 
for  private  life,  his  enjoyment  of  its  peace,  and 
his  taste  for  its  pleasures,  render  his  character 
interesting  and  amiable.  The  manners  painting 
Clarendon,  the  able  chancellor,  the  exemplary 
minister,  the  inflexible  patriot,  who  stemmed, 
almost  singly,  the  torrent  of  vice,  corruption, 
and  venality ;  and  who  was  not  ashamed  of  be¬ 
ing  religious  in  a  court  which  was  ashamed  of 
nothing  else  ;  whom  the  cabal  hated  for  his  in¬ 
tegrity,  and  the  court  for  his  purity;  a  states¬ 
man  who  might  have  had  statues  erected  to  him 
in  any  other  period  but  in  that  in  which  he  lived ; 
would  have  reformed  most  other  governments 
but  that  to  which  he  belonged,  and  been  sup¬ 
ported  by  almost  any  king  but  him  whom  he 
had  the  misfortune  to  serve.  Clarendon,  the 
faithful  biographer  of  his  own  life ;  the  majestic 
and  dignified  historian  of  the  grand  rebellion ; 
whose  periods  sometimes  want  beauty,  but  never 
sense,  though  that  sense  is  often  wrapped  up  in 
an  involution  and  perplexity  which  a  little  ob¬ 
scure  it ;  whose  style  is  weighty  and  significant, 
though  somewhat  retarded  by  the  stateliness  of 
its  march,  and  encumbered  with  a  redundancy 
ef  words.  Torcy,  whose  memoirs,  though  they 


may  be  thought  to  bear  rather  hard  on  the  fa¬ 
mous  plenipotentiaries  with  whom  he  negotiated, 
and  on  the  haughtiness  of  the  allies  who  em¬ 
ployed  them,  are  written  with  much  good  sense, 
modesty,  and  temper.  They  present  a  striking 
reverse  in  the  fortune  of  the  imperious  disturber 
of  Europe,  ‘  fallen  from  his  high  estate.*  He 
who  had  been  used  to  give  his  orders  from  the 
banks  of  the  Po,  the  Danube,  and  the  Tagus,  is 
seen  reduced  to  supplicate  for  peace,  and  to  ex¬ 
change  the  insolence  of  triumph  for  the  hope  of 
existence.  Two  Dutch  burgomasters,  haughtily 
imposing  their  own  terms  on  a  monarch  who 
had  before  filled  France  with  admiration,  and 
Europe  with  alarm.  This  reverse  must  impress 
the  mind  of  the  reader,  as  it  does'  that  of  the 
writer,  with  an  affecting  sense  of  that  controlling 
Providence,  which  thus  derides  the  madness  of 
ambition,  and  the  folly  of  worldly  wisdom ;  that 
Providence  which,  in  maintaining  its  character 
of  being  the  abaser  of  the  proud,  produces,  by 
means  at  first  sight  the  most  opposite,  the  ac¬ 
complishment  of  its  own  purposes  ;  and  renders 
the  unprincipled  lust  of  dominion  the  instrument 
of  its  own  humiliation.  The  difficulties  of  a  ne- 
gociator,  who  has  to  conclude  an  inglorious 
though  indispensable  treaty,  are  feelingly  de- 
seribed,  as  well  as  the  too  natural,  though  hard 
fate  of  a  minister,  who  is  driven  to  such  an  un- 
fortunate  measure  as  that  of  being  considered 
as  the  instrument  of  dishonour  to  his  country. 
His  pious  recognition  of  God,  as  the  supreme 
disposer  of  events,  is  worthy  of  great  praise. 
The  copious  and  fluent  Burnet,  whose  diffuse, 
but  interesting  history  of  his  own  times^  informs 
and  pleases;  though  the  loose  texture  of  his 
slovenly  narration  would  not  now  be  tolerated 
in  a  newspaper ;  who  saw  a  great  deal,  and 
wishes  to  have  it  thought  that  he  saw  every 
thing ;  whose  egotism  we  forgive  for  the  sake 
of  his  frankness,  and  whose  minuteness,  for  the 
sake  of  his  accuracy  ;  who,  if  ever  he  exceeds, 
it  is  always  on  the  side  of  liberty  and  toleration ; 
an  excess  safe  enough  when  the  writer  is  sound¬ 
ly  loyal,  and  unquestionably  pious ;  and  more 
especially  safe  when  the  reader  is  a  prince. 
Lady  Russel,  worthy  of  being  the  daughter  of 
the  virtuous  Southampton  ;  too  fatally  connected 
with  the  unhappy  politics  of  the  times  ;  whose 
life  was  a  practical  illustration  of  her  faith  in 
the  divine  support,  and  of  submission  to  the  di¬ 
vine  will ;  and  whoso  letters,  by  their  sound  and 
sober  piety,  strong  sense,  and  useful  information, 
eclipse  all  those  of  her  learned  and  distinguished 
correspondents. 


CHAP.  X. 

Reflections  on  History — Ancient  Histonans. 

If,  however,  the  historian  be  a  compatriot, 
and  especially  if  he  be  a  contemporary,  even 
though  he  was  no  actor  in  the  drama,  it  is  diffi¬ 
cult  for  him  not  to  range  himself  too  uniformly 
on  one  side  or  the  other.  The  human  mind  has 
a  strong  natural  bias  to  adopt  exclusive  attach¬ 
ment.  Perhaps  man  may  be  defined  to  be  an 
animal  that  delights  in  party.  Yet  we  are  in 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANlSiAH  MORE. 


27 


dined  to  believe  that  an  historian,  though  he 
may  be  partial  and  interested,  yet  if  he  be  keen 
sighted  and  intelligent  as  to  the  facts  of  which 
he  speaks,  is,  on  the  whole,  a  better  witness  than 
a  more  fair  and  candid,  but  worse  informed  matt; 
because  we  may  more  easily  calculate  the  de¬ 
gree  of  allowance  to  be  made  for  partiality  and 
prejudice,  than  we  can  estimate  that  which  is 
to  be  made  for  defect  of  information.  Of  two 
evils,  therefore,  we  should  prefer  a  prejudiced, 
but  well  informed,  to  a  more  impartial,  but  less 
enlightened  narrator. 

When  materials  are  fresh,  they  are  more  like¬ 
ly  to  be  authentic  ;  but,  unfortunately,  when  it 
is  more  easy  to  obtain,  it  is  often  less  safe  to 
employ  them.  When  the  events  are  more  re¬ 
mote,  their  authenticity  is  more  difficult  to  as¬ 
certain  ;  and,  when  they  are  near,  the  passions 
which  they  excite  are  more  apt  to  warp  the 
truth.  Thus,  what  might  be  gained  in  accuracy 
by  nearness  of  position,  is  liable  to  be  lost  in  the 
partiality  which  that  very  position  induces. 
The  true  point  of  vision  is  attained,  when  the  eye 
and  the  object  are  placed  at  their  due  distance. 
The  reader  who  comes  to  the  perusal  of  the 
work,  in  a  more  unimpassioned  frame  than 
perhaps,  the  author  wrote,  will  best  collect  the 
characters  from  the  narrative,  if  fairly  given. . 

Caro  should  be  taken  not  to  extol  shining 
characters  in  the  gross,  but  to  point  out  their 
weaknesses  and  errors  ;  nor  should  the  brilliant 
qualities  of  illustrious  men  be  suffered  to  cast 
a  veil  dver  their  vices,  or  so  to  fascinate  the 
young  reader,  as  to  excite  admiration  of  their 
very  faults.  Even  in  perusing  sacred  history, 
we  should  never  extenuate,  much  less  justify, 
the  errors  of  great  characters,  but  make  them, 
at  once,  a  ground  for  establishing  the  doctrine 
of  general  corruption,  and  for  quickening  our 
own  vigilance.  The  weaknesses  of  the  wisest, 
and  the  errors  of  the  best,  while  they  should  be 
regarded  with  candour,  must  not  be-  held  up  to 
imitation.  It  has  been  reasonably  conjectured, 
that  many  acts  of  cruelty  in  Alexander,  whose 
disposition  was  naturally  merciful,  were  not  a 
•little  owing  to  one  of  his  preceptors  having  been 
early  accustomed  to  call  himself  Phoenix,  and 
his  pupil  Achilles ;  and  thus  to  have  habitually 
trained  him  to  an  imitation  even  of  the  vices 
of  this  ferocious  hero. 

A  prince  must  not  study  history  merely  to 
store  his  memory  with  amusing  narratives  or 
insulated  events,  but  with  a  view  to  trace  the 
dependence  of  one  event  upon  another.  A  com¬ 
mon  reader  will  be  satisfied  with  knowing  the 
exploits  of  Scipio  or  Hannibal,  and  will  be  suffi¬ 
ciently  entertained  with  the  description  of  the 
riches  or  beauty  of  such  renowned  cities  as 
Carthage  or  Rome ;  but  a  prince  (who  is  also  a 
politician)  studies  history,  in  order  to  observe 
how  ambition,  operating  on  the  breasts  of  two 
rival  states,  led  to  one  war  after  another  between 
these  two  states.  By  what  steps  the  ruin  of  the 
one,  and  the  triumph  of  the  other,  were  hastened 
or  delayed  ;  by  what  indications  the  final  catas¬ 
trophe  might  have  been  antecedently  known,  or 
by  what  measures  it  might  have  been  averted. 
He  is  interested  not  merely  when  a  single  event 
arises,  but  by  the  whole  skill  of  the  game  ;  and 
he  is  on  this  account  anxious  to  possess  many 


inferior  circumstances,  serving  to  unite  one 
event  with  another,  which,  to  the  ordinary  read¬ 
er,  appear  insignificant  and  dull.  Again  in  the 
case  of  Pompey  and  Caesar,  the  reflecting  politi¬ 
cian  connects  the  triumphs  of  the  latter  with  the 
political  moral  state  of  Rome.  He  bears  in  mind 
the  luxurious  habits  of  the  patricians,  who  be- 
came  the  officers  in  Pompey’s  army ;  the  gra¬ 
dual  decay  of  public  spirit,  the  licentiousness 
and  venality  of  the  capital,  and  the  arts  by  which 
Caesar  had  prepared  his  troops,  while  they  were 
in  Gaul,  for  the  contention  which  he  already 
meditated  for  the  empire  of  the  world.  He  will, 
in  idea,  see  that  world  already  vanquished, 
when  he  considers  the  profound  policy  of  this 
conqueror,  who  on  being  appointed  to  the  go¬ 
vernment  of  Gaul  on  both  sides  the  Alps,  by  ex¬ 
citing  the  Gauls  to  solicit  the  same  privileges 
with  the  Italians,  opened  to  himself  this  double 
advantage  ; — the  disturbance  which  this  would 
occasion  in  Rome,  would  lift  him  into  absolute 
power  ;  while  by  his  kindness  and  protection  to 
these  people,  he  gained  an  accession  of  strength 
to  overthrow  his  competitor.  The  ordinary 
reader  is  satisfied  with  the  battle  of  Pharsalia 
for  the  entertainment  it  affords,  and  admires  the 
splendour  of  the  triumphs,  without  considering 
these  things  as  links  that  connect  the  events 
which  are  past  with  those  which  are  to  come. 

The  preceptor  of  the  royal  pupil  will,  probably, 
think  it  advisable  to  select  for  her  perusal  some 
of  the  lives  of  Plutarch.  This  author  teaches  two 
things  excellently,  antiquity  and  human  nature. 
He  would  deserve  admiration,  were  it  only  for 
that  magazine  of  wisdom,  condensed  in  the  ex¬ 
cellent  sayings  of  so  many  great  men,  which 
he  has  recorded.  Perhaps,  all  the  historians  to¬ 
gether  have  not  transmitted  to  us  so  many  of 
the  sage  axioms  and  bon  mots  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome.  Y  et,  in  his  parallels — if  that  can  be 
called  a  parallel  which  brings  together  two  men 
who  have  commonly  little  or  no  resemblance, 
even  the  upright  Plutarch  exhibits  something 
too  much  of  the  partiality  lately  noticed;  the 
scale,  whenever  he  weighs  one  of  his  own  coun¬ 
trymen  against  a  Roman,  almost  invariably  in 
dining  to  the  Greek  side. 

It  may  also  be  deemed  useful  to  read  to  her  a 
few  select  portions  of  Suetonius.  Though  he  is 
an  author  utterly  unfit  to  be  put  into  youthful, 
and  especially,  into  female  hands,  yet  a  judi¬ 
cious  instructor  may  select  passages  particu¬ 
larly  appropriated  to  a  royal  pupil.  In  truth, 
the  writings  of  the  ancient  authors  of  all  classes, 
historians,  satirists,  poets,  and  even  moralists, 
are  liable  to  the  same  objection,  whether  it  be 
Suetonius,  or  Plutarch,  or  Juvenal,  or  even  the 
comparatively  decorous  Virgil,  that  we  take  in 
hand ;  the  perusal  cannot  fail  to  suggest  to  every 
considerate,  and  especially  to  every  female  read 
er,  the  obligations  which  we  owe  to  Christianity, 
independently  of  its  higher  ends,  for  having  so 
raised  the  standard  of  morals  and  of  manners, 
as  to  have  rendered  almost  too  monstrous  for 
belief,  and  too  shocking  for  relation,  in  our  days, 
the  familiar  and  uncensured  incidents  of  ancient 
time.  Suetonius  paints  with  uncommon  force, 
though  too  often  with  offensive  grossness,  the 
crimes  of  the  emperors,  with  their  subsequent 
miseries  and  punishments.  Tyrants  will  always 


28  THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


detest  history,  and,  of  all  historians,  they  will 
detest  Suetonius. 

An  authentic  historian  of  a  deceased  tyrant  must 
not,  however,  be  confounded  with  the  malevolent 
declaimer  against  royalty.  But  though  the  most 
arbitrary  prince  cannot  prevent  his  own  posthu¬ 
mous  disgrace,  yet  an  honest  and  conscientious 
historian  wilt  remember,  that,  while  he  is  detail¬ 
ing  the  vices  of  a  king,  which  it  is  his  duty  to 
enumerate,  it  is  his  duty  also  carefully  to  avoid 
bringing  the  office  of  the  king  into  contempt.  And, 
while  he  is  exposing  the  individual  crime,  he 
should  never  lose  sight  of  his  respect  for  the  au¬ 
thority  and  station  of  him  whose  actions  truth 
compels  him  to  record  in  their  real  characters. 
The  contrary  insidious  practice  has  of  late  so 
much  prevailed,  that  the  young  reader  should  be 
put  on  his  guard  not  to  suffer  his  principles  to  be 
undermined  by  the  affectation  of  indignant  vir¬ 
tue,  mock  patriotism,  zeal  for  spurious  liberty, 
and  factitious  morality.  It  is  but  justice  to  Mr. 
Hume,  against  whose  principles  we  have  thought 
it  a  duty  to  bear  our  most  decided  testimony,* 
to  allow  that,  in  the  earlier  periods  of  English 
history,  he  carefully  abstains  from  the  vulgar 
error  of  always  ascribing  the  public  calamity, 
which  he  is  relating,  to  the  ambition  or  injus¬ 
tice  of  kings ;  but  often  attributes  it,  where  it 
is  often  more  justly  due,  to  the  insolence  and 
oppression  of  the  barons,  or  the  turbulence  and 
insubordination  of  the  people.  If  he  errs,  it  is 
on  the  contrary  side. 

But  let  those  licentious  anarchists,  who  de¬ 
light  to  retail  insipid  jests,  or  to  publish  unqua¬ 
lified  libels  on  kings  as  kings,  cast  their  eyes 
on  an  uninterrupted  succession  of  five  illustrious 
Roman  emperors,  who,  though  not  exempt  from 
faults,  some  of  them  from  vices,  chiefly  attri¬ 
butable  to  paganism,  yet  exhibit  such  an  unbro¬ 
ken  continuity  of  great  talents  and  great  quali¬ 
ties,  as  it  would,  perhaps,  be  difficult  to  find  in 
any  private  family  for  five  successive  genera¬ 
tions. 

The  candour  of  our  excellent  queen  Mary,t 
towards  the  biographers  of  prinees,  was  exem¬ 
plary.  When  with  an  intention  probably  to 
sooth  the  royal  ear,  some  persons  in  her  pre- 
senee,  severely  condemned  certain  historians 
who  had  made  reflections  dishonourable  to  the 
memory  of  princes,  she  observed  that  if  the 
princes  had  given  just  ground  for  censure,  the 
authors  had  done  well  to  represent  them  fairly ; 
and  that  other  sovereigns  must  expect  to  be  dealt 
with  in  the  same  manner,  if  they  gave  the  same 
cause.  She  had  even  the  magnanimity  to  wish, 
that  all  such  princes  would  read  Procopius,  (an 
author  too  much  addicted  to  blacken  the  memory 
of  kings,)  ‘  because,’  she  observed,  ‘  however  he 
might  have  exaggerated  the  vices  he  described, 
it  would  be  a  salutary  lesson  to  future  princes, 
that  they  themselves  must  expect  the  same 
treatment,  when  all  restraint  was  taken  off,  and 
the  dread  of  their  power  terminated  with  their 
lives.’  * 

The  late  king  of  Prussia,  who  united  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  an  author  to  that  of  a  warrior,  was  of 
another  way  of  thinking.  He  was  of  opinion, 
that  the  names  of  good  princes  alone  should  be 
recorded  in  history ;  and  that  those  of  the 
*  In  chap,  xi  1 vhap-  viii. 


wicked  should  be  suffered  to  perish  with  theR 
crimes.*  Were  this  practice  to  be  universally 
adopted,  might  we  not  presume  to  question 
whether  even  the  illustrious  name  of  Frederick 
the  great  would  be  as  certain,  as  it  is  at  present, 
of  being  carried  down  to  posterity  ? 

Tacitus  is  the  historian  of  philosophers,  and 
the  oracle  of  politicians.  Highly  valuable  for 
his  deep  and  acute  reflections,  in  which  neither 
the  governors  nor  governed  are  spared ;  he  is  an 
original  and  profound  thinker,  and  is  admirable 
for  the  plenitude  of  his  images,  and  the  paucity 
of  his  words.  His  style  is  ardent,  and  his  figures 
are  bold.  Vigour,  brevity,  and  pqint,  are  its 
characteristics.  He  throws  out  a  stronger  like¬ 
ness  of  a  flagitious  Roman  in  three  words,  than 
a  diffuse  writer  would  give  in  as  many  pages. 
In  his  annals  he  is  a  faithful,  occasionally,  in¬ 
deed,  a  too  faithful  narrator ;  but  he  is  also,  at 
the  same  time,  an  honest  and  indignant  reprover 
of  the  atrocious  deeds  which  he  records.  In  a 
man  passionately  loving  liberty,  virtue,  and  his 
country,  we  pardon,  while  painting  the  ruin  of 
each,  those  dark  and  sullen  shades  with  which 
he  sometimes  overcharges  the  picture.  Had 
he  delineated  happier  times,  his  tints  would  pro¬ 
bably  have  been  of  a  lighter  cast.  If  he  ever 
Receives,  he  does  not,  at  least,  ever  appear  to 
Jntend  it;  for  he  gives  rumours  as  rumours, 
and  his  facts  he  generally  grounds  on  the  con¬ 
current  testimony  of  the'  times  of  which  he 
writes.  If,  however  Tacitus  fulfils  one  of  the 
two  duties  which  he  himself  prescribes  to  his 
torians,  that  of  writing  without /ear,  he  does  not 
uniformly  accomplish  the  other,  that  of  writing 
without  hatred;  at  least  neither  his  veracity 
nor  his  candour  extended  to  his  remarks  on  the 
Jews  or  Christians. 

But,  with  all  his  diffuseness  Livy  is  the  wri¬ 
ter  who  assists  in  forming  the  taste. — With  all 
his  warmth,  there  is  a  beautiful  sobriety  in  his 
narrations;  he  does  not  magnify  the  action,  he 
relates  it,  and  pours  forth,  from  a  full  urn,  a  co¬ 
pious  and  continued  stream  of  varied  elegance. 
Ho  directs  the  judgment,  bypassing  over  slight 
things  in  a  slight  manner,  and  dwelling  only  on 
the  prominent  parts  of  his  subject,  though  he 
has  been  accused  of  some  important  omissions. 
He  keeps  the  attention  always  alive,  by  exhibit¬ 
ing  passions  as  well  as  actions ;  and  what  best 
indicates  the  hand  of  a  master,  we  hang  sus¬ 
pended  on  the  event  of  his  narrative,  as  if  it 
were  a  fiction,  of  which  the  catastrophe  is  in  the 
power  of  the  writer,  rather  than  a  real  history, 
with  whose  termination  we  are  already  ac¬ 
quainted.  He  is  admirable  no  less  for  his  hu 
manity  than  his  patriotism ;  and  he  is  one  of 
the  few  historians,  who  have  marked  the  broad 
line  of  discrimination  between  true  and  false 
glory,  not  erecting  pomps,  triumphs,  and  victo¬ 
ries,  into  essentials  of  real  greatness.  He  teaches 
patience  under  censure,  inculcates  a  contempt 

*  Ezamen  du  Prince  de  Mackiavel  by  the  king  of  Prus¬ 
sia.  It  is  curious  to  compare  this  composition  of  the 
king  with  his  own  conduct.  To  contrast  his  strong 
reprobation  of  the  baneful  gloiy  of  heroes,  his  horror 
of  conquest,  and  of  the  cruel  passions  which  oppress 
mankind  ;  his  professed  admiration  of  clemency,  meek¬ 
ness,  justice,  and  compassion,  with  which  this  work 
abounds, — with  the  actual  exploits  of  tbs  ravager  of  the 
fertile  plains  of  Saxony,  &c.  &c.  1 1 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


29 


of  vulgar  acclamation,  and  of  all  praise  which 
is  not  fairly  earned.  One  valuable  superiority, 
which  Livy  possesses  over  his  competitors,  is, 
that  in  describing  vice,  and  vicious  characters, 
he  scrupulously  contrives  to  excite  an  abhor¬ 
rence  of  both  ;  and  his  relations  never  leave  on 
the  mind  of  the  reader,  a  propensity  to  the 
crime,  or  a  partiality  for  the  criminal  whom  he 
has  been  describing.  A  defect,  in  this  acuteness 
of  moral  feeling,  has  been  highly  pernicious  to 
the  youthful  reader ;  and  this  too  common  ad¬ 
mixture  of  impure  description,  even  when  the 
honest  design  has  been  to  expose  vice,  has  sen¬ 
sibly  tainted  the  wholesomeness  of  historic  com¬ 
position. 

Independently  of  those  beautiful,  though  some¬ 
times  redundant  speeches,  which  Livy  puts  in¬ 
to  the  mouths  of  his  heroes,  his  eloquent  and 
finished  answers  to  ambassadors,  furnish  a  spe¬ 
cies  of  rhetoric  peculiarly  applicable  to  a  royal 
education. 

It  has  been  regretted  by  some  of  the  critics, 
that  Livy,  after  enriching  his  own  work  by  the 
most  copious  plagiarisms  from  his  great  precur¬ 
sor,  Polybius,  commends  him  in  a  way  so  frigid 
as  almost  to  amount  to  censure.  He  does  not, 
it  is  true,  go  the  length  of  Voltaire  in  his  treat¬ 
ment  of  Shakspeare,  who  first  pillages  and  then 
abuses  ,him.  The  Frenchman,  indeed,  who 
spoils  what  he  steals,  acts  upon  the  old  known 
principle  of  his  country  highwaymen,  who  al¬ 
ways  murder  where  they  rob. 

If  it  be  thought  that  we  have  too  warmly  re¬ 
commended  heathen  authors,  let  it  be  remem¬ 
bered,  that  in  the  hands  of  every  enlightened 
preceptor,  as  was  eminently  the  case  with  Fene- 
lon,  pagans  almost  become  Christian  teachers 
by  the  manner  in  which  they  will  be  explained, 
elucidated,  purified ;  and  not  only  will  the  cor¬ 
ruptions  of  paganism  be  converted  into  instruc¬ 
tion,  by  being  contrasted  with  the  opposite  Chris¬ 
tian  graces,  but  the  Christian  system  will  be 
advantageously  shown  to  be  almost  equally  at 
variance,  with  many  pagan  virtues,  as  with  all 
its  vices. 

If  there  were  no  other  evidence  of  the  value 
of  pagan  historians,  the  profound  attention  which 
they  prove  the  ancients  to  have  paid  to  the  edu¬ 
cation  of  youth,  would  alone  suffice  to  give  them 
considerable  weight  in  the  eyes  of  every  judge 
of  .sound  instruction.  Their  regard  to  youthful 
modesty,  the  inculcation  of  obedience  and  re¬ 
serve,  the  exercises  of  self-denial,  exacted  from 
children  of  the  highest  rank,  put  to  shame, —  I 
will  not  say  Christians,  but  many  of  the  nomi¬ 
nal  professors  of  Christianity. — Levity,  idleness, 
disregard  of  the  laws,  contempt  of  established 
systems  and  national  institutions,  met  with  a 
severer  reprobation  in  the  pagan  youth,  than  is 
always  found  among  those,  in  our  day,  who 
yet  do  not  openly  renounce  the  character  of 
Christians. 

Far  be  it  from  us,  however,  to  take  our  mo- 
rals  from  so  miserably  defective  a  standard  as 
pagan  history  affords.  For  thougli  philosophy 
had  given  some  admirable  rules  for  maintaining 
the  out-works  of  virtue,  Christianity  is  the  only 
religion  which  ever  pretended  to  expel  vice  from 
the  heart. — The  best  qualities  of  paganism  want 
»he  best  motives.  Some  of  the  overgrown  Ro¬ 


man  virtues,  also,  though  they  would  have  been 
valuable  in  their  just  measure  and  degree,  and 
in  a  due  symmetry  and  proportion  with  other 
virtues,  yet,  by  their  excess,  helped  to  produce 
those  evils  which  afterwards  ruined  Rome ; 
while  a  perfect  system  of  morals,  like  the  Chris¬ 
tian,  would  have  prevented  those  evils.  Their 
patriotism  was  oppression  to  the  rest  of  the 
world.  Their  virtue  was  not  so  much  sullied 
by  pride,  as  founded  in  it ;  and  their  justice 
was  tinctured  with  a  savageness  which  bears 
little  resemblance  to  the  justice  which  is  taught 
by  Christianity. 

These  two  simple  precepts  of  our  religion, 
Thou  shalt  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy 
heart,  and  thy  neighbour  as  thyself  ; — these  two 
principles,  kept  in  due  exercise,  would,  like  the 
two  powers  which  govern  the  natural  world, 
keep  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  world  in  or¬ 
der  ;  would  restrain,  impel,  unite  and  govern  it. 

In  considering  the  ancient  philosophy,  how 
does  the  fine  gold  become  dim,  before  the  sober 
lustre  of  that  divine  legislator,  whose  kingdom, 
indeed,  was  not  of  this  world,  but  who  has  taught 
‘  kings  of  the  earth,  princes,  and  all  people,’ 
those  maxims  and  principles  which  cast  into 
shade  all  the  false  splendours  ‘  of  the  antique 
world!’  Christianity  has  furnished  the  only 
true  practical  comment  on  that  grand  position 
of  the  admirable  author  of  the  sublime,  that  no¬ 
thing  is  great  the  contempt  of  which  is  great. 
For  how  can  triumphs,  honours,  riches,  power, 
conquest,  fame,  be  considered  as  of  intrinsic  va- 
lue  by  a  Christian,  the  very  essence  of  whose  re¬ 
ligion  consists  in  being  crucified  to  the  world ; 
•the  very  aim  and  end.  of  whose  religion  lies  in  a 
superiority  to  all  greatness  which  is  to  have  an 
end  with  this  life  ;  the  very  nature  and  genius 
of  whose  religion  tends  to  prove,  that  eternal  life 
is  the  only  adequate  measure  of  the  happiness, 
and  immortal  glory  the  only  adequate  object  of; 
the  ambition  of  a  Christian.  ^ 


CHAP.  XL 

English  History. — Mr.  Hume. 

But  the  royal  pupil  is  not  to  wander  always 
in  the  wide  field  of  universal  history.  The  ex¬ 
tent  is  so  vast,  and  the  time  for  travelling  over 
it  so  short,  that  after  being  sufficiently  possessed 
of  that  general  view  of  mankind  which  the  his¬ 
tory  of  the  world  exhibits,  it  seems  reasonable 
to  concentrate  her  studies,  and  to  direct  her  at¬ 
tention  to  certain  great  leading  points,  and  es¬ 
pecially  to  those  objects  with  which  she  has  a 
natural  and  more  immediate  connexion.  The 
history  of  modern  Europe  abounds  with  such 
objects.  In  Robertson’s  luminous  view  of  the 
state  of  Europe,  the  progress  of  society  is  traced 
with  just  arrangement  and  philosophical  preci¬ 
sion.  Ilis  admirable  histories  of  Charles  V.  and 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  separate  from  their  great 
independent  merit,  will  be  road  with  singular 
advantage  in  connection  with  the  contemporary 
reigns  of  English  history.  In  tlie  writings  of, 
Sully  and  Clarendon,  may  be  seen  how,  fo  •  a 
long  time,  the  passions  of  kings  were  contra 


30 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


dieted,  and  often  controlled  by  the  wisdom  of 
their  ministers ;  sovereigns  who  were  not  in¬ 
sensible  to  praise,  nor  averse  from  flattery,  yet 
submitting,  though  sometimes  with  a  very  ill 
grace,  to  receive  services  rather  than  adulation. 
Ministers  who  consulted  tlie  good  rather  than 
the  humour  of  their  princes ;  who  promoted 
their  interests,  instead  of  gratifying  their  vices, 
and  who  preferred  their  fame  to  their  favour. 

Mr.  Hume. 

Hume  is  incomparably  the  most  informing, 
as  well  as  the  most  elegant,  of  all  the  writers 
of  English  history.  His  narrative  is  full,  well 
arranged,  and  beautifully  perspicuous.  Yet,  he 
is  an  author  who  must  be  read  with  extreme 
caution  on  a  political,  but  especially  on  a  reli¬ 
gious  account.  Though,  on  occasions  where  he 
may  be  trusted,  because  his  peculiar  principles 
do  not  interfere,  his  political  reflections  are 
usually  just,  sometimes  profound.  His  account 
of  the  origin  of  the  Gothic  government  is  full  of 
interest  and  information.  He  marks,  with  ex¬ 
act  precision,  the  progress  and  decay  of  the  feu¬ 
dal  manners,  when  law  and  order  began  to  pre¬ 
vail,  and  our  constitution  assumed  something 
like  a  shape.  His  finely  painted  characters  of 
Alfred  and  Elizabeth  should  he  engraved  on  the 
heart  of  every  sovereign.  His  political  preju¬ 
dices  do  not  strikingly  appear,  till  the  establish¬ 
ment  of  the  house  of  Stewart,  nor  his  religious 
antipathies  till  about  the  distant  dawn  of  the  re¬ 
formation  under  Henry  V.  From  that  period 
to  its  full  establishment,  he  is  perhaps  more  dan¬ 
gerous,  because  less  ostensibly  daring  than  some 
other  infidel  historians.  It  is  a  serpent  under  a 
bed  of  roses.  He  does  not  (in  his  history  at 
least)  so  much  ridicule  religion  himself,  as  in¬ 
vite  others  to  ridicule  it.  There  is  in  his  man¬ 
ner,  a  sedateness  which  imposes  ;  in  his  scepti¬ 
cism,  a  sly  gravity  which  puts  the  reader  more 
off  his  guard  than  the  vehemence  of  censure,  or 
the  levity  of  wit ;  for  we  are  always  less  dis¬ 
posed  to  suspect  a  man  who  is  too  wise  to  ap¬ 
pear  angry.  That  same  wisdom  makes  him 
too  correct  to  invent  calumnies,  but  it  does 
not  preserve  him  from  doing  what  is  scarcely 
less  disingenuous.  He  implicitly  adopts  the  in¬ 
jurious  relations  of  those  annalists  who  were 
most  hostile  to  the  reformed  faith  ;  though  he 
must  have  known  their  accounts  to  be  aggra¬ 
vated  and  discoloured,  if  not  absolutely  invented. 
He  thus  makes  others  responsible  for  the  worst 
things  he  asserts,  and  spreads  the  mischief, 
without  avowing  the  malignity.  When  he  spea.ks 
from  himself,  the  sneer  is  so  cool,  the  irony  so 
sober,  the  contempt  so  discreet,  the  moderation 
so  insidious,  the  difference  between  popish  bi¬ 
gotry,  and  protestant  firmness,  between  the  fury 
of  the  persecutor  and  the  resolution  of  the  mar¬ 
tyr,  so  little  marked ;  the  distinctions  between 
intolerant  frenzy  and  heroic  zeal  so  melted  into 
each  other,  and  though  he  contrives  to  make 
the  reader  feel  some  indignation  at  the  tyrant, 
he  never  leads  him  to  feel  any  reverence  for  the 
sufferer ;  he  ascribes  such  a  slender  superiority 
to  one  religious  system  above  another,  that  the 
young  reader  who  does  not  come  to  the  perusal 
with  his  principles  formed,  will  be  in  dknger  of 


thinking  that  the  reformation  was  really  not 
worth  contending  for. 

But,  in  nothing  is  the  skill  of  this  accomplish, 
ed  sophist  more  apparent  than  in  the  artful  way 
in  which  he  piques  his  readers  into  a  conformity 
with  his  own  views  concerning  religion.  Hu¬ 
man  pride,  he  knew,  naturally  likes  to  range  it- 
self  on  the  side  of  ability.  He  therefore,  skil¬ 
fully  works  on  this  passion,  by  treating  with  a 
sort  of  contemptuous  superiority,  as  weak  and 
credulous  men,  all  whom  he  represents  as  being 
under  the  religious  delusion,  and  by  uniformly 
insinuating  that  talents  and  piety  belong  to  op- 
posite  parties. 

To  the  shameful  practice  of  confounding  fa¬ 
naticism  with  real  religion,  he  adds  the  disinge- 
nuous  habit  of  accounting  for  the  best  actions 
of  the  best  men,  by  referring  them  to  some  low 
motive ;  and  affects  to  confound  the  designs  of 
the  religious  and  the  corrupt,  so  artfully,  that 
no  radical  difference  appears  to  subsist  between 
them. 

It  is  injurious  to  a  young  mind  to  read  the 
history  of  the  reformation  by  any  author,  how 
accurate  soever  he  may  be  in  his  facts,  who  does 
not  see  a  divine  power  accompanying  this  great 
work ;  by  any  author  who  ascribes  to  the  power, 
or  rather  to  the  perverseness  of  nature,  and  the 
obstinacy  of  innovation,  what  was  in  reahty  an 
effect  of  providential  direction  ;  by  any  who'  dis¬ 
cerns  nothing  but  human  resources,  or  stubborn 
perseverance,  where  a  Christian  distinguishes, 
though  with  a  considerable  alloy  of  human  im¬ 
perfection,  the  operation  of  the  Spirit  of  God. 

Hume  has  a  fascinating  manner  at  the  close 
of  the  life  of  a  hero,  a  prince,  or  a  statesman,  of 
drawing  up  his  character  so  elaborately  as  to 
attract  and  fix  the  whole  attention  of  the  reader ; 
and  he  does  it  in  such  a  way,  that  while  he  en¬ 
gages  the  mind  he  unsuspectedly  misleads  it. 
He  makes  a  general  statement  of  the  vices  and 
virtues,  the  good  and  bad  actions  of  the  person 
whom  he  paints,  leaving  the  reader  to  form  his 
own  conclusions,  by  casting  up  the  balance  of 
the  vices  and  virtues,  of  the  good  and  bad  ac¬ 
tions  thus  enumerated  :  while  he  never  once 
leads  the  reader  to  determine  on  the  character 
by  the  only  sure  criterion,  the  ruling  principle, 
which  seemed  to  govern  it.  This  is  the  too  pre¬ 
vailing  method  of  historians  ;  they  make  morals 
completely  independent  of  religion,  by  thus 
weighing  qualities,  and  letting  the  preponder¬ 
ance  of  the  scale  decide  on  virtue,  as  it  were  by 
grains  and  scruples  ;  thus  furnishing  a  standard 
of  virtue  subversive  yf  that  which  Christianity 
establishes.  This  method  instead  of  marking 
the  moral  distinctions,  blends  and  confounds 
them,  by  establishing  character  on  an  accidental 
difference,  often  depending  on  circumstance  and 
occasion,  instead  of  applying  to  it  one  eternal 
rule  and  motive  of  action.* 

But,  there  is  another  evil  into  which  writers 
far  more  unexceptionable  than  Mr.  Hume  often 

♦  If  these  remarks  may  be  thought  too  severe  by  some 
readers  for  that  degree  of  scepticism  which  appears  in 
Mr.  Hume's  history  may  I  not  be  allowed  to  observe  that 
he  has  shown  his  principles  so  fully,  in  some  pf  his  otlier 
works,  that  we  are  entitled,  on  the  ground  of  these 
works,  to  read  with  suspicion  every  thing  he  says  which 
borders  on  religion  ?— A  circumstance  apt  to  be  forgot¬ 
ten  by  many  who  read  only  his  history 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


31 


tail,  that  of  rarely  leading  the  mind  to  look  be¬ 
yond  second  causes  and  human  agents.  It  is 
mortifying  to  refer  them  to  the  example  of  a  pa¬ 
gan.  Livy  thought  it  no  disgrace  to  proclaim, 
repeatedly,  the  insufficiency  of  man  to  accom¬ 
plish  great  objects  without  divine  assistance. 
He  was  not  ashaiTied  to  refer  events  to  the  di¬ 
rection  and  control  of  providence  ;  and  when  he 
speaks  of  notorious  criminals,  he  is  not,  contented 
with  describing  them  as  transgressing  against 
the  state,  but  represents  them  as  also  offending 
against  the  gods. 

Yet,  it  is  proper  again  to  notice  the  defects 
of  ancient  authors  in  their  views  of  providential 
interference  ;  a  defect  arising  from  their  never 
clearly  including  a  future  state  in  their  account. 
They  seem  to  have  .conceived  themselves  as 
fairly  entitled  by  their  good  conduct  to  the 
divine  favour,  which  favour  they  usually  limited 
to  present  prosperity.  Whereas  all  notions  of 
divine  justice  must  of  necessity  be  widely  erro¬ 
neous,  in  which  a  future  retribution  is  not  un¬ 
ambiguously  and  constantly  included. 


CHAP.  XII. 

important  mras  of  English  History. 

As  the  annals  of  our  own  country  furnish  an 
object  on  which  a  royal  student  should  be  led 
to  dwell  with  particular  interest,  it  may  be  ne¬ 
cessary  to  call  the  attention  to  certain  impor¬ 
tant  periods  of  our  history  and  constitution, 
from  each  of  which  we  begin  to  reckon  a  new 
sera ;  because  from  that  epoch,  some  new  system 
of  causes  and  effects  begins  to  take  place  ! 

It  will  be  proper,  however,  to  trace  the  shades 
of  alteration  which  intervene  between  these 
aeras ;  for  though  the  national  changes  appear 
to  be  brought  about  by  some  one  great  event, 
yet,  the  event  itself  will  be  found  to  have  been 
slowly  working  its  way  by  causes  trivial  in  their 
appearance,  and  gradual  in  their  progress. 
For  the  minds  of  the  people  must  be  previously 
ripened  for  a  change,  before  any  material  alter¬ 
ation  is  produced — It  was  not  the  injury  that  Lu- 
cretia  sustained,  which  kindled  the  resentment 
of  the  Romans ;  the  previous  misconduct  of  the 
Tarquins  had  excited  in  the  people  the  spirit 
of  that  revolution.  A  momentary  indignation 
brought  a  series  of  discontents  to  a  crisis,  and 
one  public  crime  was  seized  on  as  the  pre¬ 
tence  for  revenging  a  long  course  of  oppression. 
The  arrival,  however,  of  these  slowly  j)roduced 
ffiras  makes  a  sudden  and  striking  change  in 
ihe  circumstances  of  a  country,  and  forms  a 
kind  of  distinct  line  of  separation  between  the 
manners  which  precede  and  those  which  fol¬ 
low  it. 

A  prince  (whose  chief  study  must  be  politics) 
ought  in  general  to  prefer  contemporary  his¬ 
torians,  and  even  ordinary  annalists,  to  the 
compilers  of  history  who  come  after  them.  He 
should  have  recourse  to  the  documents  from 
which  authors  derive  their  history,  rather  than 
sit  down  satisfied  with,  the  history  so  derived. 
Life,  however,  is  too  short  to  allow,  in  all  cases, 
of  this  laborious  process.  Attention,  therefore. 


i  to  the  minuter  details  of  contemporary  annalists^ 
and  to  the  original  records  consisting  of  letters 
and  state  papers,  must  be  limited  to  periods  of 
more  than  ordinary  importance.  Into  these  the 
attentive  politician  will  dive  for  himself,  and  he 
will  often  be  abundantly  repaid.  The  period^ 
for  example,  of  the  unhappy  contests  in  the 
reign  of  the  first  Charles,  of  the  restoration,  and 
more  especially  of  the  revolution,  are  the  turn¬ 
ing  points  of  our  political  constitution.  A  princei, 
by  examining  these  original  documents,  and  by 
making  himself  master  of  the  points  then  at 
issue,  would  be  sure  to  understand  what  are  his 
own  rights  as  a  sovereign. 

It  is  not  by  single,  but  by  concurrent  testi¬ 
mony,  that  the  truth  of  history  is  established. 
And  it  is  by  a  careful  perusal  of  different  au¬ 
thors  who  treat  of  the  same  period,  that  a  series 
of  historic  truth  will  be  extracted.  Where  they 
agree,  we  may  trust  that  they  are  right  j 
where  they  differ  we  must  elicit  truth  from  the 
collision.  Thus  the  royal  pupil,  when  engaged 
in  the  perusal  of  Clarendon,  should  also  study 
some  of  the  best  writers,  who  are  favourable  to 
the  parliamentary  cause.  A  careful  perusal  of 
Ludlow  and  Whitlock ;  a  general  survey  of 
Rushworth,  or  occasional  reference  to  that 
author  and  to  Thurloe ;  and  as  a  cursory  review 
of  their  own  lives  and  times  by  Laud  and  Baxter, 
will  throw  great  light  on  many  of  the  transac¬ 
tions  of  the  eventful  period  of  the  first  Charles. 
They  will  show  how  different  the  same  actions 
appear  to  different  men,  equal  in  understanding 
and  integrity.  They  will  inforce  mutual  can¬ 
dour  and  mutual  forbearance,  repressing  the 
wholesale  conclusions  of  party  violence,  and 
teaching  a  prince  to  be  on  his  guard  against 
the  intemperate  counsels  of  his  interested  or 
heated  advisers.  They  will  instruct  a  monarch 
in  the  important  lesson  of  endeavouring  to  as¬ 
certain  and  keep  in  view  the  light  in  which  hia 
actions  and  motives  will  appear  to  his  people. 
They  will  teach  him  to  attend  carefully  to  the 
opinions  and  feelings,  and  even  to  the  prejudices 
of  the  times  ;  and  in  obedience  to  a  precept  en¬ 
joined  by  divine  authority  for  private  life,  and 
still  more  important  to  be  observed  in  public, — 

‘  to  provide  things  honest  in  the  sight  of  all  men.’ 

Again,  while  the  narratives  of  the  contem¬ 
porary  historians  furnish  facts,  they  who  live  in 
a  succeeding  age  have  the  additional  advan¬ 
tages  first,  of  a  chance  of  greater  impartiality  ; 
secondly,  of  a  comparison  with  corresponding 
events,  and,  thirdly,  of  having  the  tendencies  of 
the  events  related,  appreciated  by  the  evidence 
of  their  actual  effects.  How  imperfect,  for 
example,  would  be  the  philosophical  and  politi¬ 
cal  remarks,  and  how  false  the  whole  colour  be¬ 
longing  to  any  history  of  the  French  revolu¬ 
tion  which  might  have  immediately  appeared.* 
Much  lapse  of  time  is  necessary  in  order  to  re¬ 
flect  back  light  on  the  original  tendency  of 
events.  The  fermentation  of  political  passions 
requires  a  long  time  to  subside.  The  agitation 
continues  till  the  events  have  nearly  lost  their 

*  The  French  revolution,  with  its  consequences,  seem 
intended  .practically  to  contradict  what  Thucydides  de¬ 
clared  to  be  his  design  in  writing  history  ;  namely,  by  a 
faithful  account  of  past  things  to  assist  mankind  in 
conjecturing  the  future  1 


32 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


interest,  by  the  occurrence  of  a  fresh  class  of 
events  ;  which,  in  their  turn,  raise  a  new  party, 
and  excite  a  new  interest ;  so  that  an  impartial 
distribution  of  praise  and  censure  is  seldom 
made  till  those  who  are  concerned  in  it  have 
been  long  out  of  hearing.  And  it  is  an  incon¬ 
venience  inseparable  from  human  things  that 
when  writers  are  least  able  to  come  at  the  truth, 
they  are  most  disposed  to  tell  it. 

It  will  be  necessary  to  understand  the  politi¬ 
cal  system  of  Europe,  since  that  period  par¬ 
ticularly,  when  the  two  powers  of  France  and 
Austria  having  arisen  to  a  greatness,  which  made 
them  mutually,  as  well  as  generally  formidable, 
other  countries,  seeing  the  necessity  for  their 
own  safety,  of  opposing  the  stronger,  and  sup¬ 
porting  the  weaker,  conceived  the  idea  of  that 
balance  of  power,  that  just  equiponderance, 
which  might  preserve  the  security  of  all. 

But  there  is  a  far  earlier  epoch  to  which  at¬ 
tention  ought  perhaps,  in  the  very  first  instance, 
to  be  directed,  I  ipean  the  reign  of  Alfred. 
This  is  eminently  a  study  for  kings. — In  Alfred, 
the  most  vigorous  exertion  of  public  justice  was 
united  with  attachment  to  public  liberty.  He 
eagerly  seized  every  interval  of  tranquillity, 
from  the  Convulsions  with  which  the  state  was 
torn,  to  collect  materials  for  the  most  salutary 
institutions,  which  he  afterwards  established ; 
he  employed  every  moment  he  could  snatch 
from  the  wars  in  which  he  was  inevitably  en¬ 
gaged,  in  introducing  the  arts  of  peace,  and  in 
turning  the  minds  of  his  harassed  and  disordert 
ly  subjects  to  virtuous  and  industrious  pursuits  ; 
in  repairing  the  mischievous  consequences  of 
past  insurrections,  and  wisely  guarding  against 
their  return.  He  had  to  correct  the  habits  of 
a  people  who  had  lived  without  laws,  and  with¬ 
out  morals  ;  and  to  reduce  to  civilization,  men 
who  had  been  driven  to  subsist  by  chance  or 
rapine.  By  a  system  of  jurisprudence,  which 
united  moral  discipline  with  the  execution  of 
penal  laws,  he  undertook  to  give  a  new  direc¬ 
tion  to  habits  iuveterately  depraved. 

The  royal  pupil  will  be  taught  to  ascribe  the 
origin  of  some  of  our  best  usages  to  these  sa¬ 
gacious  regulations ;  above  all,  the  conception 
of  that  unparalleled  idea  which  so  beautifully 
reconciles  the  exact  administration  of  justice 
w’ilh  individual  liberty  ;  the  origin  of  our  juries 
evidently  appearing  to  have  first  entered  the 
mind  of  Alfred.  The  effects  on  the  people 
seem  to  have  been  proportioned  to  the  exertions 
of  the  prince.  Crimes  Were  repressed.  The 
most  unexampled  change  took  place  in  the 
national  manners.  Encouragement  was  held 
out  to  the  reformed,  while  punishment  kept  in 
order  the  more  irreclaimable.  Yet  with  all  these 
strong  measures,  never  was  a  prince  more  ten¬ 
derly  alive  to  the  liberty  of  the  subject.  And 
while  commerce,  navigation,  ingenious  inven¬ 
tions,  and  all  the  peaceful  arts  were  promoted  by 
him,  his  skill  in  the  military  tactics  of  that  day 
was  superior,  perhaps,  to  that  of  any  of  his  con¬ 
temporaries. 

To  form  such  vast  projects,  not  for  disturbing 
the  world,  but  for  blessing  it, — to  reduce  those 
projects,  in  many  instances,  to  the  most  minute 
detail  of  actual  execution  ; — to  have  surmounted 
the  misfortune  of  a  neglected  education  so  as  to 


make  himself  a  scholar,  a  philosopher,  and  tne 
moral  as  well  as  civil  instructor  of  his  people  ; 
— all  this  implies  such  a  grandeur  of  capacity, 
such  an  exacf  conception  of  the  true  character 
of  a  sovereign,  such*  sublimity  of  principle,  and 
such  corresponding  rectitude  of  practice,  as 
fill  up  all  our  ideas  of  consummate  greatness. 
In  a  word,  Alfred  seems  to  have  been  sent  into 
the  world  to  realize  the  beautiful  fiction,  which 
poets,  philosophers,  and  patriots,  have  formed 
of  a  perfect  king.  It  is  also  worth  observing, 
that  all  those  various  plans  were  both  projected 
and  executed  by  a  monarch  who,  as  all  his¬ 
torians  agree,  had  suffered  more  hardships  than 
any  ordinary  adventurer,  had  fought  more  bat¬ 
tles  than  most  generals,  and  w  as  the  most  vo¬ 
luminous  author  of  his  day.*  And,  if  it  should 
be  asked  by  what  means  a  single  individual 
could  accomplish  such  a  variety  of  projects,  the 
answer  is  simply  this  :  It  was  in  a  good  measure 
by  an  art  of  which  little  account  is  made,  but 
which  is  perhaps  of  more  importance  in  a  sove 
reign  than  almost  any  other,  at  least  it  is  one 
without  which  the  brightest  genius  is  of  little 
value,  a  strict  wconomy  of  time. 

Between  the  earlier  lifb  of  Alfred  and  that  of 
Charles  II.  there  was,  as  must  bo  observed,  a 
striking  similarity.  The  paths  of  both  to  the 
throne  were  equally  marked  by  such  imminent 
dangers  and  ‘hair  breadth’s  ’scapes’  as  more 
resemble  romance  than  authentic  history.  What 
a  lesson  had  Alfred  prepared  for  Charles  !  But 
their  characters  as  kings,  exhibited  an  opposi¬ 
tion  which  is  as  strong  as  the  resemblance  in 
their  previous  fortunes.  With  an  understand¬ 
ing  naturally  good,  with  that  education  which 
Alfred  wanted, — with  every  advantage  which 
an  improved  state  of  society  could  give  over  a 
barbarous  one  ;  such,  notwithstanding,  was  the 
uniform  tenor  of  the  Stuart’s  subsequent  life,  as 
almost  to  present  the  idea  of  an  intended  con¬ 
trast  to  the  virtues  of  the  illustrious  Saxon. 

Another  epoch  to  which  the  pupil’s  attention 
should  be  pointed,  is  the  turbulent  and  iniqui¬ 
tous  reign  of  king  John  ;  whose  oppression  and 
injustice  were,  by  the  excess  to  which  they  were 
carried,  the  providential  means  of  rousing  the 
English  spirit,  and  of  obtaining  the  establish¬ 
ment  of  the  great  charter.  This  famous  trans¬ 
action,  so  deservedly  interesting  to  Englishmen, 
bestowed  or  secured  the  most  valuable  civil 
privileges ;  chiefly  indeed  to  the  barons  and 
clergy,  but  also  to  the  people  at  large.  The 
privileges  of  the  latter  had  antecedently,  been 
scarcely  taken  into  the  account,  and  their  liber- 
tiesi  always  imperfect,  had  suffered  much  in¬ 
fringement  by  the  introduction  of  the  feudal  law 
into  England  under  the  Norman  William.  For, 
whether  they  were  vassals  under  the  barons,  or 
vassals  under  the  king  it  made  little  difference 
in  their  condition ;  which  was,  in  fact,  to  the 
greater  part,  little  better  than  a  state  of  abso¬ 
lute  slavery.  The  barons,  liberal,  perhaps, 
through  policy  rather  than  humanity,  in  strug- 
gling  for  their  own  liberty  were  compelled  to  in¬ 
volve  in  one  common  interest  the  liberty  of 
the  people ;  and  the  same  laws  which  they 

*  See  the  character  of  AKVed  in  Hume,  from  which 
the  preceding  part  of  this  account,  in  substance,  is 
chiefly  taken. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


33 


demanded  to  secure  their  own  protection,  in 
some  measure  necessarily  extended  their  be¬ 
nign  influence  to  the  inferior  classes  of  society 
— Those  immunities,  which  are  essential  to  the 
well-being  of  civil  and  social  life,  gradually  be¬ 
came  better  secured.  Injustice  was  restrained, 
tyrannical  exactions  were  guarded  against,  and 
oppression  was  no  longer  sanctioned.  This 
famous  deed,  without  any  violent  innovation,  be¬ 
came  the  mound  of  property,  the  pledge  of 
liberty,  and  the  guarantee  of  independence.  As 
it  guarded  the  rights  of  all  orders  of  men,  from 
the  lowest  to  the  highest,  it  was  vigorously  con¬ 
tended  for  by  all ;  for,  if  it  limited  the  power  of 
the  king,  it  also  confirmed  it,  by  securing  the 
allegiance  and  fidelity  of  the  subject.  It  was  of 
inestimable  use  by  giving  a  determinate  form 
and  shape,  ‘  such  a  local  habitation  and  a  name,’ 
to  the  spirit  of  liberty ;  so  that  the  English,  when, 
as  it  often  happened,  they  claimed  the  recogni¬ 
tion  of  their  legal  rights,  were  not  left  to  wander 
in  a  wide  field,  without  having  any  specific  ob¬ 
ject,  without  limitation,  and  without  direction. 
They  knew  what  to  ask  for,  and,  obtaining  that, 
they  were  satisfied.  We  surely  cannot  but  be 
sensible  of  the  advantages  which  they  derived 
from  this  circumstance,  who  have  seen  the  ef¬ 
fects  of  an  opposite  situation,  in  this  very  par¬ 
ticular,  illustrated  so  strikingly  in  the  earlier 
period  of  the  French  revolution. 

But,  rapidity  of  progress  seems,  by  the  very 
laws  of  nature,  to  be  precluded,  where  the  bene¬ 
fit  is  to  be  radical  and  permanent. — It  was  not, 
therefore,  until  our  passion  for  making  w’ar 
within  the  territory  of  France  was  cured,  nor 
until  we  left  off  tearing  the  bowels  of  our  own 
country,  in  the  dissensions  of  the  Yorkists  and 
Jjancastrians,  after  having  for  near  four  hun¬ 
dred  years,  torn  those  of  our  neighbours  ;  in  a 
word,  it  was  not  until  both  foreign  and  civil 
fury  began  to  cool,  that  in  the  reign  of  Henry 
Vll.  the  people  began  to  enjoy  more  real  free¬ 
dom,  as  the  king  enjoyed  a  more  settled  domi¬ 
nion,  and  the  interests  of  peace  and  commerce 
cubstantially  prevailed.  Without  ascribing  to 
this  king  virtues  which  he  did  not  possess,  the 
view  of  his  reign,  with  all  its  faults,  affords  a 
kind  of  breathing  time,  and  sense  of  repose.  It 
is  from  this  reign  that  the  history  of  the  laws, 

■  and  civil  constitution  of  England  become  inter¬ 
esting  ;  as  that  of  our  ecclesiastical  constitution 
does  from  the  subsequent  reign.  A  general  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  the  antecedent  part  of  our  his- 
lory  may  suffice  for  the  royal  pupil,  but  from 
these  periods  she  cannot  possess  too  detailed  a 
knowledge  of  it. 


CHAP.  XII. 

Queen  Elizaheth. 

It  is  remarkable  that  in  France,  a  nation  in 
which  women  have  always  been  held  in  the 
highest  consideration,  their  genius  has  never 
been  called  to  its  loftiest  exercise. — France  is 
perhaps  the  only  country  which  has  never  been 
governed  by  a  woman. — The  mothers,  however, 
<0!  some  of  her  sovereigns,  when  minors,  have, 
VoL.  II.  C 


during  their  regencies,  Blanche  of  Castile,*  espe- 
cially,  discovered  talents  for  government  not  in. 
ferior  to  those  of  most  of  her  kings. 

Anne  of  Austria  has  had  her  eulogists ;  but 
in  her  character  there  seems  to  have  been  more 
of  intrigue  than  of  genius,  or  at  least,  than  of 
sound  sense ;  and  her  virtues  were  problemati¬ 
cal.  If  her  talents  had  some  splendour,  they  had 
no  solidity.  They  produced  a  kind  of  stage  ef. 
feet,  which  was  imposing,  but  not  efficient,  and 
she  was  rather  an  actress  of  royalty  than  a  great 
queen.  She  was  not  happy  in  the  choice  of  a 
friend.  The  source  of  all  Mazarin’s  greatness, 
she  supported  him  with  inflexible  attachment, 
and  established  him  in  more  than  regal  power. 
In  return,  he  treated  her  with  respect  as  long 
as  he  stood  in  need  of  her  protection,  and  set  her 
aside  when  her  support  was  become  no  longer 
necessary  to  his  confirmed  power. 

The  best  queens  have  been  most  remarkable 
lor  employing  great  men.  Among  these,  Zeno- 
bia,  Elizabeth,  and  Anne  stood  foremost.  Those 
who  wish  to  derogate  from  the  glories  of  a  fe¬ 
male  reign,  have  never  failed  to  urge,  that  they 
were  owing  to  the  wisdom  of  the  ministers,  and 
not  to  that  of  the  queen  ;  a  censure  which  in¬ 
volves  an  eulogium.  For,  is  not  the  choice  of 
sagacious  ministers  the  characteristic  mark  of 
a  sagacious  sovereign  ?  Would,  for  instance, 
Mary  di  Medici  have  chosen  aWalsingham; 
she  who  made  it  one  of  the  first  acts  of  her  re¬ 
gency  to  banish  Sully,  and  to  employ  Concini  ? 
Or,  did  it  ever  enter  into  the  mind  of  the  first 
Mary  of  England  to  take  into  her  councils  that 
Cecil,  who  so  much  distinguished  himself  in  the 
cabinet  of  her  sister  ? 

Elizabeth’s  great  natural  capacity  was,  as  has 
been  before  observed,  improved  by  an  excellent 
education.  Her  native  vigour  of  mind  had  been 
early  called  forth  by  a  series  of  uncommon  trials. 
Th6  circumspection  she  had  been,  from  child¬ 
hood,  obliged  to  exercise,  taught  her  prudence. 
The  difliculties  which  beset  her,  accustomed 
her  to  self-control.  Can  we,  therefore,  doubt 
that  the  steadiness  of  purpose,  and  undaunted 
resolution  which  she  manifested  on  almost  every 
occasion  during  her  long  reign,  were  greatly  to 
be  attributed  to  that  youthful  discipline  ?  She 
would  probably  never  have  acquired  such  an 
ascendency  over  the  mind  of  others,  had  she  not 
early  learned  so  absolute  a  command  over  her 
own. 

On  coming  to  the  crown,  she  found  herself 
surrounded  with  thos*  obstacles  which  display 
great  characters,  but  overset  ordinary  minds. 
The  vast  work  of  the  reformation,  which  had 
been  undertaken  by  her  brother  Edward,  but 
crushed  in  the  very  birth,  as  far  as  was  within 
human  power,  by  the  bigot  Mary,  was  resumed 
and  accomplished  by  Elizabeth  :  and  that,  not 
in  the  calm  of  security,  not  in  the  fulness  of  un¬ 
disputed  power,  but  even  while  that  power  was 
far  from  being  confirmed,  and  that  security  was 
liable,  every  mement,  to  be  shaken  by  the  most 
alarming  commotions.  She  had  prejudices,  ap¬ 
parently  insurmountable,  to  overcome ;  she  had 
heavy  debts  to  discharge;  she  had  an  almost 
ruined  navy  to  repair ;  she  had  a  debased  coin 

•  Mother  of  Louis  IX, 


34 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


to  restore  ;  she  had  empty  magazines  to  fill ;  she 
had  a  decaying  commerce  to  invigorate  ;  she  had 
an  exhausted  exchequer  to  replenish. — All  these, 
by  the  blessing  of  God  on  the  strength  of  her 
mind,  and  the  wisdom  of  her  councils,  she  ac- 
complished.  She  not  only  paid  her  own  debts ; 
but,  without  any  great  additional  burdens  on 
her  subjects,  slie  discharged  those  also  which 
were  due  to  the  people  from  her  two  immediate 
predecessors.  At  the  same  time,  she  fostered 
genius,  she  encouraged  literature,  she  attracted 
all  the  great  talents  of  the  age  within  the  sphere 
of  her  own  activity.  And,  though  she  constantly 
availed  herself  of  all  the  judgment  and  talents 
of  her  ministers,  her  acquiescence  in  their  mea¬ 
sures  was  that  of  conviction,  never  of  implicit 
confidence. 

Her  exact  frugality  may  not,  by  superficial 
judges,  be  reckoned  among  the  shining  parts  of 
her  character.  Yet,  those  who  see  more  deeply, 
must  allow,  that  it  was  a  quality  from  which 
the  most  important  benefits  were  derived  to  her 
people ;  and  without  which  all  her  great  abili¬ 
ties  would  have  been  comparatively  inefficient. 
The  parsimony  of  her  grandfather  was  the  ra¬ 
pine  and  exaction  of  an  extortioner ;  hers,  the 
wise  economy  of  a  provident  parent.  If  we  are 
to  judge  of  the  value  of  actions  by  their  conse¬ 
quences,  let  us  compare  the  effects  upon  the 
country,  of  the  prodigality,  both  of  her  father, 
and  of  her  successor,  with  her  own  frugality. 
As  it  has  been  asserted  by  Plutarch,*  that  the 
money  idly  thrown  away  by  the  Athenians  on 
the  representations  of  two  dramatic  poets  only, 
amounted  to  a  larger  sum  than  had  been  ex¬ 
pended  on  all  their  wars  against  the  Persians, 
in  defence  of  their  liberty  ;  so  it  has  been  affirm¬ 
ed,  that  the  first  James  spent  more  treasure  on 
his  favourites,  than  it  had  cost  Elizabeth  to 
maintain  all  her  wars.  Yet,  there  have  not  been 
wanting  historians,  who  have  given  the  praise 
of  liberality  to  James,  and  especially  to  Henry, 
while  Elizabeth  has  suffered  the  imputation  of 
avarice.  But  we  ought  to  judge  of  good  and 
evil,  by  their  own  weight  and  measure,  and  not 
by  the  specious  names  which  the  latter  can  as¬ 
sume,  nor  by  the  injurious  terms  which  may  be 
bestowed  on  the  former. 

It  is  not  from  the  splenetic  critic  in  retired 
life,  from  the  declaimer,  ignorant  of  the  duties 
and  the  requisitions  of  princes,  that  we  should 
take  our  sentiments  on  the  point  of  royal  econo¬ 
my  ;  but  from  men,  whoj  however  possessing 
different  characters  and  views,  yet  agree  in  this 
one  respect,  that  their  exalted  public  situations, 
and  great  personal  experience  enable  them  to 
give  a  fair  and  sound  opinion.  Tlie  judgment 
even  of  the  emperor  Tiberius  was  not  so  impair¬ 
ed  by  his  vices,  but  that  he  could  insist,  that  an 
exchequer,  exhausted  by  prodigality,  must  be 
replenished  with  oppression.  Cicero,  versed  in 
public  business,  no  less  than  in  the  knowledge 
of  mankind,  affirms,  that  ‘  a  liberal  prince  loses 
more  hearts  than  ho  gains,  and  that  the  resent¬ 
ment  of  those  from  whom  he  takes  the  money, 
is  much  stronger  than  the  gratitude  of  those  to 
whom  he  gives  it.’  And,  on  another  occasion 
he  says,  that  ‘  men  are  not  aware  what  a  rich 

*  In  hjs  inquiry  whether  the  Athenians  were  more 
eminent  in  the  arts  of  war  or  peace. 


treasury  frugality  is.’  The  same  scntimenta 
seem  to  have  been  adopted  by  another  Roman 
statesman,  a  royal  favourite  too.  Pliny  affirms, 
that  ‘  a  prince  will  be  pardoned,  who  gives  no¬ 
thing  to  his  subjects,  provided  he  takes  nothing 
away  from  them.’ 

Those  princes,  who  despising  frugality,  have 
been  prodigal  for  the  sake  of  a  little  temporary 
applause,  have  seldom  achieved  lasting  good. 
And,  allowing  that  this  lavish  generosity  may 
be  for  the  moment  a  popular  quality,  yet,  there 
is  scarcely  any  thing  which  has  contributed  to 
bring  more  calamities  on  a  state,  than  the  means 
used  for  enabling  the  prince  to  indulge  it.  It 
was  not  in  Rome  alone,  as  recent  instances  tes¬ 
tify,  that  when  the  government  has  wanted  mo¬ 
ney,  the  rich  have  been  always  found  to  be  the 
guilty.  A  prodigal  generosity,  as  we  have  seen 
in  the  case  of  Ceesar,  and  in  our  own  time,  may 
be  a  useful  instrument  for  paving  the  way  to  a 
throne  ;  but  an  established  sovereign  will  find 
economy  a  more  certain  means  of  keeping  him 
in  it.  The  emperor  Nero  was  extolled  for  the 
felicity  which  Ive  was  diffusing  by  his  bounty, 
while  Rome  was  groaning  under  the  burthen 
of  his  exactions.  That  liberality  whicli  would 
make  a  prince  necessitous,  and  a  people  poor, 
would,  by  hurting  his  fame,  weaken  his  influ¬ 
ence  ;  for  reputation  is  power.  After  all,  such 
a  caie  and  improvement  of  the  revenue,  as  will 
enable  him  to  spare  his  subjects,  is  the  truest 
liberality  in  a  prince. 

But,  to  return — The  distinguishing  qualities 
of  Elizabeth  appear  to  have  been  economy,  pru¬ 
dence,  and  moderation.  Yet  in  some  instances 
the  former  was  rigid,  not  to  say  unjust.*  Nor 
had  her  frugality  always  the  purest  motives. 
She  was,  it  is  true,  very  unwilling  to  trouble 
parliament  for  money,  for  which,  indeed,  they 
were  extremely  unwilling  to  be  troubled ;  but 
her  desire  to  keep  herself  independent  of  them 
seems  to  have  been  her  motive  for  this  forbear¬ 
ance-  What  she  might  have  gained  in  supplies 
she  must  have  lost  in  power. 

To  her  moderation  and  that  middle  line  of 
conduct  which  she  observed,  much  of  her  suc¬ 
cess  may  be  ascribed.  To  her  moderation  in 
the  contests  between  papists  and  puritans,  it  is 
chiefly  to  be  attributed,  that  the  reformation  is¬ 
sued  in  a  happier  medium  in  England,  than  in 
any  other  country. — To  her  moderation,  in  re¬ 
spect  to  foreign  war,  from  which  she  was  sin¬ 
gularly  averse,  may  be  ascribed  at  that  rapid 
improvement  at  home,  which  took  place  under 
her  reign. — If  we  were  to  estimate  Elizabeth  as 
a  private  female,  she  would  doubtless  appear  en¬ 
titled  to  but  little  veneration.  If  as  an  instru¬ 
ment  raised  up  by  Divine  Providence  to  carry 
through  the  most  arduous  enterprises  in  the 
most  difficult  emergencies,  we  can  hardly  rate 
her  too  highly.  We  owe  her  much  as  English¬ 
men.  As  protestants,  what  do  we  not  owe  her  ? 
If  we  look  at  the  woman,  wo  shall  see  much  to 
blame  ;  if  at  the  sovereign,  we  shall  see  almost 
every  thing  to  admire. — Her  great,  faults  though 
they  derogated  from  her  personal  character,  sel¬ 
dom  deeply  affected  her  administration.  In  one 
instance  only,  her  favouritism  was  prejudicial 

•  Particularly  her  keeping  the  see  of  Ely  vacant  nine¬ 
teen  years,  in  order  to  retain  the  revenue. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAJNTNAH  MORE. 


35 


to  the  state  ;  her  appointment  of  Leicester  to 
the  naval  command,  for  which  he  was  utterly 
unfit.  On  many  occasions,  as  we  have  elsewhere 
observed,  her  very  passions  supplied  what  was 
wanting  in  principle.  Thus,  her  violent  attach¬ 
ments  might  have  made  her  indiscriminately 
lavish,  if  they  had  not  been  counteracted  by  that 
parsimoniousness  which  never  forsook  her.  Ac¬ 
cordingly,  in  the  midst  of  her  lamentations  for 
the  death  of  Leicester,  we  see  her  grief  did  not 
make  her  forget  to  seize  his  goods,  and  to  repay 
herself  for  what  she  had  lent  him. 

Our  censures,  therefore,,  must  not  be  lost  in 
our  admiration,  nor  must  our  gratitude  warp 
our  judgment.  And  it  may  be  useful  to  inquire 
how  it  came  to  pass  that  Elizabeth,  with  so 
much  power,  so  much  prudence,  and  so  much 
popularity,  should  at  length  become  completely 
miserable,  and  die,  neglected  and  forsaken,  her 
sun  setting  ingloriously  after  so  bright  a  day  of 
prosperity  and  honour. 

May  we  not  venture  to  attribute  it  to  the  de¬ 
fectiveness,  not  to  say  unsoundness,  of  her  moral 
principles  ?  Though  corrupt  principles  for  a 
certain  period  may  conceal  themselves,  and  even 
dazzle,  by  the  success  of  the  projects  to  which, 
in  the  view  of  superficial  reasouers,  they  may 
have  appeared  conducive  ;  they  will,  in  a  long 
course  of  action,  betray  their  intrinsic  weakness. 
— They  may  not  entirely  have  prevented  the 
pnblic  good  efiects  of  other  useful  qualities  with 
which  they  were  associated  ;  but  they  do  most 
fatally  operate  against  the  personal  honour  of 
the  individual ;  and  against  her  reaping  that 
harvest  of  gratitude  and  respect,  to  which  she 
might  otherwise  have  been  so  justly  entitled. 

Vanity  was,  too  probably,  the  spring  of  some 
of  Elizabeth’s  most  admired  actions ;  but  the 
same  vanity  also  produced  that  jealousy,  which 
terminated  in  the  death  of  Mary.  It  was  the 
same  vanity  which  led  her  first  to  court  the  ad¬ 
miration  of  Essex,  and  then  to  suffer  him  to  fall 
a  victim  to  her  wounded  pride.  Her  temper 
was  uncontrolled. — While  we  pardon  her  igno¬ 
rance  of  the  principles  of  liberty,  we  should  not 
forget  how  little  she  respected  the  privileges  of 
parliament,  claiming  a  right  of  imprisoning  its 
very  members,  without  deigning  to  give  any 
account  of  her  proceedings. 

Policy  was  her  favourite  science,  but  in  that 
day  a  liberal  policy  was  not  understood ;  and 
Elizabeth  was  too  apt  to  substitute  both  simula¬ 
tion  and  dissimulation  for  an  open  and  generous 
conduct.  This  dissimulation  at  length  lost  her 
the  confidence  of  her  subjects,  and  while  it  in- 
spired  her  with  a  distrust,  it  also  forfeited  the 
attachment  of  her  friends.  Her  insincerity,  as 
was  natural,  infected  those  around  her.  The 
young  Cecil  himself  was  so  far  alienated  from 
his  royal  mistress,  and  tainted  with  the  prevail¬ 
ing  spirit  of  intrigue,  as  to  be  secretly  corres¬ 
ponding  with  her  rival  James. 

That  such  mortifying  occurrences  wore  too 
likely  to  arise,  from  the  very  nature  of  existing 
circumstances,  where  the  dying  prince  was  the 
last  of  her  race,  and  the  nearly  vacant  throne 
about  to  be  possessed  by  a  stranger,  must  as¬ 
suredly  be  allowed.  But  it  may  still  bo  asserted, 
that  nothing  but  deficiency  of  moral  character 
could  have  so  desolated  the  closing  scene  of  an 


illustrious  princess.  Real  virtue  will,  in  every 
rank,  draw  upon  it  disinterested  regard  ;  and  a 
truly  virtuous  sovereign  will  not  be  shut  out 
from  a  more  than  ordinary  share  in  this  general 
blessing.  It  is  honourable  to  human  nature  to 
see  the  dying  William  pressing  to  his  bosom  the 
hand  of  Bentick  ;  but  it  will  be  still  more  con¬ 
solatory  as  well  as  instructive  to  compare,  with 
the  forsaken  death-bed  of  Elizabeth,  the  exem¬ 
plary  closing  sconce  of  the  second  Mary  as  de¬ 
scribed  by  Burnet,  an  eye-witness  of  the  affect¬ 
ing  event  which  he  relates. 


CHAP.  XIV. 

Moral  advantages  to  he  derived  from  the  study 
of  history,  independent  of  the  examples  it  ex¬ 
hibits. — History  proves  the  corruption  of  human 
nature. — It  demonstrates  the  superintending 
power  of  Providence — illustrated  by  instances. 

The  knowledge  of  great  events  and  splendid 
characters,  and  even  of  the  customs,  laws,  and 
manners  of  different  nations  ;  an  acquaintance, 
however  accurate,  with  the  state  of  the  arts,  sci¬ 
ences,  and  co.mme-rce  of  those  nations,  important 
as  is  this  knowledge,  must  not  however  be  con¬ 
sidered  as  of  primary  importance  in  the  study 
of  history. — There  are  stil^  higher  uses  to  which 
that  study  may  be  turned.  History  furnishes  a 
strong  practical  illustration  of  one  of  the  funda¬ 
mental  doctrines  of  our  religion,  the  corruption 
of  human  nature.  To  this  truth  it  constantly 
bears  witness  by  exemplifying  it  under  every 
shape  and  shade,  and  colour,  and  gradation ;  the 
annals  of  the  world,  indeed,  from  its  commence¬ 
ment  to  the  present  hour,  presenting  little  else 
than  a  strongly  interwoven  tissue  of  those  cor¬ 
ruptions,  and  their  attendant  calamities. 

History  every  where  proves  the  helplessness 
and  natural  inability  of  man,  the  insufficiency 
of  all  such  moral  principles  as  can  be  derived 
from  nature  and  experience ;  the  necessity  of 
explicit  instruction  respecting  our  true  happi¬ 
ness,  and  of  divinely  communicated  strength  in 
order  to  its  attainment ;  and  consequently,  the 
inconceivable  worth  of  that  life  and  immortali¬ 
ty,  which  are  so  fully  brought  to  light  by  the 
gospel. 

That  reader  looks  to  little  purpose  over  the 
eventful  page  of  history,  who  does  not  accustom 
himself  to  mark  therein  the  finger  of  the  Al¬ 
mighty,  governing  kings  and  kingdoms ;  pro- 
onging  or  contracting  the  duration  of  empires  ; 
tracing  out  beforehand,  in  the  unimpeachable 
page  of  the  prophet  Daniel,*  an  outline  of  suc- 
eessive  empires,  which  subsequent  events  have 

*  The  parts  of  the  book  of  Daniel  chiefly  alluded  to 
aie  Nebuchadnezzar’s  dream  dnd  Daniel’s  interpreta 
tion  of  it,  in  the  second  chapter;  and  his  own  vision oi 
the  four  beasts,  in  the  eighth.  These  two  passages 
alone,  preserved  as  they  have  been  by  the  most  invete¬ 
rate  enemies  of  Christianity,  amount  to  an  irrefragible 
demonstration  that  our  religion  is  divine.  One  of  the 
most  ancient  and  most  learned  opposers  of  revelation  is 
said  to  have  denied  the  possibility  of  these  prophecies 
having  existed  before  the  events.  Hut  we  know  Uiey 
did  exist,  and  no  modern  infidel  dares  to  dispute  it. — 
But,  admitting  this,  however  they  may  take  refuge  in 
their  own  inconsequence  of  mind,  they  inevitably, 
though  indirectly,  allow  the  truth  of  Christianity 


36 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


realized  with  the  most  critical  exactness ;  and 
describing  their  eventful  subservience  to  the  spi¬ 
ritual  kingdom  of  the  Messiah,  with  a  circum¬ 
stantial  accuracy  which  the  well-informed  Chris¬ 
tian,  who  is  versed  in  scripture  language,  and 
whose  heart  is  interested  in  the  subject,  reads 
with  unutterable  and  never-ceasing  astonish¬ 
ment.  It  is,  in  fact,  this  wonderful  correspond¬ 
ence,  which  gives  its  highest  value  to  the  more 
ancient  half  of  the  historic  series.  What  would 
it  profit  us,  at  this  day,  to  learn  from  Xenophon, 
that  the  Assyrian  monarch  had  subjugated  all 
those  countries,  with  the  exception  of  Media, 
which  spread  eastward  from  the  Mediterranean, 
if  it  were  not  that,  by  this  statement,  he  confirms 
that  important  portion  of  sacred  and  prophetic 
history !  And  to  what  solidly  useful  purpose 
would  the  same  historian’s  detail  of  the  taking 
of  Babylon  be  applicable,  if  it  did  not  forcibly  as 
well  as  minutely,  illustrate  the  almost  equally 
detailed  denunciations  of  the  prophet  Isaiah?  It 
was  partly  for  the  purpose  of  elucidating  this 
correspondence  between  sacred  prophecy  and 
ancient  history  ;  and  showing,  by  how  regular 
a  providential  chain  the  successive  empires  of 
the  ancient  world  were  connected  with  each 
other,  and  ultimately  with  Christianity,  that  the 
excellent  Rollin  composed  his  well-known  work; 
and  the  impression  which  his  researches  left 
upon  his  own  mind,  may  be  seen  in  those  sub¬ 
limely  pious  remarks  with  which  his  last  volume 
is  concluded. 

A  careful  perusal  of  the  historical  and  pro¬ 
phetical  parts  of  scripture  will  prepare  us  for 
reading  profane  history  with  great  advantage. 
In  the  former  we  are  admitted  within  the  veil. 
We  are  informed  how  the  vices  of  nations  drew 
down  on  them  the  wrath  of  the  Almighty  ;  and 
how  some  neighbouring  potentate  was  employed 
as  the  instrument  of  divine  vengeance.  How 
his  ambition,  his  courage,  and  military  skill 
were  but  the  means  of  fulfilling  the  divine  pre¬ 
diction,  or  of  inflicting  the  divine  punishment. 
How,  when  the  mighty  conqueror,  the  execu¬ 
tioner  of  the  sentence  of  Heaven,  had  performed 
his  assigned  task,  he  was  put  aside,  and  was 
himself,  perhaps  in  his  turn,  humbled  and  laid 
low.  Such  are  the  familiar  incidents  of  his¬ 
toric  and  prophetic  Scripture.  But,  in  addition 
to  the  stock  of  knowledge  which  we  received 
from  thence,  we  shall  have  learned  in  the  divine 
school  to  little  purpose,  if  we  do  not  find  the  be¬ 
nefit  of  our  studies  in  the  general  impression 
and  habits  of  mind  which  we  derive  from  them  ; 
if  we  do  not  open  our  eyes  to  the  agency  of  Pro¬ 
vidence  in  the  varying  fortunes  of  nations,  and 
in  the  talents,  characters,  and  fates  of  the  chief 
actors  in  the  great  drama  of  life. 

Do  we  read  in  the  prophetic  page  the  solemn 
call  and  designations  of  Cyrus  ? — Let  us  learn 
to  recognise  no  less,  as  the  instrument  of  the 
Almighty,  a  Gustavus,  and  a  Marlborough  !  Are 
we  many  hundred  years  before  informed,  by 
Him  who  can  alone  see  the  end  from  the  be¬ 
ginning,  of  the  military  exploits  of  the  conqueror 
of  Babylon,  and  the  overturner  of  the  Assyrian 
empire  ? — Let  us  learn  to  refer  no  less  to  that 
same  all-disposing  power,  the  victories  of  Lutzen 
and  of  Blenheim,  the  humiliation  of  Austrian 
arrogance,  and  of  French  ambition. 


Another  important  end  to  the  study  of  genera, 
history,  distinct  from  that  which  has  just  been 
mentioned,  but  by  no  means  unconnected  with 
it,  is  the  contemplation  of  divine  wisdom  and 
goodness,  as  exercised  in  gradually  civilizing  the 
human  race,  through  the  instrumentality  of  their 
own  agitation.  In  this  view  the  mind  of  the 
pupil  should  be  particularly  led  to  observe  that 
mysterious  yet  most  obvious  operation  of  Provi¬ 
dence,  by  which,  through  successive  ages,  the 
complicated  chaos  of  human  agency  has  been 
so  over-ruled  as  to  make  all  things  work  together 
for  general  good  :  the  hostile  collisipn  of  nations 
being  often  made  conducive,  almost  in  its  im¬ 
mediate  consequences,  to  their  common  benefit, 
and  often  rendered  subservient  to  the  general 
improvement,  and  progressive  advancement  ot 
the  great  commonwealth  of  mankind. 

If  this  view,  respecting  the  world  at  large, 
should  be  deemed  too  vast  for  satisfactory  consi¬ 
deration,  it  may  be  limited  to  that  part  with 
which  we  are  most  nearly  connected ;  and  to 
which  it  is  hardly  too  bold  to  say,  that  Divine 
Providence  itself  has,  during  the  latter  ages  of 
the  world,  seemed  to  direct  its  chief  attention — 
I  mean  the  continent  of  Europe.  Let  it  simply 
be  asked,  what  was  the  state  of  this  continent 
two  thousand  years  ago  ?  The  answer  must  be 
— from  the  Alps  to  the  Frozen  Ocean,  a  moral 
as  well  as  physical  wilderness.  That  the  human 
powers  were  formed  for  extended  exercise,  and 
in  some  sense  for  boundless  improvement,  the 
very  contemplation  of  those  powers  is  sufficient 
to  eVi^ce.  But  that  improvement  had  not  then 
begun,  nor  was  the  frost  of  their  dreariest  win¬ 
ter  more  benumbing  than  that  in  which  their 
minds  had  been  for  ages  locked  up.  To  what 
then  but  a  regular  design  of  Providence  can  we 
attribute  the  amazing  change  !  And  it  is  doubt¬ 
less  the  part,  no  less  of  religious  gratitude  than 
of  philosophical  curiosity,  to  inquire  into  the  se¬ 
ries  of  instrumental  causes  by  which  the  trans¬ 
formation  was  effected.  This  interesting  and 
most  instructive  intelligence  is  conveyed  to  us 
by  history.  We  mark  the  slow  but  steady  de- 
velopement  of  the  wise  and  benevolent  plan.  We 
see  the  ambition  of  Rome  breaking  up  the  soil 
with  its  resistless  plough-share,  and  scattering 
even  through  these  British  isles  the  first  seeds 
of  civilization.  We  see  the  northern  invaders 
burst  forth  with  irresistible  violence,  bringing 
back,  to  all  human  appearance,  the  former  deso¬ 
lation  ;  but,  in  reality,  conducing,  though  with 
an  operation  like  that  of  lava  from  a  volcano,  to 
a  richer  harvest  of  social  and  civil  happiness. 
We  see  all  that  was  really  valuable  spring  up 
again  afresh,  mingled  with  new  principles  of 
utility  and  comfort ;  and  above  all,  quickened 
and  enriched  by  the  wide-spread  influences  of  a 
pure  and  heavenly  religion.  We  see  the  violent 
passions  providentially  let  loose,  when  it  was 
necessary  for  society  to  be  roused  from  a  perni¬ 
cious  torpor.  We  see  an  enthusiastic  rage  for 
conquests  in  Asia,  inducing  an  activity  of  mind, 
and  enlargement  of  view,  out  of  which  eventu¬ 
ally  grew  commerce,  liberty,  literature,  philoso¬ 
phy,  and  at  length,  even  religious  reformation. 
In  brief,  if  in  our  perusal  of  history,  we  take 
true  wisdom  for  our  guide,  we  shall  not  only  be 
instructed  by  that  gracious  progressivonees 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


37 


winch  is  discernable  in  past  events,  but,  notwith¬ 
standing  the  awful  concussions  of  the  present 
period,  we  shall  learn  to  trust  Almighty  wisdom 
and  goodness  for  what  is  to  come.  And  we 
shall  be  ready  to  indulge  the  hope  of  a  yet  great¬ 
ly  increased  happiness  of  mankind,  when  we 
consider,  that  the  hand  which  brought  us  from 
barbarism  to  our  present  circumstances  is  still 
over  us  ; — that  progression  to  still  better  habits 
is  equally  possible,  and  equally  necessary  ;  and 
that  no  means  were  rendered  more  conducive  to 
such  progress,  in  the  period  which  is  passed,  than 
the  agitations  of  the  same  awful  and  afflictive 
kind  which  we  are  now  doomed  to  contemplate. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  same  Infinite  wisdom 
often  permits  human  evils  to  balance  each  other, 
and  in  subservience  to  his  grand  purpose  of 
general  good,  not  only  sets  good  against  evil, 
but  often,  where  the  counteracting  principle  of 
religion  seems  wholly  suspended,  prevent  any 
fatal  preponderance  in  the  scale  of  human  af¬ 
fairs,  by  allowing  one  set  of  vices  to  counter¬ 
balance  another. — Thus,  societies,  which  ap¬ 
pear,  on*a  general  view,  to  have  almost  wholly 
thrown  off  the  divine  government,  are  still  pre¬ 
served  for  better  things,  or  perhaps,  for  the  sake 
of  the  righteous  few,  who  still  remain  in  them, 
by  means  of  those  exertions  which  bad  men 
make  from  selfish  motives  ;  or  by  the  vigilance 
with  which  one  party  of  bad  men  watches  over 
another.  The  clash  of  parties,  and  the  opposi¬ 
tion  of  human  opinion,  are  likewise  often  over¬ 
ruled  for  good.  The  compages  of  the  public 
mind,  if  we  may  use  such  a  term,  are  no  less 
kept  together,  than  the  component  parts  of 
matter,  by  opposite  tendencies.  And,  as  all 
human  agents  are  nothing  but  the  instruments 
of  God,  he  can  with  equal  efficacy,  though  doubt¬ 
less  not  with  the  same  complacency,  cause 
the  effects  of  evil  passions  to  be  counteracted 
by  each  other,  as  well  as  by  the  opposite 
virtues.  For  instance,  were  it  not  for  indo¬ 
lence  and  the  dread  of  difficulty  and  danger, 
ambition  would  deluge  the  world  in  blood. 
The  love  of  praise,  and  the  love  of  indul¬ 
gence,  assist,  through  their  mutual  opposition, 
to  keep  each  other  in  order.  Avarice  and 
voluptuousness  are  almost  as  hostile  to  each 
other,  as  either  is  to  the  opposite  virtues ;  there¬ 
fore,  by  pulling  different  ways,  they  contribute 
to  keep  the  world  in  equipoise.  Thus,  the  same 
divine  hand,  which  had  so  adjusted  the  parts 
and  the  properties  of  matter,  as  that  their  ap¬ 
parent  opposition  produces,  not  disruption,  but 
harmony,  and  promotes  the  general  order,  has 
also  conceived,  through  the  action  and  counter¬ 
action  of  the  human  mind,  that  no  jar  of  passion, 
no  abuse  of  free  agency,  shall  eventually  defeat 
the  wise  and  gracious  purposes  of  heaven. 

For  an  illustration  of  these  remarks,  we 
scarcely  need  go  farther  than  the  character  of  our 
own  heroic  Elizabeth.  Her  passions  were  na¬ 
turally  of  the  strongest  kind  ;  and  it  must  be  ac¬ 
knowledged,  that  they  were  not  always  Under 
the  controul  of  principle.  To  what  then  can  we 
so  fairly  ascribe  the  success  which,  even  in  such 
instances,  attended  her,  as  the  effect  of  ono 
strong  passion  forcibly  operating  on  another  ? 
Inclinations  which  were  too  violent  to  bo  check¬ 
ed  by  reason  were  met  and  counteracted  by. 


opposite  inclinations  of  equal  violence ;  and 
through  the  direction  of  Providence,  the  pas¬ 
sion  finally  predominant  was  generally  favour- 
able  to  the  public  good. 

Do  we  then  mean  to  admit,  that  the  Almighty 
approves  of  these  excesses  in  individuals,  by 
which  his  wisdom  often  works  for  the  general 
benefit  ?  God  forbid.  Nothing  surely  could  be 
less  approved  by  him,  than  the  licentiousness 
and  cruelty  of  our  eighth  Henry,  though  He 
over-ruled  those  enormities  for  the  advantages 
of  the  community,  and  employed  them,  as  his 
instruments  for  restoring  good  government,  and 
for  introducing,  and  at  length  establishing,  the 
reformation.  England  enjoys  the  inestimable 
blessing  but  the  monarch  is  not  the  less  re¬ 
sponsible  personally  for  his  crimes.  We  are 
equally  certain,  that  God  did  not  approve  of  the 
insatiable  ambition  of  Alexander,  or  of  his  in¬ 
credible  acquisition  of  territory  by  means  of 
unjust  wars.  Yet,  from  that  ambition,  those 
wars,  and  those  conquests,  how  much  may  the 
condition  of  mankind  have  been  meliorated? 
The  natural  humanity  of  this  hero,  which  he 
had  improved  by  the  study  of  philosophy  under 
one  of  the  greatest  masters  in  the  world,  dis¬ 
posed  him  to  turn  his  conquests  to  the  benefit 
of  mankind.  He  founded  sevent}'  cities,  says 
his  historian,  so  situated  as  to  promote  com¬ 
merce  and  diffuse  civilization.  Plutarch*  ob¬ 
serves,  that  had  those  nations  not  been  conquer¬ 
ed,  Egypt  would  have  had  no  Alexandria,  Meso¬ 
potamia,  no  Selucia.  He  also  informs  us,  that 
Alexander  introduced  marriage  into  one  con¬ 
quered  country,  and  agriculture  into  another; 
that  one  barbarous  nation,  who  used  to  eat  their 
parents,  was  led  by  him  to  reverence  and  main¬ 
tain  them ;  that  he  taught  the  Persians,  to  re¬ 
spect,  and  not  to  marry  their  mothers ;  the 
Scythians  to  bury,  and  not  to  eat  their  dead. 

There  was  on  the  whole,  something  so  extra¬ 
ordinary  in  the  career  of  this  monarch,  and  in  the 
results  to  which  it  led,  that  his  historian  Arrian, 
amidst  all  the  darkness  of  paganism,  was  in¬ 
duced  to  say,  that  Alexander  seemed  to  have 
been  given  to  the  world  by  a  peculiar  dispensa¬ 
tion  of  Providence. 

Did  the  same  just  Providence,  approve  of 
the  usurpation  of  Augustus  over  his  fallen 
country  ? — No — but  Providence  ^employed  it  as 
the  means  of  restoring  peace  to  remote  pro¬ 
vinces,  which  the  tyrannical  republic  had  so 
long  harassed  and  oppressed  ;  and  also  of  estab¬ 
lishing  a  general  uniformity  of  law,  and  faeility 
of  intercourse  between  nation  and  nation,  which 
were  signally  subservient  to  the  diffusion  of  that 
divine  religion,  which  was  so  soon  to  enlighten 
and  to  bless  mankind. 

To  adduce  one  or  two  instances  more,  were 
thousands  might  be  adduced — Did  the  Almighty 
approve  those  frantic  wars  which  arrogated  to 
themselves  the  name  of  holy!  Yet,  with  all  the 
extravagance  of  the  enterprise,  and  the  ruinous 
failure  which  attended  its  execution,  many 
beneficial  consequences,  as  has  been  already  in¬ 
timated,  were  permitted,  incidentally,  to  grow 
out  of  them.  The  Crusaders,  as  their  historians 
demonstrate,!  beheld  in  their  inarch,  countries 

*  Quoted  by  Gillies  vol.  iii.  p.  385. 

f  See  especially  llobertfion’s  Stale  of  Europe 


38 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


in  which  civilization  had  made  a  greater  pro- 
gress  than  in  their  own.  They  saw  foreign 
manufactures  in  a  state  of  improvement  to 
which  they  had  not  been  accustomed  at  home. 
They  perceived  remains  of  knowledge  in  the 
East,  of  which  Europe  had  almost  lost  sight. 
Their  native  prejudices  were  diminished  in 
witnessing  improvements  to  which  the  state  of 
their  own  country  presented  comparative  bar¬ 
barity.  The  first  faint  gleam  of  light  dawned 
on  them,  the  first  perceptions  of  taste  and  ele¬ 
gance  were  awakened,  and  the  first  rudiments 
of  many  an  art  were  communicated  to  them  by 
this  personal  acquaintance  with  more  polished 
countries.  Their  views  of  commerce  were  im¬ 
proved,  and  their  means  of  extending  it  were 
enlarged. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add,  that  the  ex¬ 
cess  to  which  the  popes  carried  their  usurpation, 
and  the  Romish  clergy,  their  corruptions,  was, 
by  the  Providence  of  God,  the  immediate  cause 
of  the  reformation.  The  taking  of  Constanti¬ 
nople  by  the  Turks,  though  in  itself,  a  most  de¬ 
plorable  scene  of  crimes  and  calamities,  became 
the  occasion  of  most  important  benefits  to  our 
countries,  by  compelling  the  only  accomplished 
scholars  then  in  the  world  to  seek  an  asylum  in 
the  western  part  of  Europe.  To  these  countries 
they  carried  with  them  the  Greek  language, 
which  ere  long  proved  one  of  the  providential 
means  of  introducing  the  most  important  event 
that  has  occurred  since  the  first  establishment 
of  Christianity. 

May  we  not  now  add  to  the  number  of  in¬ 
stances  in  which  Providence  has  over-ruled  the 
crimes  of  men  for  good,  a  recent  exemplification 
of  the  doctrine,  in  the  ambition  of  that  person, 
who,  by  his  unjust  assumption  of  imperial 
power  in  a  neighbouring  nation,  has,  though 
unintentionally,  almost  annihilated  the  wild 
outcry  of  false  liberty,  and  the  clamour  of 
mad  democracy  ? 

All  those  contingent  events  which  lie  without 
the  limits  and  calculations  of  human  foresight ; 
all  those  variable  loose  uncertainties  which  men 
call  chance,  has  God  taken  under  his  own  cer¬ 
tain  disposal  and  absolute  controul.  To  reduce 
uncertainty  to  method,  confusion  to  arrange¬ 
ment,  and  contingency  to  order,  is  solely  the 
prerogative  of  Almighty  jjower. 

Nothing  can  be  further  from  the  intention  of 
these  remarks,  than  to  countenance,  in  the 
slightest  degree,  the  doctrine  of  optimism  in  the 
sense  in  which  it  was  maintained  by  Mr.  Pope. 
Far  be  it  from  the  writer,  to  intimate  that  the 
good  which  has  thus  providentially  been  pro¬ 
duced  out  of  evil,  is  greater  than  the  good, 
which  would  have  been  produced  had  no  such 
evil  been  committed  ;  or  to  insinuate,  that  the 
crimes  of  men  do  not  diminish  the  quantity  of 
good  which  is  enjoyed.  This  would,  indeed,  be 
to  furnish  an  apology  for  vice.  That  God  can 
and  does  bring  good  out  of  evil,  is  unquestion¬ 
ably  true ;  but  to  affirm,  that  he  brings  more,  or 
so  much  good  out  of  evil  as  he  would  have 
brought  out  of  good,  had  good  been  practised, 
would  bo  indeed  a  dangerous  position. 

If,  therefore,  God  often  ‘  educes  good  from  ill,’ 
yet  man  has  no  right  to  count  upon  his  always 
doing,  it  in  the  same  degree  in  which  he  ap¬ 


points  that  good  shall  be  productive  of  good.  To 
resume  the  illustration,  therefore,  from  a  few  of 
the  instances  already  adduced;  what  an  exten- 
sive  blessing  might  Alexander,  had  he  acted 
with  other  views  and  to  other  ends,  have  proved 
to  that  world,  whose  happiness  he  impaired  by 
his  ambition,  and  whose  morals  he  corrupted  by 
his  example  !  How  much  more  effectually,  and 
immediately  might  the  reformation  have  been 
promoted,  had  Henry,  laying  aside  the  blind¬ 
ness  of  prejudice,  and  subduing  the  turbulence 
of  passion,  been  the  zealous  and  consistent  sup¬ 
porter  of  the  protestant  cause  ;  the  virtuous  hus¬ 
band  of  one  virtuous  wife,  and  the  parent  of 
children  all  educated  in  the  sound  principles  of 
the  reformation?  Again,  had  the  popes  effec¬ 
tually  reformed  themselves,  how  might  the  unity 
of  the  churches  have  been  promoted  :  and  even 
the  schisms,  which  have  arisen  in  protestant 
communities,  been  diminished !  It  would  be 
superfluous  to  recapitulate  other  instances; 
these,  it  is  presumed,  being  abundantly  suffi¬ 
cient  to  obviate  any  charge  of  the  most  distant 
approach  towards  the  fatal  doctrine  o£  Neces- 
sity. 


CHAP.  XV. 

On  the  distinguishing  character  of  Christianity. 

The  great  leading  truths  of  Scripture  are 
few  in  number,  though  the  spirit  of  them  is 
diffused  through  every  page.  The  being  and 
attributes  of  the  Almighty ;  the  spiritual  wor¬ 
ship  whieh  he  requires;  the  introduction  of 
natural  and  moral  evil  in  the  world  ;  the  restora¬ 
tion  of  man  ;  the  life,  death,  character,  and  offi¬ 
ces  of  the  Redeemer ;  the  holy  example  he  has 
given  us ;  the  divine  system  of  ethics  which  he 
has  bequeathed  us;  the  awful  sanctions  with 
which  they  are  enforced ;  the  spiritual  nature 
of  the  eternal  world  ;  the  necessity  of  repent¬ 
ance  ;  the  pardon  of  sin  through  faith  in  a  Re¬ 
deemer  ;  the  offer  of  divine  assistance  ;  and  the 
promise  of  eternal  life.  The  Scripture  describes 
a  multitude  of  persons  who  exemplify  its  truth ; 
whose  lives  bear  testimony  to  the  perfection  of 
the  divine  law  ;  and  whose  characters,  however 
clouded  with  infirmity,  and  subject  to  tempta¬ 
tion,  yet,  acting  under  its  authority  and  in¬ 
fluence,  evince,  by  the  general  tenor  of  their 
conduct,  that  they  really  embrace  religion  as  a 
governing  principle  of  the  heart,  and  as  the 
motive  to  all  virtue  in  the  life. 

In  forming  the  mind  of  the  royal  pupil,  an 
early  introduction  to  these  Scriptures,  the  de¬ 
pository  of  such  important  truths,  will  dcubtless 
be  considered  as  a  matter  of  prime  concern. 
And  as  her  mind  opens,  it  will  be  thought  neces¬ 
sary  to  point  out  to  her,  how  one  great  evepf 
led  to  another  still  greater  ;  till  at  length  we  see 
a  series  accomplished,  and  an  immovable  foun¬ 
dation  laid  for  our  faith  and  hope,  which  in¬ 
cludes  every  essential  principle  of  moral  virtue 
and  genuine  happiness. 

To  have  given  rules  for  moral  conduct  might 
appear,  to  mere  human  wisdom,  the  aptest 
method  of  improving  our  nature. — And,  accord . 


(HE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


mgJy*  we  find  such  a  course  generally  pursued 
by  the  ancient  moralists,  both  of  Greece  and 
Asia.  Of  this,  it  is  not  the  least  inconvenient 
result,  that  rules  must  be  multiplied  to  a  degree 
the  most  burthensome  and  perplexing.  And 
there  would  be,  after  all,  a  necessity  for  inces¬ 
sant  alteration,  as  the  rules  of  one  age  could  not 
be  expected  to  correspond  with  the  manners  of 
another.  This  inconvenience  might  perhaps,  in 
some  degree  be  avoided,  by  entailing  on  a  peo¬ 
ple  an  undeviating  sameness  of  manners.  But, 
even  when  this  has  been  effected,  how  oppres- 
siTely  minute,  and  how  disgustingly  trivial  are 
the  authorized  codes  of  instruction !  Of  this 
every  fresh  translation  from  the  moral  writings 
of  the  east  is  an  exemplification  ;  as  if  the  mind 
could  be  made  pure  by  overloading  the  memory  ! 

It  is  one  of  the  perfections  of  revealed  religion, 
that,  instead  of  multiplying  rules,  it  establishes 
principles.  It  traces  up  right  conduct  into  a 
few  radical  dispositions,  which,  when  once  fully 
formed,  are  the  natural  sources  of  correspondent 
temper  and  action.  To  implant  these  disposi¬ 
tions,  then,  is  the  leading  object  of  what  we  may 
venture  to  call  the  Scripture  philosophy.  And 
as  the  heart  must  be  the  seat  of  that  which  is  to 
influence  the  whole  man,  so  it  is  chiefly  to  the 
heart  that  the  holy  Scriptures  address  them¬ 
selves.  Their  object  is  to  make  us  love  what  is 
right,  rather  than  to  occupy  our  understandings 
with  its  theory.  Knowledge  puffeth  up,  says 
one  of  our  divine  instructors,  but  it  is  love  that 
edifieth.  And  the  principle  which  is  here  as¬ 
sumed,  will  be  found  most  strictly  true,  that  if 
a  love  of  goodness  be  once  thoroughly  implanted, 
we  shall  not  need  many  rules ;  but  we  shall  act 
aright  from  what  we  may  almost  call  a  noble 
kind  of  instinct.  ‘  If  thine  eye  be  single,’  says 
our  Saviour,  ‘  thy  whole  body  shall  be  full  of 
light.’  Our  religion,  as  taught  in  the  Scrip¬ 
ture,  does,  in  this  very  instance,  evince  its  hea¬ 
venly  origin.  St.  Paul,  whose  peculiar  province 
it  seems  to  have  been  to  explain,  as  it  were  sci¬ 
entifically,  the  great  doctrines  of  his  master, 
gives  us  a  definition  of  Christianity,  which  out¬ 
does  at  once  in  brevity,  in  fulness,  and  even  in 
systematic  exactness  all  that  has  been  achieved 
in  the  art  of  epitomizing,  by  the  greatest  masters 
of  human  science, — Faith  which  worketh  by  love. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  affirm,  that  this  expres¬ 
sion  substantially  contains  the  whole  scope  and 
tenor  of  both  Testaments  ;  the  substance  of  all 
morality,  and  the  very  life  and  soul  of  human 
virtue  and  happiness.  A  want  of  attention  to 
what  St  Paul  means  by  faith,  too  generally 
makes  the  sense  of  the  passage  be  overlooked. 
But  the  well-directed  student  will  discern,  that 
St.  Paul  assumes  exactly  what  has  been  inti¬ 
mated  above,  that  God’s  object  in  Revelation  is 
not  merely  to  convey  liis  will,  but  also  to  mani¬ 
fest  himself ;  not  merely  to  promulgate  laws  for 
restraining  or  regulating  conduct,  but  to  display 
his  own  nature  and  attributes,  so  as  to  bring 
back  to  himself  the  hearts  and  affections  of  fallen 
man  ;  and  that,  accordingly,  he  means  by  faith, 
the  effectual  and  impressive  apprehension  of 
God,  thus  manifested.  In  his  language,  it  is 
not  a  notion  of  the  intellect,  nor  a  tradition 
coldly  residing  in  the  recollection,  which  the 
Scriptures  exhibit,  but  an  actual  persuasion  of 


3& 

the  divine  realities.  It  is,  in  short,  such  a  con¬ 
viction  of  what  is  revealed,  as  gives  it  an  effica¬ 
cy  equal  for  every  practical  purpose,  to  that 
which  is  derived  through  the  evidence  of  our 
senses. 

Faith,  then,  in  St.  Paul’s  language,  is  religion 
in  its  simplest,  inward  principle.  It  is  the  deep 
and  efficacious  impression,  which  the  manifesta¬ 
tion  of  God,  made  to  us  in  the  Scripture,  ought 
in  all  reason  to  produce  in  our  hearts;  but 
which  it  does  not  produce  until,  in  answer  to 
our  earnest  prayer,  his  holy  Spirit  ‘  opens,  as  it 
were,  our  hearts,’  to  receive  the  things  which 
are  thus  presented  to  our  minds.  When  the  un¬ 
seen  realities  of  religion,  are  able  to  do  more 
with  us  than  the  tempting  objects  of  this  visible 
world,  then  and  not  before,  is  the  divine  grace 
of  faith  really  formed  within  us. 

That  this  is  the  scriptural  idea  of  faith,  will 
appear  at  once,  from  a  perusal  of  that  most  in¬ 
teresting  portion  of  Scripture  the  eleventh 
chapter  to  the  Hebrews.  The  definition  with 
which  the  chapter  commences,  states  this  pre¬ 
cise  notion  ; — ‘  Faith  is  the  substantiation  of 
things  hoped  for,  the  demonstration  of  things 
not  seen.’*  And  the  instances  adduced  are 
most  satisfactory  exemplifications.  ‘  By  faith, 
Noah,  being  warned  of  God  of  things  not  seen 
as  yet,  being  moved  with  fear,  prepared  an  ark,’ 
&c.  ‘  By  faith,  Moses  forsook  Egypt,  not  fear¬ 

ing  the  wrath  of  the  king,  for  he  endured  as 
seeing  him  who  is  invisible.’  ‘  With  the  heart,’ 
says  St.  Paul,  ‘  man.  believeth  unto  righteous¬ 
ness  ;  that  is,  when  the  infinitely  awful  and 
inexpressibly  engaging  views  of  God,  manifest¬ 
ing  himself  in  the  Scripture,  as  our  Creator, 
Redeemer,  and  Sanctifier,  really,  and  effectually 
impress  themselves  on  our  hearts,  so  as  to  be¬ 
come  the  paramount  principle  of  inward  and 
outward  conduct;  then,  and  not  before,  we  are 
in  the  Scripture  sense,  believers.  And  tiiis  faith, 
if  real,  must  produce  love ;  for,  when  our  minds 
and  hearts  are  thus  impressed,  our  affections 
must  of  necessity  yield  to  that  impression. — If 
virtue,  said  a  heathen,  could  be  seen  with  human 
eyes,  what  astonishing  love  would  it  excite  in 
us!  St.  Paul’s  divine  faith  realizes  this  very 
idea.  If  Moses  ‘  endured  as  seeing  him  who 
is  invisible,’  it  could  only  be,  because,  in  seeing 
God,  he  beheld  what  filled  up  his  whole  soul, 
and  so  engaged  his  hopes  and  fears,  but,  above 
all,  his  love,  as  to  raise  him  above  the  low  al¬ 
lurements  of  the  world,  and  the  puny  menaces 
of  mortals.  It  is  said  of  him;  that  ‘  he  account¬ 
ed  even  the  reproach  of  Christ  greater  riches 
than  the  treasures  of  Egypt;’  a  preference 
which  implies  the  strongest  affection,  as  well  as 
the  deepest  conviction.  His  case,  then,  clearly 
illustrates  what  St.  Paul  says  of  faith  working 
by  love ;  his  apprehension  of  God  being  so  deep 
and  lively,  as  to  fix  his  supremo  love  on  that 
supreme  excellence,  which  was  thus,  as  it  were, 
visible  to  his  mind  ;  the  current  of  his  temper, 
and  the  course  of  his  actions,  followed  this  para¬ 
mount  direction  of  his  heart. 

*  I  thus  venture  to  strensthen  the  expression  in  the 
authorised  translation,  in  order  to  convey  some  cjearer 
idea  of  the  orisinal  terms,  which,  as  the  best  critics  at- 
low,  have,  perhaps,  a  force  to  which  no  English  words 
can  do  justice 


40 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


The  Scripture  then,  in  reality,  does  not  so 
much  leach  us  how  to  be  virtuous,  as,  if  we 
comply  with  its  intention,  actually  makes  us  so. 
It  is  St.  Paul’s  argument  through  the  Epistle 
to  the  Romans,  that  even  the  most  perfect  code 
of  laws  which  could  be  given,  would  fall  infi¬ 
nitely  short  of  our  e.xigencies,  if  it  only  gave  the 
rules  without  inspiring  the  disposition. 

The  law  of  Moses  had  afforded  admirable 
moral  precepts,  and  even  the  sages  of  the  hea¬ 
then  world  had  found  out  many  excellent  max¬ 
ims  ;  but,  an  inspiriting  principle,  by  which 
men  might  be  made  to  love  goodness  as  well  as 
to  know  it,  was  that  of  which  the  Gentiles,  and, 
in  iBome  measure,  the  Jews  also,  stood  in  need. 

to  furnish  this  principle  by  inspiring  such 
h  faith  in  God,  as  must  produce  love  to  God, 
and,  by  producing  love  to  God,  become  opera¬ 
tive  in  every  species  of  virtue,  is  avowedly  the 
supreme  object  of  the  gospel  of  Christ. 

And,  therefore,  it  is  that  the  Scripture  repre¬ 
sents.  to  us  facts,  and  doctrines  founded  on  facts, 
rather  than  theories ;  because  facts  are  alone 
fitted  to  work  on  the  heart.  In  theories,  the  un¬ 
derstanding  acts  for  itself ;  in  apprehending 
facts,  it  acts  subserviently  to  the  higher  powers 
of  the  soul,  merely  furnishing  to  the  affections 
those  objects  for  which  they  naturally  look ;  and 
distinguishing  false  and  seductive  appearances 
from  real  sources  of  delight  and  comfort.  In 
this  way  the  sacred  Scriptures  make  the  fullest 
use  of  our  rational  powers,  uniformly  present¬ 
ing  such  facts,  as  grow  clearer  the  more  severe¬ 
ly  they  are  examined ;  completely  satisfying  our 
understandings,  as  to  their  aptness  to  the  great 
purpose  of  working  on  our  hearts,  and,  on  the 
whole,  making  our  religion  as  reasonable,  as  if, 
like  the  mathematical  truth,  it  had  been  exclu¬ 
sively  addressed  to  our  intellect ;  while  its  in¬ 
fluence  on  the  rightly  disposed  heart  gives  such 
an  inward  proof  of  its  divinity  as  no  merely  ra¬ 
tional  scheme  could,  in  tlie  nature  of  things, 
possess. 

Let,  then,  the  royal  pupil  be  carefully  taught, 
that  Christianity  is  not  to  be  examined,  nor  the 
sacred  Scriptures  perused,  as  if  they  were  mere¬ 
ly  to  be  believed,  and  remembered,  and  held  in 
speculative  reverence.  But,  let  it  rather  be  im¬ 
pressed  upon  her,  that  the  holy  Scriptures  are 
God’s  great  means  of  producing  in  her  heart, 
that  awe  of  his  presence,  that  reverence  of  his 
majesty,  that  delight  in  his  infinite  perfections, 
that  practical  affectionate  knowledge  of  the 
only  true  God,  and  of  Jesus  Christ  whom  he  has 
sent,  which  constitutes  the  rest,  the  peace,  the 
strength,  the  light,  the  consolation  of  every  soul 
which  attains  to  it.  Let  her  be  taught  to  regard 
the  oracles  of  God,  not  merely  as  a  light  to  guide 
her  steps,  but,  as  a  sacred  fire  to  animate  and 
invigorate  her  inmost  soul.  A  purifying  flame, 
like  that  upon  the  altar,  from  whence  the  se¬ 
raph  conveyed  the  coal  to  the  lips  of  the  pro¬ 
phet,  who  cried  out,  ‘  Lo !  this  hath  touched  my 
lips,  and  mine  iniquity  is  taken  away,  and  my 
sin  is  purged.’ 

That  fear  of  God,  which  the  Scripture,  when 
used  as  it  ought,  never  fails  to  inspire,  is  felt  by 
the  possessor  to  be  essential  wisdom  ;  and  that 
love  of  God,  which  it  is  no  less  fitted  to  excite, 

equally  acknowledged  by  liim  whom  it  influ¬ 


ences,  to  be  at  once  essential  virtue,  and  essen¬ 
tial  happiness ;  and  both  united,  are  found  to  be 
that  pure  element  in  which  rational  intelligences 
are  formed  to  live,  and  out  of  which  they  must 
ever  be  perturbed  and  miserable. 

But,  to  make  the  Scripture  thus  efficacious,  it 
must  be  studied  according  to  the  will  of  him 
who  gave  it.  It  is  said  of  our  Saviour  in  the 
instance  of  his  disciples, — ‘Then  opened  he 
their  understandings,  that  they  might  under¬ 
stand  the  Scriptures ;’  and  it  is  said  of  Lydia^ 
saint  Paul’s  first  convert  at  Philippi,  ‘  That  the 
Lord  opened  her  heart,  to  attend  to  the  things 
which  were  spoken  of  Paul.’  We  read  of  others 
of  whom  it  is  observed,  ‘  the  gospel  was  preach¬ 
ed,  but  it  did  not  profit  them,  because  it  was  not 
mixed  with  faith  in  them  that  heard  it.’  What 
follows  ?  evidently,  that  the  Scripture,  to  be  read 
effectually,  must  be  read  devoutly,  with  earnest 
and  constant  prayer  to  him  whose  word  it  is, 
that  he  would  so  impress  it  on  our  hearts,  by  his 
good  Spirit,  that  it  may  become  the  power  of 
God  unto  salvation.  ‘  If  any  man  lack  wisdom 
let  him  ask  it  of  God,’  says  St.  James,  ‘  who 
giveth  to  all  men  liberally,  and  upbraideth  not, 
and  it  shall  be  given  him.’ 

But,  one  grand  peculiarity  of  Christianity  re¬ 
mains  to  be  mentioned — That  it  addresses  us 
not  merely  as  ignorant,  but  as  prejudiced  and 
corrupt ;  as  needing  not  merely  instruction,  but 
reformation.  This  reformation  can  be  accom¬ 
plished,  these  prejudices  and  these  corruptions 
can  be  removed,  only  by  divine  power.  It  is  a 
new  creation  of  the  soul,  requiring  no  less  thaa 
its  original  formation,  the  hand  of  the  divine  ar¬ 
tificer.  ‘  The  natural  man  receiveth  not  the 
things  of  the  Spirit  of  God ;  they  are  foolish¬ 
ness  unto  him.’  God  must  reveal  them  by  his 
Spirit :  he  must  produce  the  disposition  to  re¬ 
ceive  them. 

To  this  end  no  kind  of  previous  knowledge  is 
more  condueive  than  the  knowledge  of  ourselves 
as  fallen,  depraved,  and  helpless  creatures  ;  and, 
therefore,  absolutely  requiring  some  such  gra¬ 
cious  interposition  in  our  favour  as  that  which 
the  Scripture  offers.  Exactly  as  the  malady  is 
felt,  will  the  remedy  be  valued ;  and,  conse¬ 
quently,  no  instruction  can  be  more  indispensa¬ 
ble  for  the  royal  pupil,  than  that  which  tends  to 
impress  on  her  mind,  that  in  this  respect  she 
stands  on  a  level  with  the  meanest  of  her  fellow- 
creatures.  That,  from  the  natural  corruption 
of  every  human  heart  whatever  amiable  quali 
ties  an  individual  may  possess,  each  carries 
about  with  him  a  root  of  bitterness,  which,  if 
not  counteracted  by  the  above  means,  will  spread 
itself  through  the  whole  soul,  disfigure  the  cha¬ 
racter,  and  disorder  the  life  ;  that  this  malignant 
principle,  while  predominant,  will  admit  but  of 
a  shadowy  and  delusive  semblance  of  virtue, 
which  temptation  ever  dissipates,  and  from, 
which  the  heart  never  receives  solid  comfort. 
Who  can  enumerate  the  hourly  calamities  which 
tlie  proud,  the  self-willed,  the  voluptuous,  are 
inflicting  on  themselves ;  which  rend  and  lace- 
rate  the  bosom,  while  no  eye  perceives  it?  Who 
can  express  the  daily  disappointment,  the  alter¬ 
nate  fever  and  lassitude  of  him,  whoso  heart 
knows  of  no  rest,  but  what  this  disordered  world 
can  afford  ? 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


41 


Who  then  is  happy  ?  He  alone,  whether  prince 
or  subject,  who,  through  the  powerful  and  salu¬ 
tary  influence  of  revealed  religion  on  his  heart, 
is  so  impressed  with  things  invisible,  as  to  rise 
superior  to  the  vicissitudes  of  mortality  :  who  so 
believes  and  feels  what  is  contained  in  the  Bible, 
as  to  make  God  his  refuge,  his  Saviour  his  trust, 
and  true  practical  holiness  the  chief  object  of 
his  pursuit.  To  such  a  one  his  Bible,  and  his 
closet,  are  a  counterpoise  to  all  the  trials  and  the 
violence  to  which  he  may  be  exposed.  ‘  Thou 
shalt  hide  them  privily,’  says  the  Psalmist,  ‘  by 
thine  own  presence,  from  the  provoking  of  all 
men ;  thou  shalt  keep  them  secretly  in  thy  pa¬ 
vilion  from  the  strife  of  tongues. 


CHAP.  XVI. 

On  the  Scripture  evidences  of  Christianity. —  The 
Christian  religion  peculiarly  adapted  to  the 
exigencies  of  men ;  and  especially  calculated 
to  supply  the  defects  of  heathen  philosophy. 

If  Christianity  were  examined  with  attention, 
and  candour,  it  would  be  found  to  contain  irre¬ 
sistible  evidences  of  its  divine  origin.  Those 
who  have  formed  continued  trains  of  argument 
in  its  support,  have,  no  doubt,  often  effected  very 
valuable  purposes ;  but  it  is  certain,  that  con¬ 
viction  may  be  attained  in  a  much  simpler  me¬ 
thod.  In  fact,  it  would  imply  a  very  reasonable 
charge  against  Christianity,  if  its  proofs  were 
of  such  a  nature,  that  none  but  scholars  or  phi¬ 
losophers  could  feel  their  conclusiveness. 

A  book  exists  in  the  world,  purporting  to  con¬ 
tain  the  authentic  records,  and  authoritative 
principles  of  the  one  true  religion.  It  is  obvi¬ 
ously  the  work  not  of  one  person,  or  of  one  age. 
Its  earliest  pages,  on  the  contrary,  are,  beyond 
all  sober  question,  the  most  ancient  writings  in 
the  world  ;  while  its  later  parts  were  confessedly 
composed  at  a  time  much  within  the  limits  of 
historic  certainty  ;  a  time,  indeed,  with  which 
we  are  better  acquainted  than  with  any  other 
period  in  the  retrospect  of  ancieftt  history  ;  and 
which,  like  a  distant  eminence  brightly  illumi¬ 
nated  by  the  rays  of  the  sun,  is  distinctly  seen, 
while  intermediate  tracts  are  involved  in  impe¬ 
netrable  mist. 

Against  the  authority  of  this  most  interesting 
volume,  numberless  objections  have  been  raised. 
But,  who  has  yet  clearly  and  satisfactorily  shown 
how  its  existence,  in  the  form  it  bears,  can  be 
rationally  accounted  for,  on  the  supposition  of 
its  spuriqusness  ?  That  a  series  of  records  ori¬ 
ginating  so  variously  both  as  to  time,  occasion, 
and  circumstances,  should  involve  some  obscu¬ 
rity  or  difficulty,  or  even  in  some  instances  ap¬ 
parent  incongruity,  is  surely  no  cause  of  won¬ 
der  ;  and  that  these  should  be  dwelt  upon  and 
exaggerated  by  persons  hostile  to  the  principles 
which  the  volume  contains,  and  which  its  truth 
would  establish,  is  most  natural.  But,  which 
of  those  objectors  has  ever  been  able  to  substi¬ 
tute  a  s}/ stem  less  liable  to  objection?  Have 
any  of  them  given  a  satisfactory  solution  of  the 
unparalleled  difficulties  which  clog  their  hypo¬ 
thesis  ?  Which  of  them  has  even  attempted 
VoL.  II. 


I  fully  to  explain  the  simple  phenomenon  of  such 
I  a  volume  being  in  the  world,  on  the  supposition 
of  fabrication  or  imposture  ? 

This  book  divides  itself  into  two  great  por 
tions,  the  first  containing  the  account  of  a  pre» 
paratory  religion,  given  to  a  single  nation  ;  the 
latter  describing  the  completion  of  the  scheme, 
so  far  as  to  fit  this  religion  for  general  benefit, 
and  unlimited  diffusion. 

Respecting  the  first  great  portion  which  wa 
call  the  Old  Testament,  the  leading  features  ap* 
pear  peculiarly  striking.  In  this  book  alone, 
during  those  ages,  was  maintained  the  first  great 
truth,  of  there  being  only  one  living  and  true 
God:  which,  though  now  so  universally  acknow¬ 
ledged,  was  then  unconceived  by  the  politest  na¬ 
tions,  and  most  accomplished  philosophers.  And 
respecting  both  portions  of  this  book,  but  espei. 
cially  the  latter,  known  by  the  name  of  the  New 
Testament,  this  no  less  interesting  remark  is  to 
be  made,  that,  in  every  essential  point,  nearly 
the  same  view  is  taken  of  man’s  weaknessee 
and  wants,  of  the  nature  of  the  human  mind, 
and  what  is  necessary  to  its  ease  and  comfort, 
as  is  taken  by  the  wisest  heathen  philosophers ; 
with  this  most  important  difference,  however,, 
that  the  chief  good  of  man,  that  pure  perennial 
mental  happiness,  about  which  they  so  much, 
discoursed,  after  which  they  so  eagerly  panted, 
but  of  which  they  so  confessedly  failed,  is  hero 
spoken  of  substantially,  in  their  notion  of  it,  as 
a  blessing  actually  possessed,  and  the  feeling  of 
it  described  in  such  language  as  bears,  so  far  as 
it  is  possible  for  human  expressions  to  bear,  the 
stamp  of  conscious  truth  and  unsophisticated 
nature. 

May  we  be  allowed,  in  this  connexion,  to  give 
a  superficial  sketch  of  the  defects  in  the  system 
of  the  ancient  philosophers  ?  The  belief  in  a 
life  to  come  was  confined  to  a  few,  and  even  in 
them  this  belief  was  highly  defective.  Those 
who  asserted  it,  maintained  it  only  in  a  specu¬ 
lative  and  sceptical  way  ;  and  it  would  not  be 
easy  to  produee  an  instance  of  their  using  any 
doctrine  of  rewards  and  punishments  in  a  ftiture 
state,  as  their  instrument  in  promoting  virtue. 
They  decorated  their  system  with  beautiful  say¬ 
ings,  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul ;  but  they 
did  not  support  it  upon  this  basis.  There  was, 
therefore,  no  foundation  to  their  fabric.  Poetry, 
indeed,  had  her  Elysium,  and  her  Tartarus.  It 
appears,  however,  that  the  philosophy  of  Greece 
and  Rome,  in  proportion  as  it  advanced,  dimi¬ 
nished  the  strength  of  the  impression  which  the 
poets  had  made  on  the  minds  of  the  vulgar,  and 
thus  the  very  religion  of  the  sages  tended  to  les¬ 
sen  among  the  people  the  sense  of  a  future  re 
sponsibility. 

The  ancient  philosophers  had  no  idea  of  what 
we  designate  by  the  name  of  the  grace  and 
mercy  of  God,  They  had  some  conception  of 
his  bounty,  of  his  providential  care,  of  all  his 
natural  ])erfections ;  and  of  some  even  of  Jiis 
moral  excellences  ;  for  example,  of  his  benevo- 
lence  and  justice.  But  their  united  wisdom  ne¬ 
ver  framed  a  sentence  like  that  in  which  tho 
true  God  was  revealed  to  Moses ;  ‘  Tho  Lord, 
the  Lord  God,  merciful  and  gracious,  forgiving 
iniquity,  transgression  and  sin,  and  that  will  by 
no  moans  clear  the  guilty.’  It  is  on  this  pari 


42 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


of  the  character  of  God,  that  the  Scripture  is  so 
abundantly  full.  This  ignorance  of  the  mercy 
of  God  associated  itself  in  the  heathens,  with 
much  other  religious  and  moral  blindness.  From 
this  ignorance,  that  God  was  merciful,  their  only 
means  of  persuading  themselves  that  they  were 
in  his  favour,  was  to  assume  that  they  were  up¬ 
right.  And,  who  can  estimate  the  moral  con¬ 
sequences  of  an  habitual  effort  to  represent  to 
ourselves  all  our  own  actions,  as  not  having  any 
of  the  guilt  of  sin,  and  as  not  impeaching  our 
claims  to  the  justice  of  the  Almighty  ?  The 
lofty  sentiment,  that  they  were  themselves  a  spe¬ 
cies  of  gods,  was  sometimes  resorted  to,  at  once 
as  a  source  of  self-complacency,  and  as  the  sup¬ 
posed  means  of  virtue.  The  Stoic  affected  to 
rise  superior  to  the  temptations  of  the  body,  to 
soar  above  all  sense  of  guilt,  and  all  dread  of 
pain,  by  the  aid  of  an  extravagant,  and  almost 
atheistical  sentiment,  which  was  opposite  to 
common  sense,  and  subversive  of  all  true  humi¬ 
lity,  a  quality  which  is  the  very  basis  of  Chris¬ 
tian  virtues.  He  was  his  own  god :  for  he  as¬ 
sumed  to  himself  to  be  able,  by  his  own  strength, 
if  he  would  but  exert  it,  to  triumph  over  fortune  ; 
in  other  words,  over  Providence,  over  pain,  fear, 
and  death  itself;  and  to  rise,  by  the  same 
strength,  into  a  participation  of  the  nature  of 
the  Eternal.  Thus,  as  an  eminent  writer  has 
observed,  ‘  those  who  endeavoured  to  cure  vo¬ 
luptuousness,  resorted  to  pride  as  the  means  of 
virtue.’  In  the  latter  ages,  indeed,  hot  a  few 
appear  to  have  been  at  once  elated  by  stoical 
pride,  and  dissolved  in  epicurean  luxury. 

Their  doctrine  even  of  a  Providence,  connect¬ 
ed  as  it  was  with  the  merely  mundane  system, 
led  to  much  misconception  of  the  nature  of  true 
morality,  and  to  gross  superstition.  From  ig¬ 
norance  of  future  retribution,  they  imagined 
that  virtue  and  vice  received  their  exact  recom- 
pence  here.  They  were  religious,  therefore, 
even  to  superstition,  in  assuming  the  existence 
of  providential  interference  in  the  case  of  the 
commission  of  palpable  crimes  ;  and  they  were 
tempted  to  esteem  those  actions,  however  sinful, 
to  be  no  offences  against  God,  which  God  did  not 
mark  by  some  temporal  punishment.* 

Such  appear  to  have  been  some  of  the  chief 
deficiencies* of  the  heathen  system  ;  a  system 
which  strongly  points  out  the  want  of  such  a 
light  as  that  which  the  Gospel  affords.  The 
plilosophers  themselves  seemed  conscious  of 
some  great  defect,  and  thus  the  very  revelation 
which  Christianity  has  furnished,  supplied  all 
that  was  necessary  to  man,  and  come#  recom¬ 
mended  by  the  acknowledged  occasion  for  it. 

How  striking  are  the  peculiarities,  how  obvi¬ 
ous  the  superiority,  which  even  on  a  first  atten¬ 
tive  perusal,  fill  the  mind  of  the  serious  reader 
of  the  Scripture  !  But  what  infidel  writer  has 
sor  much  as  taken  its  most  obvious  facts  into  so¬ 
ber  consideration  ?  who  has  attempted  to  explain 
tiow  the  writers  of  the  Old  Testament  should 
differ  as  they  have  done  from  all  the  writers  in 
the  world,  not  only  in  maintaining  so  pure  a 
theology,  but  in  connecting  with  it  a  national 

*  A  striking  instance  of  this  disposition  to  abuse  the 
doctrine  of  Providence,  was  exhibited  in  tlie  speech  of 
Nicias  to  his  soldiers,  after  they  were  defeated  at  Sy¬ 
racuse. 


history,  through  which  that  theology  passes  as 
a  chain,  binding  together  and  identifying  itself 
with  their  whole  system,  civil  and  religious? 
This  history,  involving  supernatural  events,  may 
be  a  reason  why  the  wilful  infidel  should  reject 
it  without  examination.  But  let  him  who  pre¬ 
tends  to  candour,  attentively  consider  these  re¬ 
cords,  and  try  if  he  can  project  even  an  outline 
of  Jewish  history,  from  which  those  miraculous 
interpositions  shall  be  consistently  excluded. 
There  are  facts  in  this  narration  which  cannot 
be  disputed  :  the  Jews  necessarily  having  a  his¬ 
tory  as  well  as  other  nations.  Let  the  sober  in¬ 
fidel,  then,  endeavour  to  make  out  for  them  an 
hypothetic  history,  in  which,  leaving  out  every 
thing  miraculous,  all  the  self-evident  phenomena 
shall  be  accounted  for  with  philosophic  plausibi¬ 
lity.  If  this  be  ’possible,  why  has  it  not  been 
attempted  ?  But  if  this  be  really  impracticable, 
I  mean,  if  these  events  do  actually  so  make  up 
the  body  of  their  national  history,  that  no  history 
would  be  left,  if  they  were  to  be  taken  away  ; 
then  let  some  farther  theory  be  devised,  to  ex 
plain  how  a  history,  thus  exclusively  strange, 
should  stand  connected  with  a  theology  as  ex¬ 
clusively  true  ?  Let  the  sober  deist  prove,  if  he 
can,  that  it  was  unworthy  of  the  God  of  nature 
to  distinguish,  by  such  extraordinary  interfe¬ 
rences,  that  nation,  which  alone,  of  all  the  na¬ 
tions  of  the  earth,  acknowledged  him  ;  or  let 
him  separate,  if  he  be  able,  that  national  recog¬ 
nition  of  the  true  God  from  their  belief  of  those 
distinguishing  interpositions.  If  they  alone  ac¬ 
knowledged  the  rightful  sovereign  of  the  uni¬ 
verse,  who  believed  that  that  sovereign  had  sig¬ 
nally  manifested  himself  in  their  behalf,  can  the 
deist  show  that  the  belief  of  the  events  was  not 
essential  to  the  acknowledgment  of  the  supposed 
author  of  them  ?  Or  will  he  assert,  that  the  es¬ 
tablishment  of  such  a  truth  amongst  that  people, 
who  have  since  actually  communicated  it  to  so 
many  other  men,  perhaps  to  all,  deists  not  ex¬ 
cepted,  who  really  do  embrace  it ;  I  say,  will  he 
soberly  assert  that  such  a  purpose  did  not  justly 
and  consistently  warrant  the  very  kind  of  inter¬ 
position,  which  the  Jewish  history  presents  ? 

But  let  the  honest  infidel,  if  such  there  be, 
take  further  into  the  account  the  manner  in 
which  the  maintainers  of  the  one  true  God  have 
acted  upon  that  belief.  Let  him  examine  the 
principles  of  the  Jewish  moralists,  and  see  where 
else,  in  the  ancient  world,  the  genuine  interests 
of  virtue  are  so  practically  provided  for.  Let 
him  read  the  sublime  and  most  cordial  effusions 
of  the  Old  Testament  poets,  and  say,  where  else 
the  Author  of  Being,  and  of  all  good,  is  so  fully 
recognised,  or  so  suitably  adored  ?  Lot  him 
consider  the  expostulation  of  the  prophets,  and 
the  self-criminating  records  of  the  historian,  and 
find  for  them  any  shadow  of  parallel  in  the  his¬ 
tory  of  mankind.  Let  the  man  of  genius  ob¬ 
serve  how  the  minds  of  the  writers  were  elevated, 
on  what  a  strong  and  steady  pinion  they  soared. 
Let  the  man  of  virtue  reflect  how  deeply  their 
hearts  were  engaged  ;  and  let  the  man  of  learn¬ 
ing  compare  what  he  reads  here  with  all  that 
has  come  from  heathen  poets,  sages,  or  .aw- 
givers  ;  and  then,  let  it  be  soberly  pronounced, 
whether  it  is  conceivable  that  all  this  should 
exist,  without  some  adequate  cause,  and  whether 


THi:  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


43 


arty  cause  can  be  so  rationally  assigned,  as  that  i 
which  their  venerable  lawgiver  has  himself  ex¬ 
pressed  in  terms  the  most  critically  opposite,  and 
the  most  unaffectedly  impressive?  ‘  Ask  now,’ 
says  he,  ‘  of  the  days  that  are  past,  which  were 
before  thee,  since  the  day  that  God  created  man 
upon  earth  ;  and  ask  from  the  one  side  of  hea¬ 
ven  to  the  other,  whether  there  had  been  any 
such  thing  as  this  great  thing  is,  or  hath  been 
heard  like  it?  Did  ever  people  hear  the  voice 
of  God  speaking  out  of  the  midst  of  the  fire  as 
thou  hast  heard,  and  live  ?  or  has  God  assayed 
to  go  and  take  him  a  nation  from  the  midst  of 
another  nation,  by  temptations,  by  signs,  and 
by  wonders,  and  by  war,  and  by  an  outstretcljed 
arm,  and  by  great  terrors,  according  to  all  that 
the  Lord  your  God  did  for  you,  in  Egypt,  be¬ 
fore  your  eyes  ?  Unto  thee  it  was  shown  that 
the  Lord  He  is  God ;  there  is  none  else  beside 
him.  Know,  therefore,  this  day,  and  consider 
it  in  thine  heart,  that  the  Lord  He  is  God  ;  in 
heaven  above,  and  upon  the  earth  beneath,  there 
is  none  else.’ 

If  such  be  the  inevitable  conclusion  respect¬ 
ing  the  Old  Testament,  how  much  more  irre- 
sistible  must  be  the  impression  made  by  the 
New!  The  peculiarity  which  was  adverted  to 
above,  ought,  even  in  the  eye  of  a  philosophical 
inquirer,  to  engage  deep  attention.  I  mean, 
that  to  which  heathen  sages  pointed,  as  the  only 
valuable  object  of  human  pursuit,  is  in  this  won¬ 
derful  volume  described  as  matter  of  possession. 
Here,  and  here  only,  amongst  all  the  records 
of  human  feelings,  is  happiness  seriously  claim¬ 
ed,  and  consistently  exemplified.  To  the  im¬ 
portance  of  this  point,  witness  is  borne  by  every 
wish  which  a  human  being  forms,  and  by  every 
sigh  which  heaves  his  bosom.  But,  it  is  a  fact, 
perhaps  not  yet  sufficiently  adverted  to,  that  at 
no  period  do  heathen  sages  seem  so  strongly  to 
have  felt  the  utter  insufficiency  of  all  their 
schemes  for  attaining  this  object,  as  at  the  period 
when  the  light  of  Christianity  diffused  itself 
through  the  earth.  Cicero,  that  brightest  of 
Roman  luminaries,  had  not  only  put  his  coun¬ 
trymen  in  possession  of  the  substance  of  Gre¬ 
cian  wisdom,  to  which  his  own  rich  eloquence 
gave  new  force  and  lustre,  but  he  had  added 
thereto  the  deep  results  of  his  own  observations, 
during  a  life  of  the  most  diversified  experience, 
and  a  period  the  most  eventful.  And,  to  this 
point,  he  uniformly  brings  ail  his  disquisitions, 
that  man  can  only  be  happy  by  a  conquest  over 
himself ;  by  some  energetic  principle  of  wisdom 
and  virtue  so  established  in  his  bosom,  as  to 
make  him  habitually  superior  to  every  wrong 
passion,  to  every  criminal  or  weak  desire,  to  the 
attractions  of  pleasure,  and  the  shocks  of  cala¬ 
mity.  But  it  was  not  Cicero  only,  who  rested 
in  this  conclusion :  Horace,  the  gayest  of  the 
Latin  poets,  is  little  less  explicit  in  his  acknow¬ 
ledgment,  that  man  should  then  only  find  ease 
when  he  had  learnt  the  art  of  flying,  in  a  moral 
sense,  from  himself. 

To  the  sentiment  of  a  great  philosopher  and. 
poet,  let  us  add  that  of  a  no  less  eminent  his¬ 
torian.  Polybius  says,  ‘  It  seems  that  men,  who, 
in  the  practice  of  craft  and  subtlety,  exceed  all 
other  animals,  may,  with  good  reason,  bo  ac¬ 
knowledged  to  be  no  less  depraved  than  they ; 


for  other  animals  are  subservient  only  to  the 
appetites  of  the  body,  and  by  them  are  led  to 
do  wrong.  But  men,  who  have  also  sentiment 
to  guide  them,  are  guilty  of  ill  conduct,  not  less 
through  the  abuse  of  their  acquired  reason,  that 
from  the  force  of  their  natural  desires.* 

Although,  therefore,  the  doctrine  of  human 
depravity  be,  strictly  speaking,  a  tenet  peculiar 
to  Revelation ;  since  it  is  the  Bible  alone  which 
teaches  how  sin  entered  into  the  world,  and 
death,  with  all  its  attendant  woes  and  miseries, 
by  sin ;  though  it  is  there  alone  that  we  discover 
the  obscurity  and  confusion  which  there  is  in. 
the  understanding  of  the  natural  man,  the  crook¬ 
edness  of  his  will,  and  the  disorder  of  his  affec¬ 
tions  ;  though  it  is  there  alone  that  we  are  led 
to  the  origin,  and,  blessed  be  God,  to  the  re¬ 
medy  of  this  disease,  in  the  renewal  of  our  na¬ 
ture,  which  is  the  peculiar  office  of  the  holy 
Spirit  to  effect ;  yet,  the  wiser  and  more  dis¬ 
cerning  among  the  heathens  both  felt  and  ac¬ 
knowledged,  in  no  inconsiderable  degree,  tbe 
thing  itself.  They  experienced  not  a  little  of 
the  general  weight  and  burthen  of  the  effect, 
though  they  were  still  puzzled  and  confounded 
in  their  inquiry  after  the  cause.  And  their 
continual  disappointment  here  was  an  additional 
source  of  conviction,  that  the  malady,  which 
they  painted  in  the  deepest  colourings  of  lan¬ 
guage,  did  exist.  They  seemed  to  have  a  per¬ 
ception,  that  there  was  an  object  somewhere, 
which  might  remedy  these  disorders,  aid  these 
infirmities,  satisfy  these  desires,  and  bring  all 
their  thoughts  and  faculties  into  a  due  obedience 
and  happy  regulation.  They  had  a  dawning  on 
their  minds,  that  a  capacity  for  happiness  was 
not  entiiely  lost,  nor  the  object  to  fill  and  satisfy 
it  quite  out  of  reach.  In  fact,  they  felt  the 
greatness  of  the  human  mind,  but  they  felt  it 
as  a  vast  vacuity  in  which,  after  all,  they  could 
find  nothing  but  phantoms  of  happiness,  and 
realities  of  misery. 

To  these  deep-toned  complaints,  in  which  all 
sorts  and  conditions  of  men  united,  Christianity 
comes  forward  to  make  the  first  propositions  of 
relief.  She  recognises  every  want  and  weak¬ 
ness  precisely  as  these  sages  represented  it: 
and  she  confidently  offers  the  very  remedy  for 
which  they  so  loudly  called.  Her  professed  ob¬ 
ject  is  to  establish,  in  the  human  mind,  that 
collateral  principle  of  virtuous  and  happy  su¬ 
periority  to  every  thing  earthly,  sensual,  and 
selfish,  on  which  philosophy  had  so  long  fixed 
ks  anxious,  but  hopeless  desires,  and  to  which 
alone  it  looked  for  real  felicity. 

In  this  view,  then,  Christianity  rests  her  pre¬ 
tensions,  not  merely  on  historical  evidences, 
however  satisfactory,  nor  on  the  fidelity  of  suc¬ 
cessive  transcribers,  however  capable  of  proof ; 
but,  on  a  much  more  internal,  and  even  more 
conclusive  title  ;  its  exquisite  correspondence  to 
the  exigencies  of  human  nature,  as  illustrated 
by  the  wisest  of  all  ages  and  nations,  and  as  felt 
by  every  reflecting  child  of  mortality. 

Let,  then,  the  deepest  sentiments  of  heathen 
philosophers  and  poets,  respecting  human  na¬ 
ture,  be  dispassionately  compared  with  those 
expressions  of  our  blessed  Saviour,  in  which  he 
particularly  describes  the  benefits  to  bo  enjoyed 
*  Hainptpn's  Polybius,  book  17,  {x  393. 


44 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  M  JRE. 


oy  his  faithful  followers  ;  and  let  it  be  judged, 
whether  there  is  not  such  a  correspondence  be¬ 
tween  what  they  want,  and  what  he  professes  to 
bestow,  as  occurs  in  no  other  instance  in  the  in¬ 
tellectual  world. — Rest  for  their  souls,  iS  what 
they  anxiously  sought :  and,  a  burning  fever  of 
the  mind,  in  which  corroding  care,  insatiable 
desire,  perpetual  disappointment,  unite  in  tor¬ 
turing,  is  the  malady  of  which  they  uniformly 
complain.  Is  it  not  then  wonderful  to  hear  our 
Saviour  so  admirably  adapt  his  language  to  their 
very  feelings  ?  ‘  Come  unto  me,’  says  he,  ‘  all  ye 
that  labour  and  are  heavy  laden,  and  I  will  give 
you  rest.  Take  my  yoke  upon  you,  and  learn 
of  me,  and  ye  shall  find  rest  to  your  souls.’ — 
‘  He  that  drinketh  of  this  water,  shall  thirst 
again,’  intimating  by  this  very  expression,  the 
insufficiency  of  every  thing  earthly  to  satisfy 
the  mind,  ‘  but  he  that  drinketh  of  the  water 
that  I  shall  give  him,  shall  never  thirst ;  but  the 
water  that  I  shall  give,  shall  be  in  him  a  well  of 
water  springing  up  into  everlasting  life.’ 

Whoever  is  acquainted  with  the  language  of 
the  ancient  philosophers  must  see,  that  in  these 
expressions  our  Saviour  meets  their  wishes  ;  we 
do  not  mean  to  say,  that  they  had  or  could  have 
any  right  apprehensions  of  that  preliminary 
abasement  which  the  Scripture  calls  repentance, 
and  which  was  put  to  them  in  possession  of  the 
rest  and  peace  for  which  they  sought,  and  which 
Christ  does  actually  bestow.  We  do  not  mean 
to  say,  that  the  pride  of  unassisted  nature  could 
allow  them  to  see  that  they  were  ipdeed  objects 
of  pure  mercy  on  the  part  of  God ;  and  that 
their  knowledge  of  themselves,  or  of  him,  could 
be  such  as  to  bring  the  real  spirit  of  their  wishes 
to  any  actual  coincidence  with  the  wonderful 
means  which  God,  in  his  goodness,  had  devised 
to  satisfy  them.  Though  they  did  occasionally 
express  a  sense  of  an  evil  nature,  and  a  wish 
for  relief  from  it,  yet  who  but  the  author  of  our 
religion  ever  met  those  wishes  ?  In  what 
other  instance  has  a  moral  physician  thus 
pledged  himself  to  relievo  angonised  human 
nature  ?  If  there  be  no  such  instance,  the 
conclusion  is  inevitable  :  that  Christianity,  from 
the  deep  importance,  as  well  as  the  unrivalled 
singularity  of  its  overtures,  justly  claims  our 
most  serious  inquiry,  whether  what  has  been 
thus  promised  has  been  actually  accomplish¬ 
ed. 

Christianity  has  amply  provided  for  this 
natural  demand ;  for  it  has  been  ordered,  that 
while  the  New  Testament  contains  every  prin¬ 
ciple  necessary  for  the  attainment  of  human 
happiness,  it  should  also  give  us  a  perfect  spe¬ 
cimen  of  its  own  efficacy.  This  we  according¬ 
ly  have  in  the  fully  delineated  character  of  the 
apostle  St.  Paul.  There  is,  perhaps,  no  human 
person  in  all  antiquity,  of  whose  inmost  feelings, 
as  well  as  outward  demeanour,  we  are  so  well 
enabled  to  judge,  as  of  this  great  Christian 
teacher.  The  particulars  respecting  him  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  compared  with,  and  illus¬ 
trated  by,  his  own  invaluable  epistles,  make  up 
a  full  length  portrait  of  him,  in  which  no  linea¬ 
ment  is  wanting.  And,  the  wisdom  of  God,  in 
this  single  arrangement,  has  furnished  a  body 
of  evidence  in  support,  both  of  the  truth  and  the 
efficacy  of  our  holy  religion,  which,  when  at¬ 


tentively  examined,  will  ever  satisfy  the  sincere, 
and  silence  the  caviller. 

The  numberless  minute  and  unobvious  coin¬ 
cidences  between  the  narrative  and  the  epistles, 
have  been  so  illustrated  in  a  late  invaluable 
work,*  as  to  make  the  authenticity  of  both  mat¬ 
ter  of  absolute  demonstration  ;  and,  from  such 
an  instance  of  Christian  influence,  thus  authen¬ 
ticated,  the  pretensions  of  Christianity  itself 
may  be  brought  to  a  summary  and  unequivocal 
test. 

Was  St.  Paul,  then,  or  was  he  not,  an  exem¬ 
plification  of  that  nobly-imagined  wise  man, 
which  the  heathen  philosophers  had  pictured  to 
themselves  ;  as  the  height  of  human  felicity  ? 
Does  he  appear  to  have  found  that  rest,  for 
which  sages  panted,  and  which  his  divine  mas¬ 
ter  proposed  to  bestow  ?  Did  he  possess  that 
virtuous  and  happy  superiority  to  every  thing 
earthly,  sensual,  and  selfish,  which  was  ac 
knowledged  to  constitute  the  very  essence  of 
true  philosophy  ?  Let  him  that  understands  hu¬ 
man  nature  read,  and  answer  for  himself.  Let 
him  collect  all  that  has  been  spoken  on  this  sub¬ 
ject  by  Socrates  or  Plato,  by  Cicero  or  Seneca, 
by  Epictetus  or  Marcus  Antonius,  and  judge 
coolly,  v;hether  St.  Paul  does  not  substantially 
exemplify,  and,  I  may  add,  infinitely  out  do  it  all? 

Horace  has  celebrated  the  fortitude  of  Regu- 
lus,  in  one  of  his  most  animated  odes ;  but  it  may 
most  soberly  be  asked,  what  was  the  fortitude 
of  this  pagan  hero,  when  compared  with  that 
which  was  unconsciously  displayed  by  St.  Paul 
in  his  way  to  Jerusalem  ?  Regulus,  we  are  told, 
would  not  turn  his  eyes  towards  his  wife  or  his 
children.  In  his  heroism,  therefore,  he  sinks 
his  humanity.  Not  so  our  apostle ;  while  he 
fears  nothing  for  himself,  he  feels  every  thing 
for  those  around  him.  ‘What  mean  ye  thus  to 
weep,  and  to  break  my  heart,’  says  he,  ‘  for  I 
am  ready,  not  to  be  bound  only,  but  to  die  at 
Jerusalem,  for  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus.’ 
If  this  be  not  perfect  magnanimity,  where  was 
it  ever  exhibited  1 

I  will  add  but  two  instances. — One  express¬ 
ing  the  feelings  which  were  habitual  to  himself ; 
the  other  describing  that  perfection  of  goodness, 
which  he  wished  to  be  pursued  by  others  :  and 
let  the  learned  infidel  find,  if  he  can,  a  parallel 
for  either.  In  speaking  of  himself,  after  ac¬ 
knowledging  an  act  of  friendship  in  those  to 
whom  he  writes,  he  says,  ‘  Not  as  though  I 
speak  in  respect  of  w'ant,  for  I  have  learned  in 
whatsoever  state  I  am,  therewith  to  be  content. 
I  know  both  how  to  be  abased,  and  I  know  how 
to  abound.  I  am  instructed  both  to  be  full  and 
to  be  hungry,  both  to  abound  and  to  suffer  need, 
lean  do  all  things  throughChrist  which  strength- 
eneth  me.’  What  a  testimonial  this  to  the 
faithfulness  of  the  offer  of  our  Saviour,  to  which 
we  have  already  referred  !  How  consummately 
does  it  evince,  that  when  he  engaged  to  fulfil 
that  deepest  of  human  desires,  the  thirst  of  hap¬ 
piness,  he  promised  no  more  than  he  was  in¬ 
finitely  able  to  perform  !  The  apostle's  exhor¬ 
tation  to  others,  is  no  less  worthy  of  attention. 

‘  Finally,  brethren,  whatsoever  things  are  true, 
whatsoever  things  are  honest,  whatsoever  things 

♦  Paley’s  Hone  Pauline. 


45 


THE  WORKS  OF 

are  just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good 
report — If  there  be  any  virtue,  if  there  be  any 
praise,  think  on  these  things.’  In  what  human 
words  did  genuine  moral  feelings  ever  more 
completely  embody  itself?  Are  they  not,  as  it 
were,  the  very  soul  and  body  of  true  philosophy  ? 
But  what  philosopher,  before  him,  after  such  a 
lesson  to  his  pupils,  could  have  dared  to  add  the 
words  which  immediately  follow  ? — ‘  The  things 
which  ye  have  both  learned  and  received,  and 
heard  and  seen  in  me,  do,  and  the  God  of  peace 
shall  be  with  you.’ 

This  is  a  most  imperfect  portion  of  that  body 
of  internal  evidence,  which  even  the  most  gene¬ 
ral  view  of  Christianity  presses  on  the  attentive 
and  candid  mind  :  and  with  even  this  before  us, 
may  it  not  be  boldly  asked,  what  else  like  this 
has  come  within  human  knowledge  ?  On  these 
characters  of  the  gospel  then,  let  the  infidel  fair¬ 
ly  try  his  strength.  Lot  him  disprove,  if  he  can, 
the  eorrespondence  between  the  wishes  of  philo¬ 
sophy,  and  the  achievements  of  Christianity,  or 
destroy  the  identity  of  that  common  view  of 
man’s  chief  good,  and  paramount  happiness. 
Let  him  account,  if  he  can,  for  these  unexampled 
congruities,  on  any  other  ground  than  that  of 
the  truth  of  Christianity  ;  or  let  him  even  plau¬ 
sibly  elude  the  matter-of-fact  evidence  to  this 
truth,  which  arises  from  St.  Paul’s  character. 
In  the  mean  time,  let  the  pious  Christian  enjoy 
his  sober  triumph  in  that  system,  which  not  in 
St.  Paul  only,  but  in  all  its  true  votaries,  in 
every  age  and  nation,  it  has  produced — ‘  a  hope 
full  of  immortality,’ — ‘  a  peace  whicli  passeth 
all  understanding,’ — ‘  a  wisdom  pure  and  peace¬ 
able,  gentle  and  easy  to  be  entreated,  full  of 
mercy  and  of  good  fruits,  without  partiality,  and 
without  hypocrisy.’ 

If  any  difficulty,  attending  particular  doctrines 
of  Christianity,  should  present  itself;  it  will  be 
well  first  to  _  inquire,  whether  the  doctrine  in 
question  bo  really  Christian  ?  and  this  can  only 
be  determined  by  a  dispassionate  and  impartial 
recurrence  to  the  Scriptures  themselves,  parti¬ 
cularly  the  New  Testament.  Whatever  is  clear¬ 
ly  asserted  there,  follows  inevitably  from  the 
established  divinity  of  that  which  contains  it. 
And  in  what  conceivable  case  can,  not  only  hu¬ 
mility,  but  rational  consistency,  be  more  wisely 
exercised,  than  in  receiving,  without  question, 
the'  obvious  parts,  and  then  no  doubt  can  be  en¬ 
tertained  respecting  the  whole.  Happy  had  it 
been  for  the  Christian  world,  had  this  self-evi- 
dent  maxim  been  practically  attended  to ;  for 
then  what  dispute  could  possibly  have  arisen 
about — ‘  that  Word  which  was  made  flesh,  and 
dwelt  among  us,  being  also  God  over  all,  blessed 
for  evermore  ?’  Or  whether  the  Father,  the 
Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  in  whose  name  we  are 
baptised,  must  not  be  essentially  divine  ?  Or 
whether  there  can  be  any  misconception  in  what 
the  redeemed  in  heaven  make  tlie  subject  of 
their  eternal  song:  ‘that  the  Lamb  which  was 
slain,  had  redeemed  them  to  God  by  his  blond, 
out  of  every  kindred,  and  tongue,  and  people, 
and  nation  ?’ 

That  plain  and  simple  readers  think  they  find 
each  Ollier’s  doctrines  clearly  set  forth  in  the  sa¬ 
cred  volume,  is  a  matter  of  fact,  authenticated 


HANNAH  MORE. 

by  abundant  evidence ;  and  that,  where  they 
have  been  disputed,  those  who  have  agreed  in 
holding  them,  have  evidently  derived  a  deeper 
influence  from  Christianity,  both  as  to  the  con¬ 
duct  of  their  lives,  and  the  comfort  of  their  minds, 
than  those  who  have  rejected  them, — if  it  could 
not  be  substantiated  by  innumerable  proofs, 
would  be  almost  self-evident,  on  a  merely  theo¬ 
retic  view  of  the  two  cases.  For  who  ever  de¬ 
rived  either  partial  strength,  or  mental  comfort, 
from  indulging  a  habit  of  metaphysical  disquisi¬ 
tion  !  And  who  but  such  have,  in  any  age  of 
the  church,  questioned  the  doctrines  of  our  Sa¬ 
viour’s  divinity,  the  three  fold  distinction  in  the 
divine  nature,  or  the  expiatory  efficacy  of  Christ’s 
one  oblation,  of  himself  once  offered  for  the  sins 
of  the  whole  world  ? 

The  Scriptures  are  so  explicit  on  the  last  men¬ 
tioned  great  doctrine  of  our  religion,  that  wo  are 
not  left  to  infer  its  truth  and  certainty  as  we 
might  almost  do  from  the  obvious  exigencies  of 
human  nature.  That  guilt  is  one  of  the  deepest 
of  the  natural  feelings,  will  not  be  disputed ; 
and,  that  the  sense  of  guilt  has  been,  in  every 
age  and  nation  a  source  of  the  deepest  horrors, 
and  has  suggested  even  still  more  horrible  me¬ 
thods  of  appeasing  the  perturbed  mind,  can  be 
questioned  by  none  who  is  acquainted,  however 
slightly,  with  the  history  of  the  world.  Atheists 
in  pagan  countries  have  made  this  very  fact  the 
great  apology  for  their  impiety,  charging  upon 
religion  itself  the  dismal  superstitions,  which 
appeared  to  them  to  arise  from  it.  And  Plu¬ 
tarch,  one  of  the  most  enlightened  of  heathen 
moralists,  concludes  that  even  Atheism  itself  is 
preferable  to  that  superstitious  dread  of  the  gods, 
which  he  saw  impelling  so  many  wretched  vic¬ 
tims  to  daily  and  hourly  self  torture.  The  fact 
is,  no  misery  incident  to  man  involves  either 
greater  depth,  or  complication,  than  that  of  a 
guilty  conscience.  And  a  system  of  religion, 
which  would  have  left  this  unprovided  for,  we 
may  venture  to  pronounce,  would  have  been  ut¬ 
terly  unsuitable  to  man,  and,  therefore,  utterly 
unworthy  of  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  God. 

How  appositely  to  this  awful  feeling,  does  the 
doctrine  of  tlie  atonement  come  into  the  Christian 
system  !  How  astonishingly  has  even  its  gene¬ 
ral  belief  chased  from  the  Christian  world  those 
superstitious  phantoms  with  which  paganism 
ever  has  been,  and  even  at  this  day  is,  haunted  ! 
But  above  all,  what  relief  has  it  afforded  to  tho 
humble  penitent!  ‘This,’ said  the  pious  Me- 
lancthon,  ‘  can  only  be  understood  in  conflicts 
of  conscience.’  It  is  most  true.  Let  those 
therefore,  who  have  never  felt  such  conflicts, 
beware  how  they  despise  what  they  may  yet  be 
impelled  to  resort  to,  as  the  only  coitain  stay 
and  prop  of  their  sinking  spirits.  ‘  It  is  a  fear¬ 
ful  thing,’  says  an  inspired  writer,  ‘to  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  living  God.’  Against  this  fear 
to  what  resource  could  we  trust,  but  that  which 
tho  mercy  of  God  has  no  less  clearly  revealed 
to  us?  ‘Seeing,  then,  that  wo  have  a  great 
high  priest  that  is  passed  for  us  into  the  heavens, 
Jesus  the  Son  of  God,  let  us  hold  fast  our  pro¬ 
fession  ;  for  wo  have  not  a  high  priest  who  can 
not  be  touched  with  the  feeling  of  our  infirmities, 
but  was  in  ail  points  tempted  like  as  we  are,  yet 
without  sin.  Let  us,  therefore,  come  boldly  to 


4b 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


the  throne  of  grace,  that  we  may  obtain  mercy 
and  find  grace  to  help  us  in  time  of  need.’ 


CHAP.  XVII. 

The  use  of  history  in  teaching  the  choice  of  fa¬ 
vourites. — Flattery. — Our  taste  improved  in 
the  arts  of  adulation. —  The  dangers  of  flattery 
exemplified. 

It  is  not  from  the  history  of  good  princes 
alone,  that  signal  instruction  may  be  reaped. 
The  lives  of  the  criminal  and  unfortunate,  com¬ 
monly  unfortunate  because  criminal,  will  not  be 
read  in  vain.  They  are  instructive,  not  only  by 
detailing  the  personal  calamities  with  which  the 
misconduct  was  followed,  but  by  exhibiting  that 
misconduct  as  the  source  of  the  alienation  of  the 
hearts  of  their  subjects ;  and  often  as  the  re¬ 
mote,  sometimes  as  the  immediate,  cause  of  ci¬ 
vil  commotions  and  revolutions. 

But  caution  is  to  be  ^earned,  not  from  their 
vices  only,  but  from  their  weaknesses  and  er¬ 
rors;  from  their  false  judgments,  their  ignorance 
of  human  nature,  their  narrow  views  arising 
from  a  bad  education,  their  judging  from  partial 
information,  deciding  from  infused  prejudices, 
and  acting  on  party  principles;  their  being  ha¬ 
bituated  to  consider  petty  unconnected  details, 
instead  of  taking  in  the  great  aggregate  of  pub¬ 
lic  concerns ;  their  imprudent  choice  of  minis¬ 
ters,  their  unhappy  spirit  of  favouritism,  their 
preference  of  selfish  flatterers  to  disinterested 
counsellors,  and  making  the  associates  of  cheir 
pleasures  the  dispensers  of  justice  and  the  mi¬ 
nisters  of  public  affairs.* 

’Tis  by  that  close  acquaintance  with  the  cha¬ 
racters  of  men  which  history  supplies,  that  a 
prince  must  learn  how  to  avoid  a  jealous  Seja- 
nus,  a  vicious  Tigellinus,  a  corrupt  Spenser  and 
Gavaston,  a  rapacious  Epsom  and  Dudley,  a 
pernicious  D’Ancre,  and  ambitious  Wolsey,  a 
profligate  Buckingham ;  we  allude  at  once  to 
the  minister  of  the  first  James,  and  to  the  still 
more  profligate  Buckingham  of  the  Second 
Charles ;  a  tyrannical  Richelieu,  a  crafty  Ma- 
zarin,  a  profuse  Louvois,  an  intriguing  Ursirii, 
an  inefficient  Charaillard,  an  imperious  duchess 
of  Marlborough,  and  a  supple  Masham. 

History  presents  frequent  instances  of  an  in¬ 
consistency  not  uncommon  in  human  nature, — 
sovereigns  the  most  arbitrary  to  their  subjects, 
themselves  the  tools  of  favourites.  He  who  treat¬ 
ed  his  people  with  disdain,  and  his  parliaments 
with  contempt,  was,  in  turn,  the  slave  of  Arran, 
of  Car,  and  of  Villiers.  His  grandson,  who  boldly 
intrenched  on  the  liberties  of  his  country,  was 
hinosolf  governed  by  the  Cabal. 

It  may  sound  paradoxical  to  assert,  that  in  a 
period  of  society,  when  characters  are  less 
strongly  marked,  a  sovereign  is,  in  some  re¬ 
spects,  in  more  danger  of  choosing  wrong.  In 
our  days,  and  under  our  constitution,  indeed,  it 
is  scarcely  possible  to  err  so  widely,  as  to  select, 

*  The  Romans  seem  to  have  had  just  ideas  of  the 
dignity  of  character  and  office  attached  to  the  friend  of 
a  prince  by  denominating  him,  not  favourite,  but  •parti- 
ceps  eurarum. 


for  ministers,  men  of  such  atrocious  characters 
as  those  who  have  been  just  held  up  to  detesta¬ 
tion,  The  very  improvement  of  society,  there, 
fore,  has  caused  the  question  to  become  one  of  a 
much  nicer  kind.  It  is  no  longer  a  choice  be¬ 
tween  men,  whose  outward  characters  exhibit  a 
monstrous  disproportion  to  each  other.  A  bold 
oppressor  of  the  people,  the  people  would  not  en¬ 
dure.  A  violent  infringer,  on  the  constitution,  the 
parliament  would  not  tolerate.  But  still  out  of  that 
class,  from  which  the  election  must  be  made, 
the  moral  dispositions,  the  political  tendencies, 
and  the  religious  principles  of  men  may  difier 
so  materially,,  that  the  choice  may  seriously  af 
feet  at  once,  the  credit  and  happiness  of  the 
prince,  and  the  welfare  of  the  country.  The  con¬ 
duct  of  good  and  bad  men  will  always  furnish 
no  inconsiderable  means  of  distinction  ;  yet  at 
a  time  when  gross  and  palpable  enormities  are 
less  likely  to  be  endured,  it  is  the  more  necessa¬ 
ry  for  a  prince  to  be  able  accurately  to  discri- 
minate  the  shades  of  the  characters  of  public 
men. 

While,  therefore,  every  tendency  to  art  or 
dissimulation  should  be  reprobated,  the  most 
exact  caution  should  be  inculcated,  and  the 
keenest  discernment  cultivated,  in  the  royal 
education.  All  that  can  improve  the  judgment, 
sharpen  the  penetration,  or  give  enlarged  views 
of  the  human  mind,  should  be  put  in  exercise, 
A  prince  should  possess  that  sort  of  sight, 
which,  while  it  takes  in  remote  views,  accurate¬ 
ly  distinguishes  near  objects.  To  the  eye  of 
the  lynx,  which  no  minuteness  can  elude,  should 
be  added  that  of  the  eagle,  which  no  brightness 
can  blind,  for  whatever  dazzles  darkens.  He 
should  acquire  that  justness,  as  well  as  extent 
of  mind,  which  should  enable  him  to  study  the 
character  of  his  enemies,  and  decide  upon  that 
of  his  friends ;  to  penetrate  keenly,  but  not  in¬ 
vidiously,  into  the  designs  of  others,  and  vigi¬ 
lantly  to  scrutinize  his  owm.  His  mind  should 
be  stored,  not  with  shifts  and  expedients,  but 
with  large  and  liberal  plans ;  not  with  strata¬ 
gems,  but  resources ;  not  with  subterfuges,  but 
principles ;  not  with  prejudices,  but  reasons.  He 
should  treasure  up  sound  maxims  to  teach  him 
to  act  consistently ;  be  provided  with  steady 
measures  suited  to  the  probable  occasion,  to¬ 
gether  with  a  promptitude  of  mind,  prepared  to 
vary  them  so  as  to  meet  any  contingency. 

In  no  instance  will  those  who  have  the  care 
of  forming  the  royal  pupil  find  a  surer  exercise 
of  their  wisdom  and  integrity,  than  in  their  en¬ 
deavours  to  guard  the  mind  from  the  deadly  poi¬ 
son  of  flattery.  ‘  Many  kings,’  says  the  witty 
South,  have  been  destroyed  by  poison,  but  none 
has  be>:n  so  efficaciously  mortal  as  that  drnnk 
in  by  the  ear.’ 

Intellectual  taste,  it  is  true,  is  much  refined, 
since  the  Grecian  sophist  tried  to  cure  the  me¬ 
lancholy  of  Alexander  by  telling  him,  that  ‘Jus¬ 
tice  was  painted,  as  seated  near  the  throne  of 
Jupiter,  to  indicate  that  right  and  wrong  de¬ 
pended  on  the  will  of  kings ;  and  all  whose  ac¬ 
tions  ought  to  be  accounted  just,  both  by  them¬ 
selves  and  others.’ 

Compliments  are  not  now  absurd  and  extra 
vagant,  as  when  the  most  elegant  of  Roman 
ets  invited  his  imperial  master  to  pick  out  nis 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


47 


own  lodging  among  the  constellations  :  nor,  as 
.when  the  bard  of  Pharsalia  offered  to  the  empe¬ 
ror  his  choice,  either  of  the  sceptre  of  Jupiter, 
or  the  chariot  of  Apoilo ;  modestly  assuring  him, 
that  there  was  not  a  god  in  the  pantheon,  who 
would  not  yield  his  empire  to  him,  and  account 
it  an  honour  to  resign  in  his  favour.  This  meri¬ 
torious  prince,  so  worthy  to  displace  the  gods, 
was  Nero,  who  rewarded  Lucan,  not  for  his  adu¬ 
lation,  but  for  being  a  better  poet  than  himself, 
w'lth  a  violent  death. 

The  smooth  and  obsequious  Pliny  improved 
on  all  anterior  adulation.  Not  content  with 
making  his  emperor  the  imitator  or  the  equal 
of  Deity,  he  makes  him  a  pattern  for  it;  pro¬ 
testing  that  ‘  men  needed  to  make  no  other  pray¬ 
ers  to  the  gods,  than  that  they  would  continue 
to  be  as'^good  and  propitious  lords  to  them  as 
Trajan  had  been.’ 

But  the  refined  sycophant  of  modern  days  is 
more  likely  to  hide  the  actual  blemishes,  and  to 
veil  the  real  faults  of  a  prince  from  himself  than 
to  attribute  to  him  incredible  virtues  the  ascrip¬ 
tion  of  which  would  be  too  gross  to  impose  on 
his  discernment.  There  will  be  more  danger  of 
a  modern  courtier  imitating  the  delicacy  of  the 
ancient  painter,  who,  being  ordered  to  draw  the 
portrait  of  a  prince  who  had  but  one  eye,  adopt¬ 
ed  the  conciliating  expedient  of  painting  him  in 
profile. 

But  if  the  modern  flatterer  be  less  gross,  he 
will  be,  on  that  very  account  the  more  danger¬ 
ous.  The  refinement  of  his  adulation  prevents 
the  object  of  it  from  putting  himself  on  his 
guard.  The  prince  is  led,  perhaps,  to  conceive 
with  self-complacency  that  he  is  hearing  the 
language  of  truth,  while  he  is  only  the  dupe  of 
a  more  accomplished  flatterer.  He  should  espe¬ 
cially  beware  of  mistaking  freedom  of  manner, 
for  frankness  of  sentiment ;  and  of  confounding 
the  artful  familiarities  of  a  designing  favourite, 
with  the  honest  simplicity  of  a  disinterested 
friend. 

Where,  in  our  more  correct  day,  is  the  cour¬ 
tier  who  would  dare  to  add  profaneness  to  flat¬ 
tery  so  far,  as  to  declare,  as  was  done  by  the 
greatest  philosopher  this  country  ever  produced, 
in  his  letter  to  prince  Charles,  that,  ‘  as  the  Fa¬ 
ther  had  been  his  Creator,  so  he  hoped  the  Son 
would  bo  his  Redeemer  ?’*  But  what  a  noble 
contrast  to  this  base  and  blasphemous  servility 
in  the  chancellor  of  James,  does  the  conduct  of 
the  chancellor  of  his  grandson  exhibit !  The  un¬ 
bending  rectitude  of  Clarendon  not  only  disdain¬ 
ed  to  flatter,  in  his  private  intercourse,  a  master 
to  whom  however  his  pen  is  always  too  partial, 
but  it  led  boldly  and  honestly  to  remonstrate 
against  his  flagitious  conduct.  A  standing  ex¬ 
ample  for  all  times,  to  the  servants  and  compa¬ 
nions  of  kings,  he  resolutely  reproved  his  mas¬ 
ter  to  his  face,  while  he  thought  it  his  duty  to 
defend  him,  somewhat  too  strongly,  indeed,  to 
others.  He  boldly  besought  the  king,  ‘  noC  to 
believe  that  he  had  a  prerogative  to  declare  vice 
to  be  virtue.’  And  in  one  of  the  noblest  speeches 
on  record,  in  answer  (o  a  dishonourable  request 
of  the  king,  that  he  would  visit  some  of  his  ma¬ 
jesty’s  infamous  associates ;  he  laid  before  him 

*  See  Howell’s  Letters. 


with  a  lofty  sincerity,  ‘  the  turpitude  of  a  man 
in  his  dignified  office,  being  obliged  to  counte 
nance  persons  scancfalous  for  their  vices,  for 
which  by  the  laws  of  God  and  man,  they  ought 
to  be  odious  and  exposed  to  the  judgment  of  the 
church  and  state.’  In  this  instance  superior  to 
his  great  rival  Sully  ;  that  no  desire  of  pleasing 
the  king,  no  consideration  of  expediency,  could 
induce  him  to  visit  the  royal  mistresses,  or  to 
countenance  the  licentious  favourites. 

Princes  have  generally  been  greedy  of  praise 
in  a  pretty  exact  proportion  to  the  pains  which 
they  have  taken  not  to  deserve  it.  Henry  the 
Vlllth  was  a  patron  of  learned  men,  and  might 
himself  be  accounted  learned.  But  his  favourite 
studies,  instead  of  preserving  him  from  the  love 
of  flattery,  served  to  lay  him  open  to  it.  Scholas¬ 
tic  divinity,  the  fashionable  learning  of  the 
times,  as  Burnet  observes,  suited  his  vain  and 
contentious  temper,  and  as  ecclesiastics  were  to 
be  his  critics,  his  pursuits  of  polemical  theology 
brought  him  in  the  largest  revenue  of  praise., 
so  that  there  seemed  to  be  a  contest  between 
him  and  them,  whether  they  could  oflTer,  oi 
he  could  swallow,  the  most  copious  draughts  of 
flattery. 

But  tjbe  reign  of  James  the  first  was  the  grea< 
epocha  of  adulation  in  England ;  and  a  prince 
who  had  not  one  of  the  qualities  of  a  warlike, 
and  scarcely  one  of  the  virtues  of  a  pacific  king, 
received  from  clergy  and  laity,  from  statesmen, 
philosophers,  and  men  of  letters,  praises  not  only 
utterly  repugnant  to  truth  and  virtue,  but  di 
rectly  contrary  to  that  frankness  of  manners, 
and  magnanimity  of  spirit,  which  had  formerly 
characterized  Englishmen.  This  ascription  of 
all  rights,  and  all  talents,  and  all  virtues,  to  a 
prince,  bold  through  fear,  and  presumptuous  be¬ 
cause  he  wished  to  conceal  his  own  pusillanimi¬ 
ty,  rebounded,  as  was  but  just,  on  the  flatterers; 
who,  in  return  for  their  adulation,  were  treated 
by  him  with  a  contempt,  which  not  the  boldest 
of  his  predecessors  had  ever  ventured  to  mani¬ 
fest.  His  inquiry  of  his  company  at  dinner, 
whether  he  might  not  take  his  subjects’  money 
when  he  needed  it,  without  the  formality  of  par¬ 
liament,  indicates  that  one  object  was  always 
uppermost  in  his  mind  ;*  his  familiar  intercourse 
was  employed  in  diving  into  the  private  opinions 
of  men,  to  discover  to  what  length  his  oppressive 
schemes  might  be  carried ;  and  his  public  con¬ 
duct  occupied  in  putting  those  schemes  into 
practice. 

But  the  royal  person  whom  we  presume  to  ad¬ 
vise,  may,  from  the  very  circumstance  of  her 
sex,  have  more  complicated  dangers  to  resist; 
against  which  her  mind  should  be  early  forti¬ 
fied.  The  dangers  of  adulation  are  doubled, 
when  the  female  character  is  combined  with  the 
royal.  Even  the  vigorous  mind  of  the  great 
Elizabeth  did  not  guard  her  against  the  power 
ful  assaults  of  the  flattery  paid  to  her  person. 
"Irhat  masculine  spirit  was  as  much  the  slave  of 
the  most  egregious  vanity,  as  the  weakest  of  her 
sex  could  have  been.  All  her  admirable  pru 
dence  and  profound  policy,  could  not  preserve 
her  from  the  childish  and  silly  levity  with  which 

•  The  requisition  was  allowed  in  a  plirase  as  disgust-  • 
ingly  servile,  by  bishop  Neilo ;  as  it  was  pleasaiir'y 
evaded  by  Andrews. 


48 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


she  greedily  invited  the  compliments  of  the  art¬ 
ful  minister  of  her  more  beautiful  rival.  Even 
that  gross  instance  of  MelvU’s  extravagance  en¬ 
chanted  her,  when,  as  she  was  playing  on  Ma¬ 
ry’s  favourite  instrument,  for  the  purpose  of  be¬ 
ing  overheard  by  him,  the  dissembling  courtier 
affected  to  be  so  ravished  by  her  skill,  as  to  burst 
into  her  apartment,  like  an  enraptured  man,  who 
had  forgotten  his  reverence  in  his  admiration. 
It  was  a  curious  combat  in  the  great  mind  of 
Elizabeth,  between  the  offended  pride  of  the 
queen,  and  the  gratified  vanity  of  the  woman ; 
but  Melvil  knew  his  trade  in  knowing  human 
nature ; — ho  calculated  justly.  The  woman  con¬ 
quered. 

Princes  have  in  all  ages  complained  that  they 
have  been  ill  served.  But,  is  it  not  because  they 
have  not  always  carefully  selected  their  servants  ? 
Is  it  not  because  they  have  too  often  bestowed 
confidence  on  the  unwise,  and  employments  on 
the  unworthy  ?  Because,  while  they  have  load¬ 
ed  the  undeserving  with  benefits,  they  have  ne¬ 
glected  to  reward  those  who  have  served  them 
well,  and  to  support  those  who  have  served  them 
long  ?  Is  it  not  because  they  have  sometimes  a 
way  of  expecting  every  thing,  while  they  seem 
to  exact  nothing  ?  And  have  not  too  many  been 
apt  to  consider  that  the  honour  of  serving  them 
is  itself  a  sufficient  reward  ? 

By  a  close  study  of  the  weaknesses  and  pas¬ 
sions  of  a  sovereign,  crafty  and  designing  fa¬ 
vourites  have  ever  been  on  the  watch  to  establish 
their  own  dominion,  by  such  appropriate  means 
as  seem  best  accommodated  to  the  turn  of  those 
weaknesses  and  passions.  If  Leonore  Concini, 
and  the  duchess  of  Marlborough,  obtained  the 
most  complete  ascendancy  over  their  respective 
queens,  both  probably  by  artful  flattery  at  first, 
they  afterwards  secured  and  preserved  it  by  a 
tyranny  the  most  absolute.  In  connexions  of 
this  nature,  it  is  usually  on  the  side  of  the  so¬ 
vereign,  that  the  caprice  and  the  haughtiness 
are  expected  ;  but  the  domineering  favourite  of 
Anne  exclusively  assumed  to  herself  all  these 
prerogatives  of  despotic  power,  and  exercised 
them  without  mercy,  on  the  intimidated  and 
submissive  queen ;  a  queen,  who,  with  many 
virtues,  not  having  had  the  discernment  to  find 
out,  that  the  opposite  extreme  to  what  is  wrong, 
is  commonly  wrong  also,  in  order  to  extricate 
herself  from  her  eaptivity  to  one  favourite,  fell 
into  the  snares  spread  for  her  by  the  servility 
of  another.  Thus,  whether  the  imperious  duch¬ 
ess,  or  the  obsequious  Masham,  were  lady  of  the 
ascendant,  the  sovereign  was  equally  infatuated, 
equally  misled. 

That  attachments  formed  without  judgment, 
and  pursued  without  moderation,  are  likely  to  be 
dissolved  without  reason  ;  and  that  breaches  the 
most  trivial  in  themselves  may  be  important  in 
their  consequences,  were  never  more  fully  ex¬ 
emplified  than  in  the  trifling  cause,  which,  by 
putting  an  end  to  the  intercourse  between  the 
above  named  queen  and  duchess,  produced  events 
tlie  most  unforeseen  and  extraordinary.  While 
the  duke  was  fighting  her  majesty’s  battles 
abroad,  and  his  duchess  supporting  his  interest 
.  against  a  powerful  party  at  court ;  a  pair  of 
gloves  of  a  new  invention,  sent  first  by  the  mil¬ 
liner  to  the  favourite  (impatient  to  have  them 


before  the  queen,  who  had  ordered  a  similar 
pair,)  so  incensed  her  majesty,  as  to  be  the  im¬ 
mediate  cause,  by  driving  the  duchess  from  he . 
post,  of  depriving  the  duke  of  his  command, 
compelling  the  confederates  to  agree  to  a  peace, 
preserving  Louis  from  the  destruction  which 
awaited  him,  making  a  total  revolution  in  par¬ 
ties  at  home,  and  determining  the  fate  of  Eu- 
rope.* 

To  a  monarch  more  eager  to  acquire  fame 
than  to  deserve  it,  to  pension  a  poet  will  be  a 
shorter  cut  to  renown  than  to  dispense  blessings 
to  his  country.  Louis  XII.  instead  of  buying 
immortality  of  a  servile  bard,  earned  and  enjoy¬ 
ed  the  appellation  of  father  of  bis  people  ;  that 
people  whom  his  brilliant  successor,  Louis  the 
great,  drained  and  plundered,  or  in  the  emphatic 
language  of  the  prophet,  peeled  and  scattered  to 
provide  money  for  his  wars,  his  mistresses,  his 
buildings,  and  his  spectacles.  Posterity,  how¬ 
ever,  has  done  justice  to  both  kings,  and  le  bien 
aime  is  remembered  with  aflectionate  veneration, 
while  le  grand  is  regarded  as  the  fabricator  of 
the  ruin  of  his  race. 

How  totally  must  adulation  have  blunted  the 
delicacy  of  the  latter  prince,  when  he  could  shut 
himself  up  with  his  two  royal  historiographers 
Boileau  and  Racine,  to  hear  them  read  portions 
of  his  own  history.  Deservedly  high  as  was 
the  reputation  of  these  two  fine  geniuses,  in  the 
walks  of  poetry,  was  that  history  likely  to  con- 
vey  much  truth  or  instruction  to  posterity,  which 
after  being  composed  by  two  pensioned  poets 
was  read  by  them  to  the  monarch,  who  was  to 
be  the  hero  of  the  tale  ?  Sovereigns,  indeed, 
may  elect  poets  to  record  their  exploits,  but  sub¬ 
jects  will  read  historians. 

The  conquest  of  every  town  and  village  was 
celebrated  by  Boileau  in  hyperbolic  song  ;  and 
the  whole  pantheon  ransacked  for  deities,  who 
might  furnish  some  faint  idea  of  the  glories  of 
the  immortal  Louis.^ — The  time,  however,  soon 
arrived,  when  the  author  of  the  adulatorry  ode 
on  the  taking  of  Namur,  in  which  the  king  and 
the  gods  were  again  identified,  was  as  complete¬ 
ly  overturned  by  the  incomparable  travesty  of 
our  witty  Prior,  as  the  conqueror  of  Namur  him 
self  was,  by  its  glorious  deliverer — 

Little  Will,  th^ scourge  of  Prance, 

No  godhead,  but  the  first  of  men.f 

A  prince  should  be  accustomed  to  see  and 
know  things  as  they  really  are,  and  should  be 
taught  to  dread  that  state  of  delusion  in  which 
the  monarch  is  the  only  person  ignorant  of  what 
is  doing  in  his  kingdom.  It  was  to  little  pur- 
pose  that  the  sovereign  last  named,  when  some 
temporary  sense  of  remorse  was  excited  by  an 
affecting  representation  of  the  miseries  of  the 
persecuted  protestants,  said,  ‘  that  he  hoped  God 
would  not  impute  to  him  as  a  crime,  punish¬ 
ments  which  he  had  not  commanded.’  Delusive 
hope  1  It  was  crime  enough  for  a  king  to  be  ig¬ 
norant  of  what  was  passing  in  his  dominions. 

There  have  been  few  princes  so  ill-disposed, 
as  not  to  have  been  made  worse  by  unmeasured 

*  Examen  du  Prince. 

I  See  Boileau’s  Ode  sur  la  prise  de  Naniur,  by  Louis 
and  Prior’s  Poem  on  the  taking  of  Namur,  by  king 
William. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


49 


flattery.  Even  some  of  the  most  depraved  Ro- 
man  emperors  began  their  career  with  a  fair 
promise.  Tiberius  set  out  with  being  mild  and 
prudent ;  and  even  Nero,  for  a  considerable  time, 
either  wore  the  mask,  or  did  not  need  it.  While 
nis  two  virtuous  friends  maintained  their  entire 
influence,  every  thing  looked  favourable. — But 
when  his  sycophants  had  succeeded  in  making 
Seneca  an  object,  of  ridicule ;  and  when  Tigel- 
linus  was  preferred  to  Bujrhus  all  that  followed 
was  a  natural  consequence.  The  abject  slavery 
■  of  the  people,  the  servile  decrees  of  the  senate, 
the  obsequious  acquiescence  of  the  court,  the 
prostrate  homage  of  every  order,  all  concurred 
to  bring  out  his  vices  in  their  full  luxuriance, 
a'hd  Rome,  as  was  but  just,  became  the  victim 
of  the  monster  she  had  pampered.  Tacitus,  with 
his  usual  honest  indignation,  declares,  that  as 
often  as  the  emperor  commanded  banishments 
or  ordered  assassinations,  so  often  were  thanks 
and  sacrifices  decreed  to  the  gods ! 

But,  in  our  happier  days,  as  subjects,  it  is 
presumed,  indulge  no  such  propensities,  so  un¬ 
der  our  happier  constitution,  have  they  no  such 
opportunities.  Yet  powerful,  though  gentler, 
and  almost  unapparent  means,  may  be  employ¬ 
ed  to  weaken  the  virtue,  and  injure  the  fame  of 
a  prince.  To  degrade  his  character,  he  need 
only  be  led  into  one  vice,  idleness ;  and  be  at¬ 
tacked  by  one  weapon,  flattery.  Indiscriminate 
acquiescence  and  soothing  adulation  will  lay  his 
mind  open  to  the  incursion  of  every  evil  with¬ 
out  his  being  aware  of  it ;  for  his  table  is  not  the 
place  where  he  expects  to  meet  an  enemy,  con¬ 
sequently,  he  is  not  on  his  guard  against  him. 
.\ud  where  he  is  thus  powerfully  assailed,  the 
kindest  nature,  the  best  intentions,  the  gentlest 
manners,  and  the  mildest  dispositions,  cannot 
be  depended  on  for  preserving  him  from  those 
very  corruptions,  to  which  the  worst  propensities 
lead ;  and  there  is  a  degree  of  facility,  which,  from 
softness  of  temper,  becomes  imbecility  of  mind. 

For  there  is  hardly  a  fault  a  sovereign  can 
commit,  to  which  flattery  may  not  incline  him. 
It  impels  to  opposite  vices:  to  apathy  and  egot¬ 
ism,  the  natural  failings  of  the  great ;  to  am¬ 
bition  which  inflames  the  heart,  to  anger  which 
distorts  it,  to  hardness  which  deadens,  and 
to  selfishness  which  degrades  it.  He  should  be 
taught,  as  the  intrepid  Massilon*  taught  his 
youthful  prince,  that  the  flattery  of  the  courtier, 
contradictory  as  the  assertion  may  seem,  is 
little  less  dangerous  than  the  disloyalty  of  the 
rebel.  Both  would  betray  him  ;  and  the  crime 
of  him  who  would  dethrone,  and  of  him  who 
would  debase  his  prince,  however  they  may 
difler  in  a  political,  differ  but  little  in  a  moral 
view  :  nay,  the  ill  effects  of  the  traitor’s  crime 
may,  to  the  prince  at  least,  be  bounded  by  time, 
while  the  consequenees  of  the  flatterer’s  may  ex¬ 
tend  to  eternity. 

CHAP.  XVIII. 

Religion  necessary  to  the  well-being  of  states. 

The  royal  pupil  should  be  informed,  that 

•  See  Massilon’s  Sermons,  abounding  equally  in  the 
sublimest  piety  and  the  lichcst  eloquence. 

VoL.  II. — D 


there  are  some  half  Christians,  and  half  philo 
sophers,  who  wish,  without  incurring  the  dis¬ 
credit  of  renouncing  religion,  to  strip  it  of  its 
value,  by  lowering  its  usefulness.  They  have 
been  at  much  pains  to  produce  a  persuasion, 
that  however  beneficial  Christianity  may  be  to 
individuals,  and  however  properly  it  may  be 
taken  as  the  rule  of  their  conduct,  it  cannot  be 
safely  brought  into  action  in  political  concerns  ; 
that  the  intervention  of  its  spirit  will  rarely 
advance  the  public  good,  but  on  the  contrary 
will  often  necessarily  obstruct  it ;  and  in  par 
ticular,  that  the  glory  and  elevation  of  states 
must  be  unavoidably  attended  with  some  viola¬ 
tion  even  of  those  laws  of  morality,  which,  they 
allow,  ought  to  be  observed  in  other  cases.* 

These  assertions,  respecting  the  political  dis¬ 
advantages  of  religion,  have  not  been  urged 
merely  by  the  avowed  enemies  of  Christian 
principles,  the  Bolingbrokes,  the  Hobbeses,  and 
the  Gibbons  :  but  there  is  a  more  sober  class  of 
sceptics,  ranged  under  the  banners  of  a  very 
learned  and  ingenious  sophist,!  who  have  not 
scrupled  to  maintain,  that  the  author  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  has  actually  forbidden  us  to  improve  the 
condition  of  this  world,  to  take  any  vigorous 
steps  for  preventing  its  misery,  or  advancing  its 
glory.  Another  writer,  an  elegant  wit,  but 
whimsical  and  superficial,  though  doubtless  a 
sincere  Christian,!  who  would  be  shocked  at 
the  excess  to  which  impiety  has  carried  the 
position,  has  yet  afforded  some  countenance  to 
it,  by  intimating,  that  God  has  given  to  men  a 
religion  which  is  incompatible  with  the  whole 
economy  of  that  world  which  he  has  created, 
and  in  which  he  has  thought  proper  to  place 
them.  He  allows,  that  ‘  government  is  essen- 
tial  to  men,  and  yet  asserts,  that  it  cannot  bo 
managed  without  certain  degrees  of  violence, 
corruption,  and  imposition,  which  yet  Christi¬ 
anity  strictly  forbids.  That  perpetual  patience 
under  injuries,  must  every  day  provoke  new  in¬ 
sults,  and  injuries,  yet  is  this,  says  he,  enjoined.' 

The  same  positions  are  also  repeatedly  affirm¬ 
ed,  by  a  later,  more  solid,  and  most  admirable 
writer,  whose  very  able  defence  of  the  divine 
authority  of  Christianity  and  the  Holy  Scrip¬ 
tures,  naturally  obtains  credit  for  any  opinions 
which  are  honoured  with  his  support. 

It  may  be  expected,  that  those  who  advance 
such  propositions,  should  at  least  produce  proofs 
from  history,  that  those  states,  in  the  govern¬ 
ment  t  f  which  Christian  principles  have  been 
most  ccuspicuous,  other  circumstances  being 
equal,  have  either  failed  through  error,  or  sunk 
through  impotence ;  or  in  some  other  way  have 
suffered  from  introducing  principles  into  trans¬ 
actions  to  which  they  were  inapplicable.  • 

But  how  little  the  avowed  sceptic,  or  even  the 
paradoxical  Christian  seems  to  understand  the 
genius  of  our  religon ;  and  how  erroneous  is  their 
conception  of  the  true  elementary  principles  of 

*  It  were  to  lie  wished  that  Cromwell  i)ad  been  the 
only  ruler  who  held,  that  the  rules  of  morality  must  bo 
dispensed  w'ith  on  great  political  uccasior.s. 

t  Mr.  Uayle. 

i  Soame  Jenyns.  It  is  true,  he  puts  ti  e  remark  in  the 
mouth  of  ‘  refined  and  speculative  obsf.'rvers.’  But  he 
afterwards  aifirtns  in  his  own  proper  pe<son—  That  suck 
is  indeed  the  Christian  Heeelation. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


5d 

political  prosperity,  we  learn  from  one,  who  was 
as  able  as  either  to  determine  on  the  case.  He 
who  was  not  only  a  politician  but  a  king',  and 
eminently  acquainted  with  the  duties  of  both 
characters,  has  assured  us,  that  righteousness 
EXALTETH  A  NATION.  And  does  not  every  in¬ 
stinct  of  the  unsophisticated  heart,  and  every 
clear  result  of  dispassionate  and  enlarged  ob¬ 
servation,  unite  in  adopting  as  a  moral  axiom 
this  divinely  recorded  aphorism  ? 

It  would,  indeed,  be  strange,  if  the  great 
Author  of  all  things  had  admitted  such  an 
anomaly  in  his  moral  government;  if  in  direct 
contradiction  to  that  moral  ordination  of  causes 
.and  effects,  by  which,  in  the  case  of  individuals, 
religion  and  virtue  generally  tend,  in  the  way 
of  natural  consequence,  to  happiness  and  pros¬ 
perity,  iireligion  and  vice,  to  discomfiture  and 
misery,  the  Almighty  should  have  established 
the  directly  opposite  tendencies,  in  the  case 
of  those  multiplications  of  individuals,  which 
are  called  civil  communities.  It  is  a  sup¬ 
position  so  contrary  to  the  divine  procedure, 
in  every  other  instance,  that  it  would  require  to 
be  proved  by  incontestible  evidence.  It  would 
indeed  amount  to  a  concession,  that  the  moral 
Author  of  the  world  had  appointed  a  premium 
as  it  were,  for  vice  and  irreligion  ;  the  very  idea 
is  profaneness.  Happily  it  is  clearly  contrary 
alsd  both  to  reason  and  experience.  Providence, 
the  ordinations  of  which  will  ever  exhibit  marks 
of  wisdom  and  goodness,  in  proportion  to  the 
care  with  which  they  are  explored,  has,  in  this 
instance,  as  well  as  in  others,  made  our  duty 
coincident  with  our  happiness ;  has  furnished  us 
with  an  additional  motive  for  pursuing  that 
course,  which  is  indispensable  to  our  eternal 
welfiire,  by  rendering  it,  in  the  case  both  of  in¬ 
dividuals  and  of  communities,  productive  also 
of  temporal  good.  It  was  not  enough  to  make 
the  paths  of  virtue  lead  to  ‘  the  fulness  of  joy’ 
hearafter,  they  are  even  now  rendered  to  those  who 
walk  in  them,  ‘  paths  of  pleasantness  and  peace. 

It  would  not  be  difficult  to  prove,  by  a  refer¬ 
ence  to  the  most  established  principles  of  hu¬ 
man  nature,  that  those  dispositions  of  mind,  and 
principles  of  conduct,  which  both  directly  and 
indirectly,  tend  to  promote  the  good  order  of 
civil  communities,  are,  in  general,  produced  or 
strengthened  by  religion.  The  same  temper  of 
mind  which  disposes  a  man  to  fear  God,  prompts 
him  to  honour  the  king.  The  same  pride,  self- 
sufficiency,  and  impatience  of  controul,  which 
are  commonly  the  root  and  origin  of  impiety, 
naturally  produce  civil  insubordination  and  dis¬ 
content.  One  of  the  most  acute  of  our  political 
writers  has  stated,  that  all  government  rests  on 
opinion ;  on  the  opinion  entertained  by  the  mass 
of  the  people,  of  the  right  to  power  in  their  go¬ 
vernors,  or  in  the  opinion  of  its  being  their 
own  interest  to  obey.  Now,  religion  naturally 
confirms  both  these  principles ;  and  tliereby 
strengthens  the  very  foundations  of  the  powers 
of  government.  It  establishes  the  right  to 
power  of  governors,  by  teaching,  that  ‘  there  is 
no  power  but  of  God it  confirms  in  subjects 
the  sense  of  its  being  their  interest  to  obey  by 
the  Dowerful  intervention  of  its  higher  sanctions 
and  rewards  :  ‘  they  that  resist  shall  receive  to 
themselves  condemnation,’ 


Religion  teaches  men  to  consider  their  lot  in 
life,  as  a  station  assigned  to  them,  by  Him,  who 
has  a  right  to  dispose  of  his  creatures  as  he  will. 
It  therefore  tends  to  prevent  in  the  great  mass 
of  the  community  which  must  ever  be  compa 
ratively  speaking,  poor,  the  disposition  to  repine 
at  the  more  favoured  lot,  and  superior  comforts 
of  the  higher  orders  ;  a  disposition  which  is  the 
real  source  of  the  most  dangerous  and  deadly 
dissensions. 

Religion,  again,  as  prompting  men  to  view 
all  human  events  as  under  the  divine  direction, 
to  regard  the  evils  of  life  as  the  dispensation  of 
Heaven,  and  often  as  capable  of  being  rendered 
conducive  to  the  most  essential  and  lasting  bene¬ 
fit,  disposes  men  to  bear  all  their  sufferings  with 
resignation  and  cheerfulness.  Whereas,  on  the 
contrary,  they  who  are  not  under  its  power,  are 
often  inclined  to  revenge  on  their  rulers,  the 
misfortunes,  which  unavoidably  result  from  na¬ 
tural  causes,  as  well  as  those  which  may  be 
more  reasonably  supposed  to  have  owed  their 
existence  to  human  imprudence  and  actual  mis¬ 
conduct. 

Again,  if  from  contemplating  these  questions 
in  their  principles  and  elements,  we  proceed  to 
view  them,  as  they  have  been  exhibited  and 
illustrated  by  history  and  experience,  we  shall 
find  the  same  positions  established  with  equal 
clearness  and  force.  Is  there  any  proposition 
more  generally  admitted,  than  that  political 
communities  tend  to  decay  and  dissolution,  in 
proportion  to  the  corruption  of  their  morals  ? 
How  often  has  the  authority  of  the  poet  been 
adduced  (an  author  acute  and  just  in  his  views 
of  life,  but  not  eminent  for  being  the  friend  of 
morals  or  religion)  to  prove  the  inefficacy  of 
laws,  to  avert  the  progress  of  a  state’s  decline 
and  fall,  while  it  should  be  carried  forward,  too 
surely,  in  the  downward  road,  by  the  general 
corruption  of  manners.  We  have  already  ex¬ 
emplified  these  truths,  in  enumerating  the  causes 
of  the  fall  of  Rome.*  On  more  than  one  occa¬ 
sion,  that  state  had  owed  its  preservation  to  its  re¬ 
verence  for  the  awful  sanction  of  an  oath.  This 
principle,  and  indeed  the  duty  which  is  so  closely 
connected  with  it,  of  truth  and  general  fidelity 
to  engagements,  are  the  very  cement  which 
holds  together  societies,  and  indeed  all,  whether 
greater  or  smaller,  associations  of  men  ;  and  that 
this  class  of  virtues  is  founded  and  bottomed  on 
religion,  is  undeniably  evident. 

If  we  pass  from  the  page  of  history  to  a  re¬ 
view  of  private  life,  are  we  not  led  to  exactly 
the  same  conclusions  ?  Where  do  the  politicians, 
who  reason  from  the  evidence  of  facts,  expect 
to  find  a  spirit  of  insubordination  and  anarchy  ? 
Is  it  not  in  our  crowded  crities,  in  our  large 
manufacturing  towns,  where  wealth  is  often  too 
dearly  purchased  at  the  price  of  morality  and 
virtue  ?  And  if  we  resort  to  individual  instances, 
who  is  the  man  of  peace  and  quietness  ?  Who 
is  the  least  inclined  to  ‘  meddle  with  them  that 
are  given  to  change  ?’  Is  it  not  the  man  of  reli¬ 
gious  and  domestic  habits  whose  very  connex¬ 
ions,  pursuits  and  hopes,  are  so  many  pledges 
for  his  adherence  to  the  cause  of  civil  order 
and  to  the  support  of  the  laws  and  institution# 
of  his  country  ? 

•  Chap.  viii. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


H 


It  IS  the  more  extraordinary  that  any  writers, 
not  deliberately  hostile  to  the  cause  of  religion 
and  virtue,  should  have  given  any  degree  of 
countenance  to  the  pernicious  error,  which  we 
have  been  so  long  combating;  because  the  oppo¬ 
site  opinion  has  been  laid  down  as  an  incontesti- 
ble  axiom,  by  those  who  will  not  be  suspected 
of  any  extravagant  zeal  for  the  credit  of  religion, 
but,  who  speak  the  dictates  of  strong  sense  and 
deep  observation.  Hear  then  the  able,  but  pro¬ 
fligate  Machiavel — ‘  Those  princes  and  com¬ 
monwealths,  who  would  keep  their  governments 
entire  and  uncorrupt,  are  above  all  things,  to 
have  a  care  of  religion  and  its  ceremonies,  and 
preserve  them  in  due  veneration,  for  in  the  whole 
world,  there  is  not  a  greater  sign  of  imminent 
ruin,  than  when  God  and  his  worship  are  de¬ 
spised.’ — ‘  A  prince  therefore,  ought  most  accu¬ 
rately  to  regard,  that  his  religion  be  well-founded, 
and  then  his  government  will  last ;  for  there  is 
no  surer  v.'ay,  than  to  keep  that  good  and  united. 
Whatever  therefore  occurs,  that  may  any  way 
be  extended  to  the  advantages  and  reputation  of 
the  religion  they  design  to  establish,  by  all 
means,  they  are  to  be  propagated  and  encou¬ 
raged  ;  and  the  wiser  the  prince,  the  more  sure 
it  is  to  be  done.’ — ‘  And  if  this  care  of  divine 
worship  were  regarded  by  Christian  princes,  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  precepts  and  instructions  of  him 
who  gave  it  at  first,  tlie  states  and  common¬ 
wealths  of  Christendom  would  be  much  more 
happy  and  firm.’’'’ 

Machiavel,  it  will  be  said,  was  at  once  an  in¬ 
fidel  and  a  hypocrite,  who  did  not  believe  the 
truth  of  that  religion,  the  observance  of  which 
he  solicitoiisly  enforced.  Be  it  so ;  it  still  de¬ 
ducts  nothing  from  the  force  of  the  argument  as 
to  the  political  uses  of  religion. — For  if  the  mere 
forms  and  institutions,  the  outward  and  visible 
signs,  of  Christianity,  were  acknowledged  to  be, 
as  they  really  are,  of  so  great  value,  by  this 
shrewd  politician,  what  might  not  be  the  effect 
of  its  ‘inward  and  spiritual  grace?’ 

When  two  able  men  of  totally  opposite  prin¬ 
ciples  and  characters,  pointedly  agree  in  any 
important  topic,  there  is  a  strong  presumption 
that  they  meet  in  a  truth.  Such  an  unlooked 
for  conformity  may  be  found,  in  two  writers,  so 
decidedly  opposite  to  each  other,  as  our  incom¬ 
parable  bishop  Butler,  and  the  Florentine  secre¬ 
tary  above  cited.  Who  will  suspect  Butler  of 
being  a  visionary  enthusiast?  Yet  has  he  drawn 
a  most  beautiful  picture  of  the  happiness  of  an 
imaginary  state,  which  should  be  perfectly  vir¬ 
tuous  for  a  succession  of  ages.  ‘  In  such  a  state,’ 
he  insists,  there  would  be  no  faction.  Public  de¬ 
terminations  would  really  be  the  result  of  united 
wisdom.  All  would  contribute  to  the  general 
prosperity,  and  each  would  enjoy  the  fruits  of  his 
own  virtue.  Injustice,  force,  and  fraud,  would  be 
unknown — Such  a  kingdom  would  influence  the 
whole  earth  ;  the  head  of  it  indeed  would  be  a 
universal  monarch,  in  a  new  sense,  and  all  people, 
nations,  and  languages  should  serve  Aim.’t 

The  profound  Butler,  was  indeed,  too  great 
an  adept  in  the  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and 

*  Machiavel’s  Disnourees  on  Livy. 

t  This  is  only  a  short  abstract  of  this  fine  passage,  to 
the  wliole  of  which  the  reader  is  referred.  Butler’s  Ana- 
logy,  part  first,  chap,  iii,  p.  89,  and  following. 


too  "thoroughly  versed  in  the  whole  history  of 
mankind,  not  to  know,  as  he  afterwards  observes, 
the  impossibility  without  some  miraculous  in¬ 
terposition,  that  a  great  body  of  men  should  so 
unite  in  one  nation  and  government,  in  the  fear 
of  God,  and  the  practice  of  virtue ;  and  that  such 
a  government  should  continue  unbroken  for  a 
succession  of  ages ;  yet  supposing  it  could  be  so, 
indeed,  such,  he  affirms,  would  be  the  certain 
effect.  And  may  we  not  also  affirm,  that  even 
allowing  for  all  the  failings  and  imperfections 
of  human  nature,  which  the  prelate  has  excluded 
from  his  hypothesis,  would  not  a  state  really 
approach  nearer  to  this  supposed  happiness,  in 
proportion  as  it  taught  and  practised  with  more 
sedulity  the  principles  of  religion  and  virtue  ? 

We  cordially  agree,  with  the  famous  Cosmo 
di  Medici  that  princes  cannot  govern  their  states, 
by  ‘  counting  a  string  of  beads,  or  mumbling 
over  paternosters.’  But  we  are,  at  the  same 
time,  equally  averse  from  the  religion  which 
assigns  such  practices  to  any  class  of  people ; 
and  from  that  ignorance  which  would  make  the 
religion  of  any  order  of  men,  especially  of  princes, 
consist  in  mere  ceremonies  and  observances. 
Charles  the  wise,  was  at  least  as  sound  a  judge 
as  Cosmo  of  what  constituted  the  perfection  of 
a  royal  character,  when  he  declared,  that,  ‘  if 
there  were  no  honour  and  virtue  left  in  the  rest 
of  the  world,  the  last  traces  of  them  should  be 
found  among  princes.’  There  should  indeed, 
be  found  in  the  royal  character,  an  innate  gran¬ 
deur  ;  a  dignity  of  soul  which  should  show  it¬ 
self  under  all  circumstances,  and  shine  through 
every  cloud  of  trial  or  difficulty.  It  was  from 
such  inherent  marks  of  greatness,  that  the  in¬ 
fant  Cyrus,  exiled  and  unknown,  was  chosen 
king  by  the  shepherd’s  children. 

It  would  not,  perhaps,  be  easy  to  cite  an  higher 
authority,  on  the  point  in  question,  the  impor¬ 
tance  of  religion  to  a  state,  than  that  of  the  great 
and  excellent  chancellor  de  L’Hospital.  It  was 
a  common  observation  of  his,  that,  ‘  religion  had 
more  influence  upon  the  spirits  of  mankind, 
than  all  their  passions  put  together ;  and  that 
the  cement,  by  which  it  united  them,  was  infi¬ 
nitely  stronger  than  all  the  other  obligations  of 
civil  society.  This  was  not  the  observation  of 
a  dreaming  monk  who  in  his  cell,  writes  maxims 
for  a  world  of  which  he  knows  nothing  ;  but  the 
sentiment  derived  from  deep  experience,  of  an 
illustrious  statesman,  whose  greatness  of  mind, 
zeal,  disinterestedness,  and  powerful  talents, 
supported  France  under  a  succession  of  weak 
and  profligate  kings.  Frugal  for  the  state  in 
times  of  boundless  prodigality  ;  philosophical  in 
a  period  of  enthusiastic  fury  ;  tolerant  and  can¬ 
did  in  days  of  persecution,  and  deeply  conscien¬ 
tious  under  all  circumstances  ;  worthy,  in  short, 
and  it  is  perhaps  his  best  eulogium,  to  be  driven, 
for  his  virtues,  by  Catharine  di  Medici  from 
councils,  which  his  wisdom  might  have  con¬ 
trolled  ;  and  who,  on  giving  up  the  seals  which 
she  demanded,  withdrew  to  an  honourable  lite¬ 
rary  retreat,  with  the  remark,  that  ‘  the  world 
was  too  depraved  for  him  to  concern  himself  any 
longer  with  it.  These  arc  the  men  whom  cor¬ 
rupt  princes  drive  from  the  direction  of  those 
states,  which  their  wisdom  might  save  and  their 
virtue  might  reform. 


s& 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Another  of  the  political  advantages  of  religi¬ 
ous  rectitude  in  a  state,  is  the  security  it  affords. 
For,  with  whatever  just  severity  we  may  repro¬ 
bate  the  general  spirit  of  revolution,  yet,  it  must 
he  confessed,  that  it  has  not,  on  all  occasions, 
been  excited  by  undue  discontent,  by  unprovoked 
impatience,  nor  even  by  selfish  personal  feel¬ 
ings  ;  but  sometimes  also  from  a  virtuous  sense 
of  the  evils  of  oppression  and  injustice ;  evils 
which  honest  men  resent  for  others  as  well  as  for 
themselves. 

Again,  there  is  something  so  safe  and  tran- 
quilizing  in  Christian  piety,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  that,  though  we  would  be  far  from  re¬ 
ducing  it  to  a  cold  political  calculation ;  yet,  con¬ 
tent,  submission,  and  obedience,  make  so  large 
a  practical  part  of  religion,  that  wherever  it  is 
taught  in  the  best  and  soundest  way,  it  can  hard¬ 
ly  fail  to  promote,  in  the  people,  the  ends  of  true 
policy,  any  more  than  of  genuine  morality. 

Our  wisest  sovereigns,  partly,  perhaps  for  this 
reason,  have  paid  the  deepest  attention  to  the 
moral  instruction  of  the  lower  classes  of  their 
subjects.  Alfred  and  Elizabeth,*  among  others, 
were  too  sound  politicians  to  lose  this  powerful 
hold  on  the  affections  of  their  people.  In  addi¬ 
tion  to  their  desire  to  promote  religion,  they  had 
no  doubt  discerned,  that  it  is  gross  vice,  that  it 
is  brutal  ignorance,  which  leave  the  lower  class 
a  prey  to  factious  innovators,  and  renders  them 
the  blind  tools  of  political  incendiaries.  When 
the  youth  of  this  class  are  carefully  instructed 
in  religion  by  their  rightful  teachers,  those 
teachers  have  the  fairest  opportunities  of  instill¬ 
ing  into  them  their  duty  to  the  state,  as  well  as 
to  the  church  ;  and  they  will  find  that  the  same 
lessons  which  form  good  Christians,  tend  to 
make  good  subjects.  But,  without  that  mode¬ 
rate  measure  of  sound  and  sober  instruction, 
which  should  be  judiciously  adapted  to  their  low 
demands,  they  will  be  likely  neither  to  honour 
the  king,  reverence  the  clergy,  nor  obey  the  ma¬ 
gistrate.  While,  on  the  contrary,  by  inter¬ 
weaving  their  duty  to  their  governors,  with  their 
duty  to  God,  they  will  at  once  be  preserved  from 
mischief  in  politics,  and  delusion  in  religion. 
The  awful  increase  of  perjury  among  us  is  of 
itself  a  loud  call  sedulously  to  pursue  this  object. 
How  should  those  who  are  not  early  instructed 
in  the  knowledge  of  their  Maker,  fear  to  offend 
him,  by  that  common  violation  of  the  solemnity 

♦  See  a  letter  of  archbishop  Whitgift  to  the  bishops, 
of  which  the  following  is  an  extract : 

‘Your  lordship  is  not  ignorant,  that  a  great  part  of 
the  dissoluteness  of  manners,  and  ignorance  in  thecont'- 
mon  sort,  that  reigneth  in  most  parts  of  this  realm,  even 
in  this  clear  light  of  the  gospel,  ariseth  hereof,  for,  that 
the  youth,  being  as  it  were,  the  frie  and  seminary  of  the 
church  and  commonwealth,  through  negligence,  both 
of  natural  and  spiritual  fathers,  are  not,  as  were  meet, 
trained  up  in  the  chief  and  necessary  principles  of 
Christian  religion,  whereby  they  might  learn  their  <luty 
to  their  God,  their  prince,  their  country,  and  their  neigh¬ 
bours;  especially  in  their  tender  years,  when  these  things 
might  best  be  planted  in  them,  and  would  become  most 
hardly  to  be  afterwards  removed  This  mischief  might 
well,  in  mine  opinion,  be  redressed,  if  that  which  in 
this  behalf  hath  been  godly  and  wisely  provided,  were 
a*  carefully  called  on  and  executed,  namely,  by  cate¬ 
chizing  and  instiucting  in  churches  the  youth  of  b  dh 
sexes,  on  the  Sabbath  days,  in  the  afternoon.  And,  that 
if  it  may  be  convenient,  before  their  parents,  and  others 
of  the  several  parishes,  who  thereby  may  take  comfort 
and  instruction  also.’— Strype’s  Life  of  Whitgift. 


I  of  oaths,  for  which  we  are  unhappily  becoming 
notorious  ?  Let  us  not  be  deemed  needlessly 
earnest  in  the  defence  of  a  truth  of  such  extreme 
importance. — The  political  value  of  religion  ne 
ver  can  be  too  firmly  believed,  or  too  carefully 
kept  in  view,  in  the  government  of  nations. 
May  it  be  deeply  rooted  in  the  mind  of  every 
prince,  as  a  fundamental  principle  1  Let  it  be 
confirmed  by  all  the  various  proofs  and  exam¬ 
ples,  by  which  its  truth  can  be  established,  and 
its  authority  enforced  !* 

But,  to  return. — We  most  readily  concede, 
that  by  that  exultation  of  a  state  of  which  Solo¬ 
mon  speaks,  is  not  meant,  that  sudden  flash  of 
temporary  splendor,  which  is  occasioned  by  the 
mutable  advantages  of  war,  the  plunder  of  fo- 
reign  countries,  the  acquisition  of  unwieldy  ter¬ 
ritory,  or  the  vertigo  of  domestic  revolutions  . 
but  that  sober  and  solid  glory,  which  is  the  re¬ 
sult  of  just  laws  ;  of  agriculture,  and  sobriety, 
which  promote  population;  of  industry  and  com¬ 
merce,  which  increase  prosperity  ;  of  such  well 
regulated  habits  in  private  life,  as  may  serve  to 
temper  that  prosperity,  and  by  strict  conse¬ 
quences,  give  direction  and  steadiness  to  public 
manners.  For  it  never  can  be  made  a  question, 
whether  the  solidity  of  the  parts  must  not  con¬ 
tribute  to  the  firmness  of  the  whole;  and  whether 
the  virtue  exercised  by  collective  bodies,  can 
any  farther  be  hoped  for,  than  as  it  exists  in  the 
individuals  who  compose  them.  But,  on  what 
basis  can  this  superstructure  rest,  by  what  prin¬ 
ciple  can  individual  virtue  be  either  substantially 
promoted  or  lastingly  secured,  except  by  that 
sense  of  an  invisible,  almighty,  and  infinitely 
just,  and  holy  Sovereign  of  the  universe,  which 
revelation  alone  has  effectually  disclosed  to  us, 
and  reason  has  recognized  as  the  essence  of  re¬ 
ligion  ? 

Far  be  it  indeed,  from  us  to  deny,  that  this 
religious  principle  may  not  frequently  oppose  it¬ 
self  to  apparent  means  of  aggrandizement,  both 
personal  and  national. — Doubtless  it  will  often, 
condemn  that  to  which  human  pride  would 
aspire.  Even  when  an  object  might  in  itself  be 
fairly  desirable,  it  will  forbid  the  pursuit,  except 
through  lawful  paths.  But  in  the  severest  of 
such  restrictions,  it  only  sacrifices  what  is  sha¬ 
dowy  to  what  is  substantial,  the  evanescent  tri¬ 
umphs  of  a  day  to  the  permanent  comfort  of 
successive  generations. 

But  though  we  do  not  assert  that  national 
prosperity  is  always,  and  infallibly,  an  indica¬ 
tion  of  virtue,  and  of  the  distinguishing  favour 
of  God,  yet  we  conceive,  that  such  outward 
marks  of  divine  favour  may  more  generally  be 
expected,  in  the  case  of  communities,  than  of  in- 

*  Mr.  Addison  speaks  of  the  religious  instruction  of 
the  poor  as  the  best  means  of  recovering  the  country 
from  its  degeneracy  and  depravation  of  manners.  And. 
after  drawing  an  animated  picture  of  a  procession  of 
charily  children  on  a  day  of  thanksgiving  for  the  tri¬ 
umphs  obtained  by  the  queen’s  arms,  he  adds,  ‘  for  my 
part,  I  can  scarce  forlxmr  looking  on  the  astonishing 
victories  our  arms  have  been  crowned  with,  to  be.  in 
some  measure,  the  blessings  returned  upon  these  chan  . 
lies  ;  and  that  the  great  successes  of  the  war,  for  which 
we  lately  offered  up  our  thanks,  were,  in  somemea.«ure, 
occasioned  by  the  several  objects  (of  religiously  instruct¬ 
ed  children)  which  then  stood  before  us.’— GnARDiAW, 
No.  105.  These  were  the  sentiments  of  a  Hecretary  of 
State! 


THE  WORKS  Of  HANNAH  MORE. 


53 


dividuals.  In  communities  we  see  not  so  much 
the  effect  of  each  particular  act  of  virtue,  as  of 
the  generally  diffused  principle.  Though  virtue 
is  often  obstructed  in  labouring  to  obtain  for  it¬ 
self  the  advantages  which  belong  to  it,  this  is 
no  proof  against  its  having  a  tendency  'to  obtain 
them.  The  natural  tendency  indeed,  being  to 
produce  happiness,  though  it  may  fail  to  do  it  in 
certain  expected  cases. 

In  the  case,  therefore,  of  communities  and 
states,  where  the  result  of  many  actions,  rather 
than  the  particular  effect  of  each,  is  seen,  it  may 
not  altogether  unfairly  be  asserted,  that  virtue 
is  its  own  reward.  Perhaps  it  also  may  be  af¬ 
firmed,  that  the  system  of  temporal  rewards  and 
punishments,  which,  though  chiefly  exemplified 
in  the  Jewish  dispensation,  was  by  no  means 
confined  to  it,  has  not  equally  passed  away,  with 
respect  to  states  and  nations,  as  with  respect  to 
individuals.  The  learned  Bossuet  has  observed, 
that  while  the  New  Testament  manifests  to  us 
the  operation  of  God’s  grace,  the  Old  Testament 
exhibits  to  us  his  providential  government  of  the 
world.  We  will  not  dwell  on  this  remark  fur¬ 
ther  than  to  suggest,  that  even  in  this  view  the 
study  of  the  Old  Testament  may  not  be  without 
its  uses,  even  to  the  modern  statesman,  as  we 
know  that  the  Jewish  law  has  clearly  been  held 
important,  by  some  of  our  wisest  legislators. 

On  the  whole,  we  need  not  hesitate  to  assert, 
that  in  the  long  course  of  events,  nothing,  that 
is  morally  wrong,  can  be  politically  right.  No¬ 
thing  that  is  inequitable,  can  be  finally  success¬ 
ful.  Nothing,  that  is  contrary  to  religion,  can 
be  ultimately  favourable  to  civil  policy.  We 
may  therefore  confidently  affirm,  that  impiety 
and  vice,  sooner  or  later,  bring  states,  as  well 
as  individuals,  to  misery  and  ruin.  That,  though 
vice  may  sometimes  contribute  to  temporary  ex¬ 
altation;  in  the  same  degree,  it  will,  in  the  end, 
contribute  to  promote  decay,  and  accelerate  the 
inevitable  period  of  dissolution. 

Let  it  then  be  ever  kept  in  view,  that  the  true 
exaltation  is,  in  fact,  that  prosperity  which  arises 
from  the  goodness  of  the  laws,  and  the  firmness 
and  impartiality  with  which  they  are  executed  ; 
which  results  from  moderation  in  the  govern¬ 
ment,  and  obedience  in  people ;  from  wisdom 
and  foresight  in  council,  from  activity  and  in¬ 
tegrity  in  commerce,  from  independence  of  na¬ 
tional  character,  from  fortitude  in  resisting  fo¬ 
reign  attack,  and  zeal  in  promoting  domestic 
harmony ;  from  patience  under  sufferings,  hardi¬ 
ness  in  danger,  zeal  in  the  love  of  civil,  and  vi¬ 
gour  in  the  reprobation  of  savage  liberty  ;  from 
u  spirit  of  fairness  and  liberality  in  making 
treaties,  and  from  fidelity  in  observing  them. 
Above  all,  from  a  multiplication  of  individual 
instances  of  family  comfort  and  independence, 
from  the  general  prevalence,  throughout  the 
great  mass  of  the  people,  of  habits  of  industry, 
sobriety,  and  good  order,  from  the  practice  in 
short,  of  the  social  and  domestic  virtues ;  of  all 
those  relative  duties  and  kindnesses,  which  give 
body  and  substance  to  the  various  charities  of 
lifo,  and  the  best  feelings  of  our  nature. 

If  sinful  nations  appear  prosperous  for  a  time. 
It  is  often  because  there  has  been  some  propor¬ 
tion  of  good  mixed  with  the  evil;  or  it  is  be¬ 
cause  the  Providence  of  God  means  to  use  the 


temporary  success  of  guilty  nations  for  the  ac¬ 
complishment  of  his  general  scheme,  or  the  pro¬ 
motion  of  a  particular  purpose,  of  humbling  and 
correcting  other,  perhaps  less  guilty  nations  ;  or 
it  is  because  ‘  the  iniquity  of  the  Amorites  is  not 
yet  full ;  and  the  punishment  of  the  more  cor¬ 
rupt  states  is  delayed,  to  make  their  ruin  more 
signal  and  tremendous,  and  their  downfall  a 
more  portentous  object,  for  the  instruction  of 
the  world.  God,  without  any  impeachment  of 
his  moral  government,  may  withhold  retribution, 
because  it  is  always  in  his  power :  he  may  be 
long-suffering,  because  he  is  everlasting.  He 
may  permit  the  calamity  which  we  see,  in  order 
to  extract  from  it  the  good  which  we  see  not. — 
He  is  never  the  author  of  moral  evil,  and  the 
natural  evil  which  he  does  authorise,  is  both  the 
punishment  and  the  corrective  of  the  moral. 
Though  God  never  intended  this  world  for  such 
a  complete  state  of  retribution,  as  entirely  to 
hinder  either  vice  or  virtue  from  occasionally 
receiving  the  recompences,  and  the  penalties 
due  to  the  other  ;  yet  there  is  this  obvious  differ¬ 
ence,  between  nations  and  individuals,  that, 
whereas  individuals  the  most  virtuous  are  often 
the  most  visited  with  temporal  misfortunes,  the 
best  governed  empires  are,  on  the  whole,  the 
most  secure  of  prosperity.  And  if,  in  the  cala¬ 
mities  brought  on  corrupt  states,  the  innocent 
always  unavoidably  suffer  with  the  guilty,  this 
furnishes  no  just  charge  against  the  equity  of 
divine  Providence,  who  here  reckons  tremen¬ 
dously  with  the  state  as  a  state,  but  will,  sepa¬ 
rately  and  ultimately,  reckon  with  every  indi¬ 
vidual  ;  and  thus  finally  and  fully  vindicate  his 
own  infinite,  and  much  calumniated  justice.’* 


CHAP.  XIX. 

Integrity  the  true  political  wisdom. 

The  tendency  of  a  religious  temper  to  exalt 
a  prince  into  a  hero,  might  be  sufficiently  illus¬ 
trated  by  the  single  instance  of  Louis  the  ninth. 
It  is  notorious,  that  nothing  more  severely  tries 
the  character  of  princes  as  well  as  of  individuals, 
than  remarkable  success.  It  was,  however,  in 
this  circumstance  precisely,  that  the  prince  just 
mentioned  evinced  how  completely  his  Christian 
temper  had  corrected,  both  the  selfishness  natu¬ 
ral  to  man,  and  the  arrogance  habitual  to  pros¬ 
perity. 

When,  under  the  unfortunate  reign  of  our 
Henry  the  third,  the  affairs  of  England  were  re¬ 
duced  to  a  low  condition,  while  those  of  France 
were  in  a  highly  flourishing  state ;  Louis,  in 
making  a  treaty  with  England,  generously  re¬ 
fused  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  misfor¬ 
tunes  of  this  country,  or  to  avail  himself  to  the 
utmost  of  his  own  superiority.  His  concessions 
to  the  depressed  enemy  were  liberal ;  and  he 
soon  after  reaped  the  reward  of  his  moderation, 
in  the  confidence  which  it  inspired.  Louis  was 
chosen,  both  by  Henry  and  his  nobles,  to  settle 
the  differences  between  tliem.  In  consequence 

■*  See  bisliop  Dntler’s  Analogy,  a  work  which  cannot 
be  too  strongly  recommended 


54 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


of  the  recent  instance  of  his  public  integrity, 
the  foreign  adversary  was  invited  to  be  tfie  ar- 
biter  of  domestic  disagreements  ;  and  they  were 
happily  terminated  by  his  decision.  Let  infi¬ 
dels  remark,  to  the  disgrace  of  their  scepticism, 
that  the  monarch  who  was,  perhaps,  one  of  the 
greatest  instances  of  Christian  piety  and  devo¬ 
tion,  furnished  also  an  example  of  the  most 
striking  moral  rectitude ! 

Henry  the  fourth,  when  only  king  of  Navarre, 
discovered  no  less  integrity  after  his  glorious 
victory  at  Coutras.  Being  asked  what  terms  he 
would  require  from  the  king  of  France,  after 
gaining  such  a  victory,  ‘just  the  same,’  replied 
,  he,  ‘  that  I  should  ask  after  losing  one.’ 

It  is,  however,  necessar}'  to  observe,  that  in¬ 
tegrity,  in  order  to  bo  successful,  must  be  uni¬ 
form.  Truth,  for  example,  occasionally  spoken, 
may  not  afford  to  the  speaker  any  part  of  the 
profit  which  attends  the  regular  observance  of 
truth.  TJie  error  of  corrupt  politicians  consists 
mucJi  in  treating  each  question,  as  if  it  were 
an  insulated  case.,  and  then  arguing,  perhaps  not 
unjustly,  that  the  practice  of  virtue,  in  this  or 
that  particular  instance,  will  not  be  productive 
of  good  ;  forgetting  that  if,  in  all  instances,  they 
would  be  virtuous,  they  would  then  most  proba¬ 
bly  obtain  the  success  and  full  reward  of  virtue. 

We  know  that  even  in  that  particular  branch 
of  political  transactions,  the  diplomatic,  wherein 
the  strongest  temptations  to  dissimulation,  and 
chicanery  are  held  forth  to  little  minds,  some  of 
the  most  able  and  successful  negotiators  have 
generously  disdained  the  use  of  any  such  mean 
expedients.  The  frankness  and  integrity  of 
Temple  and  De  Witt  are  not  more  esteemed  by 
the  moralist  for  their  probity,  than  by  the  states¬ 
man  for  their  true  wisdom.  What  can  there  be, 
indeed,  so  different  between  the  situation  of  two 
public  men,  who  on  the  part  of  their  several 
countries  respectively,  are  negotiating  on  ques¬ 
tions  of  policy  or  commerce  ;  and  that  of  two 
private  men  who  are  treating  on  some  business 
of  ordinary  life,  which  should  render  impolitic, 
in  the  public  concern,  that  honesty  which,  in 
the  private,  is  so  universally  acknowledged  to 
be  the  best  policy,  as  to  have  grown  into  an 
adage  of  universal  and  unqualified  acceptance. 
Indeed,  as  the  adage  may  refer  to  what  is  truly 
politic  in  the  long  run,  and  with  a  view  to  gene¬ 
ral  consequences,  we  might  rather  expect,  that 
fraud  would  be  admissible  into  the  transactions 
of  private  men,  whose  short  span  of  life  might 
not  be  likely  to  be  more  than  counterbalanced 
by  future  loss  rather  than  in  the  concerns  of 
states,  which,  by  containing  a  long  continued 
existence,  a  political  identity,  under  all  the  suc¬ 
cessive  generations  of  the  members  of  which 
they  are  composed,  may  pay,  and  pay  perhaps 
severely  too,  in  later  times,  the  price  of  former 
acts  of  fraud  and  treachery. — Again,  in  public, 
no  less  than  in  private  business,  will  not  any 
one  find  the  benefit  of  employing  an  agent,  who 
possesses  a  high  character  for  probity  and  ho¬ 
nour  ?  Will  not  larger  and  more  liberal  conces¬ 
sions  be  made  to  him  who  may  be  safely  relied 
on  for  paying  their  equivalent  ?  Once  more, 
how  often  are  public  wars,  as  well  as  private 
differences,  produced  or  fermented  by  mutual 
distrust !  and  how  surely  would  a  confidence  iir 


each  other’s  trust  and  honesty  tend  to  the  resto¬ 
ration  of  peace  and  harmony  !  Even  the  wily 
Florentine*  allows,  that  it  is  advantageous  t« 
have  a  high  character  for  truth  and  uprightness 
And  how  can  this  character  be  in  any  way  so 
well  obtained  as  by  deserving  it  ?  It  is  the  dis¬ 
grace  of  nations,  that  in  their  diplomatic  con¬ 
cerns,  the  maxims  of  solid  wisdom  have  not 
been  always  observed. 

Without  going  the  length  of  admitting  the 
truth  of  Sir  Henry  Wotton’s  light  definition  of 
the  duties  of  an  ambassador,  is  it  not  too  often 
assumed,  that  the  laws  which  bind  private  men, 
and  which  would  doubtless  bind  the  individual 
minister  himself,  in  his  private  concerns,  may 
occasionally  be  dispensed  with' in  the  adminis¬ 
tration  of  public  affairs ;  and  that  strict  truth, 
for  instance,  which  in  the  ordinary  transactions 
of  life  is  allowed  to  be  indispensable,  is  too  fre¬ 
quently  considered  as  impracticable  in  diplo¬ 
matic  negotiations  ? 

Don  Louis  De  Haro,  the  Spanish  minister,  at 
the  treaty  of  the  Pyrennees,  seems  to  have  en¬ 
tertained  just  views  of  the  value  of  simple  in¬ 
tegrity  in  politicians,  for  speaking  of  cardinal 
Mazarin,  with  whom  he  was  negotiating,  he 
said,  ‘  that  man  always  pursued  one  great  error 
in  politics,  he  would  always  deceive.’  Mazarin 
was  a  deep  dissembler  and  a  narrow  genius  ;t 
so  true  it  ip  that  vanity  and  short-sightedness 
are  commonly  at  the  bottom  of  dissimulation, 
though  it  be  practised  from  a  totally  opposite 
idea ;  worldly  politicians  frequently  falling  into 
the  error  of  fancying,  that  craft  and  circumven¬ 
tion  are  indications  of  genius  ;  while,  in  reality, 
suspicion  is  the  wisdom  of  a  little  mind,  and 
distrust  the  mean  and  inefficient  substitute  for 
the  penetration  of  a  great  one.  Many,  says  lord 
Bacon,  wha  know  how  to  pack  the  cards,  can¬ 
not  play  them  well.  Many  who  can  manage 
canvasses  and  factions,  are  yet  not  wise  men. 
Considering  the  credit  which  sincerity  stamps 
on  a  political  character,  it  is  so  far  from  being 
opposed  to  discretion,  that  it  constitutes  the  best 
part  of  it.  True  rectitude  neither  implies  nor 
requires  imprudence  ;  while  it  costs  a  politician 
as  much  trouble  to  maintain  the  reputation  of  a 
quality  which  he  has  not,  as  it  would  really  cost 
him  to  acquire  it.  The  mazes  and  windings, 
the  doublings  and  intricacies  of  intriguing  spi¬ 
rits,  ultimately  mislead  them  from  the  end  they 
pursue.  They  excite  jealousy,  they  rouse  re¬ 
sentment,  they  confirm  suspicion,  they  strength¬ 
en  prejudices,  they  foment  differences  ;  and  thus 
call  into  action  a  number  of  passions,  which 
commonly  oppose  themselves  to  the  accomplish¬ 
ment  of  their  designs.  Politicians  therefore 
would  do  well  to  remember  the  remark  of  the 
learned  Barrow,  who  was  as  great  a  proficient 
in  mathematics,  as  in  morality,  that  ‘  the  i 
straightest  line  is  always  the  shortest  line,  in 
morals  as  well  as  in  geometry.’  When  the  cha- 

•  Machiavel. 

t  Mazarin  himself  had  spread  his  own  maxims  to  such 
good  purpose,  that  one  of  his  creatures  whom  he  intend¬ 
ed  to  send  to  negotiate  with  the  duke  of  Savoy,  implored 
his  eminence  not  to  insist  on  his  deceiving  thednke  just 
at  that  tine,  as  the  business  was  but  a  trifle ;  because  he 
thought  it  would  answer  better  to  reserve  the  sacrifice 
of  his  reputation  for  deceiving,  till  some  more  important 
object  was  at  stake- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


55 


racter  of  integrity  is  once  lost;  falsehood  itself 
loses  all  its  uses.  The  known  dissembler  is  sus¬ 
pected  of  insincerity  even  when  he  does  not 
practise  it,  and  is  no  longer  trusted,  though  he 
may  happen  to  deserve  to  be  so. 

The  character  of  lord  Sunderland  presents  a 
striking  instance  of  the  political  inefiicacy  of 
duplicity.  His  superior  genius,  so  admirabl}^ 
qualified  for  business,  availed  him  but  little  in 
securing  the  public  esteem  when  it  was  ob¬ 
served,  that  of  three  successive  princes,  who 
severally  set  out  with  a  view  to  establish  dif¬ 
ferent  interests,  he  gained  the  favour  of  all,  by 
adopting  the  system  of  each,  with  the  same  ac¬ 
commodating  veracity.  His  reputation  for  ho¬ 
nesty  sunk,  and  he  ceased  to  bo  trusted  in  the 
degree  in  which  he  came  to  he  known. 

We  sometimes  hear  the'  more  decent  politi¬ 
cians,  who  sanction  the  appearance,  and  com¬ 
mend  the  outward  observances  of religion  lament 
that  religion  does  not  produce  any  great  effects 
upon  society.  And  they  are  right,  if  by  religion 
they  mean  that  shell  and  surface,  which  merely 
serve  to  save  appearances.  But,  is, it  not  to  be 
feared,  that  these  very  politicians  sometimes  dis¬ 
believe  the  reality,  and  the  power  of  that  religion, 
the  exterior  of  which  they  allow  to  be  decorous  ? 
Yet,  this  reality  and  power,  believed  and  acted 
upon,  would  certainly  produce  more  substantial 
effects  than  can  ever  rationally  be  expected  from 
mere  forms  and  shadows.  These  sage  persons 
frequently  lament  the  deficiency  of  morals  in 
society,  but  never  the  want  of  religion  in  the 
heart.  Though,  to  expoct  that  morality  to  be 
firm;  which  stands  on  no  religious  foundation, 
is  to  expect  stability  from  an  inverted  pyramid. 

Besides,  it  is  infinitely  laborious  to  maintain 
an  undeviating  course  of  dissimulation,  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  intermission  of  which  may  defeat  the 
policy  of  years.  Y  et,  this  unremitting  attention, 
this  wearying  watchfulness,  is  essential  to  that 
worldly  policy,  of  which  South  says,  that 
‘  folly  being  the  superstructure,  it  is  but  reasen, 
that  the  foundation  should  be  falsity.  The  same 
acute  judge  of  mankind  observes,  that  the  de¬ 
signing  politicians  of  the  party  he  was  combat¬ 
ing,  seemed  to  act  as  if  they  thought  ‘that 
speech  was  given  to  ordinary  men  to  communi¬ 
cate  their  mind,  but  to  wise  men  for  concealing 
it’ 

The  dissembler  should  also  remember,  that 
however  deeply  interest  and  industry  enable 
him  to  lay  his  plans,  the  interest  and  industry 
of  others  will  be  equally  at  work  to  detect  them. 
Besides,  the  deepest  politician  can  carry  on  no 
great  schemes  alone,  and  as  all  association  de¬ 
pends  on  opinion,  few  will  lend  their  aid,  or  com¬ 
mit  their  safety  to  one  whose  general  want  of 
probity  forbids  the  hope  of  perpetual  confidence, 
or  of  permanent  security. 

Why  do  many  politicians  fail  finally  of  the 
full  accomplishment  of  their  object?  Not  for 
want  of  genius  to  lay  a  plausible  plan  ;  not  for 
want  of  judgment  to  seize  the  most  favourable 
occasions  ;  not  for  want  of  due  contempt  of  con¬ 
scientious  scruples  in  pushing  those  occasions; 
not  for  want  of  fearless  impiety  in  giving  full 
scope  to  their  designs  ;  but  from  that  over  wake¬ 
ful  Providence,  which  if  he  does  not  dash  their 
projects  before  they  are  acted,  defeats  the 


main  intention  afterwards. — Even  the  successful 
usurper,  Cromwell,  lost  the  confidence  of  his 
army,  when  they  found  in  the  sequel,  that  he 
meant  to  place  himself  on  the  very  throne  which 
he  had  made  them  believe  it  was  his  great  ob¬ 
ject  to  abolish.  Nor  was  he  ever  able  to  adorn 
his  own  brows  with  that  crown,  for  the  hope 
of  which  he  had  waded  through  a  sea  of  crimes. 
The  very  means  employed  by  Alexander  the 
sixth,  and  Ccesar  Borgia,  to  destroy  the  cardinals, 
rebounded  on  themselves,  and  both  were  poison¬ 
ed  by  the  very  wine  which  they  had  prepared 
for  the  destruction  of  their  guests. 

It  is,  therefore,  the  only  safety,  and  the  only 
wisdom,  and  the  only  sure,  unfading  prudence, 
instead  of  pursuing  our  own  devious  paths,  to 
commit  our  concerns  to  God ;  to  walk  in  his 
straight  ways,  and  obey  his  plain  commands. 
For,  after  all,  the  widest  sphere  of  a  mere 
worldly  politician  is  but  narrow.  The  wisdom 
of  this  world  is  bounded  by  this  world,  the  di¬ 
mensions  of  which  are  so  contracted,  and  its 
duration  so  short,  in  the  eye  of  true  philosophy, 
as  to  strip  it  of  all  real  grandeur.  All  the  enjoy¬ 
ments  of  this  world,  says  the  eloquent  South,  are 
much  too  short  for  an  immortal  soul  to  stretch 
itself  upon  :  a  soul  which  shall  persist  in  being, 
not  only  when  honour  and  fame,  but  when  time 
itself  shall  cease  to  be.  The  deepest  worldly 
projector,  with  the  widest  views,  and  the  strong¬ 
est  energies,  even  when  flushed  with  success, 
must,  if  his  mind  has  never  learned  to  shoot 
forward  into  the  boundless  eternity  of  an  unseen 
world,  feel  his  genius  cramped,  his  wing  flag, 
and  his  spirit  at  a  stand.  There  seems  to  have 
been  a  spark  of  the  immortal  fire  even  in  the 
regrets  of  Alexander.  It  is  probable  he  would 
not  have  wept,  because  he  had  no  more  worlds 
to  conquer,  had  he  not  deeply  felt  the  sting  of 
disappointment  at  finding  no  joy  in  having  con¬ 
quered  this,  and  thence  inferred  a  kind  of  vague 
and  shapeless  idea  of  another.  There  will  be 
always  too  vast  a  disproportion  between  the 
appetites  and  enjoyments  of  the  ambitious  to 
admit  pf  their  being  happy.  Nothing  can  fill 
the  desires  of  a  great  soul,  but  what  he  is  per¬ 
suaded  will  last  as  long  as  he  himself  shall  last. 

To  worldly  minds  it  v/ould  sound  paradoxical 
to  assert  that  ambition  is  a  little  passion.  To 
affirm  that  if  really  groat  views,  and  truly  en¬ 
larged  notions  were  impressed  upon  the  soul, 
they  would  be  so  far  from  promoting  that  they 
would  cure  this  passion.  The  excellent  bishop 
Berkeley,  beholding  the  ravages  which  ambition 
had  made  in  his  time  in ‘France,  could  not  help 
wishing  that  its  encroaching  monarch  had  been 
bred  to  the  study  of  astronomy,  that  he  might 
learn  from  thence  how  mean  and  little  that  am¬ 
bition  is  which  terminates  in  a  small  part  of 
what  is  of  itself  but  a  point,  compared  with  that 
part  of  the  universe  which  lies  within  our  view- 
But,  if  astronomy  shows  the  diminutiveness 
of  that  globe,  for  a  very  small  portion  of  which 
kings  contend,  in  comparison  with  the  universe, 
how  much  nobler  a  cure  does  Christianity  pro¬ 
vide  for  ambition,  by  showing  that  not  tliis  globe 
only,  but  the  whole  universe  also, 

Yea,  all  that  it  inherits  shall  dissolve ; 

reminding  the  ambitious  of  the  utter  in- 


56 


/ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


•ufficiency  to  true  glory  or  real  happiness  of  all 
that  has  been  created,  of  all  that  shall  have  an 
end;  by  carrying  on  their  views  to  that  invisi¬ 
ble,  eternal  world,  which  to  us  shall  then  era- 
phatically  begin  to  be,  when  all  which  we  be¬ 
hold  shall  be  no  more. 

He,  therefore,  is  the  only  true  politician  who 
uniformly  makes  the  eternal  laws  of  truth  and 
rectitude,  as  revealed  from  heaven  the  standard 
of  his  actions,  and  the  measure  of  his  ambition. 

‘  To  do  justly,’  is  peculiarly  the  high  and  holy 
■vocation  of  a  prince.  And  both  princes  and 
politicians  would  do  well  to  inquire,  not  only 
whether  their  scheme  was  planned  with  saga¬ 
city,  and  executed  with  spirit,  but  whether  they 
have  so  conducted  it,  as  to  leave  proper  room,  if 
we  may  so  speak,  for  the  favourable  interference 
of  God  ;  whether  they  have  supplicated  his  bles¬ 
sing  ;  and  given  to  him  the  glory  of  its  happy 
issue?  Perhaps  more  well-meant  endeavours 
fpl  through  neglect  in  these  respects,  particu¬ 
larly  of  fervent  prayer  for  success,  than  through 
any  deficiency  in  the  wisdom  of  the  plan  itself. 
Rut  because  under  a  fanatic  usurpation,  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  hypocrites  abused  this 
duty,  and  degraded  its  sanctity,  by  what  they 
profanely  called  seeking  the  Lord;  the  friends 
of  the  restored  constitution  too  generally  took  up 
the  notion,  that  irreligion  was  a  proof  of  sin¬ 
cerity,  and  that  the  surest  way  to  avoid  the  hy¬ 
pocrisy,  was  to  omit  the  duty. 

We  cannot  too  strongly  censure  that  most 
mistaken  practice,  which,  at  the  period  before 
mentioned,  reduced  the  language  of  Scripture 
to  that  of  common  conversation  ;  nor  too  warm¬ 
ly  condemn  that  false  taste,  which,  by  quaint 
allusions,  forced  conceits,  and  strained  allego¬ 
ries,  wrested  the  Bible  to  every  ordinary  pur¬ 
pose,  and  debased  its  dignity,  by  this  colloquial 
familiarity.  But  is  there  no  danger  of  falling 
into  the  opposite  error  ?  If  some  have  unseason¬ 
ably  forced  it  into  the  service,  on  occasions  to 
which  it  could  never  apply  ;  may  not  others  ac¬ 
quire  the  habit  of  thinking  it  seasonable  on  no 
occasion  at  all  ?  -i 

Again — bow  strangely  do  we  overlook  the 
consummate  wisdom,  as  well  as  goodness  of 
God,  in  having  made  that  practice  of  prayer  the 
instrument  of  obtaining  his  blessing,  which  is 
80  powerfully  operative  in  purifying  and  elevat- 
our  own  hearts.  Politicians,  with  all  their  sa¬ 
gacity,  w'ould  do  well  to  learn,  that  it  is  likewise 
v>ne  of  the  many  beneficial  effects  of  prayer,  that 
it  not  only  reasonably  increases  our  hopes  of 
success,  but  teaches  us  to  acquiesce  in  disap¬ 
pointment.  They  should  learn  also,  not  to  won¬ 
der,  if  God  refuses  to  answer  those  prayers, 
which  are  occasionally  put  up  on  great  public 
emergencies,  when  those  who  offer  them  do  not 
live  in  the  exercise  of  habitual  devotion.  They 
should  take  it  as  an  axiom  of  good  experience 
from  the  incomparable  Hooker,  that  ‘  All  things 
religiously  begun  are  prosperously  ended ;  be¬ 
cause  whether  men,  in  the  end,  have  that  which 
religion  allowed  them  to  desire,  or  that  which 
it  teacheth  them  contentedly  to  suffer,  they  are, 
in  neither  event,  unfortanate.’ 

Nor  will  a  truly  pious  pnnee  ever  be  even¬ 
tually  defeated  in  his  designs ;  he  may  not  in¬ 


deed  be  successful  in  every  negotiation,  he  may" 
not  be  victorious  in  every  battle ;  yet  in  his 
leading  purpose  he  will  never  be  disappointed. 
For  his  ultimate  end  was  to  act  conscientiously, 
to  procure  the  favour  of  God,  to  advance  the  best 
interests  of  his  people,  and  to  secure  his  own 
eternal  happiness. — Whatever  the  event  maj 
be  to  others,  to  himself  it  must  be  finally  good. 
The  effect  of  righteousness  is  peace.  Mark  the 
perfect  man,  and  behold  the  upright,  for  the  end 
of  that  man  is  peace.  And,  to  conclude  in  the 
words  of  the  able  and  profound  Barrow — ‘  If 
God  shall  not  cease  to  be  ;  if  he  will  not  let  go 
the  reins;  if  his  word  cannot  deceive;  if  the 
wisest  men  are  not  infatuated  ;  if  the  common 
sense  of  mankind  is  not  extravagant ;  if  the  main 
props  of  life,  if  the  great  pillars  of  society  do  not 
fail; — he  that  walketh  uprightly  doth  proceed 
on  sure  grounds.’ 


CHAP.  XX. 

On  the  true  arts  of  Popularity. 

Cicero  says,  ‘  that  it  is  the  property  of  justice 
not  to  injure  men,  and  of  politeness  not  to  offend 
them.’  True  Christianity  not  only  unites,  but 
perfects  both  these  qualities  ;  and  renders  them, 
thus  associated  and  exalted,  powerful  instru¬ 
ments,  especially  in  princes,  for  the  acquisition 
of  popularity. 

The  desire  of  praise  and  reputation  is  com¬ 
monly  the  first  motive  of  action  in  second  rate, 
and  a  secondary  motive  in  first  rate  characters. 
That,  in  the  former  case,  men  who  are  not 
governed  by  a  higher  principle,  are  often  so 
keenly  alive  to  human  opinion,  as  to  be  re¬ 
strained  by  it  from  such  vices  as  would  disturb 
the  peacefof  society,  is  an  instance  of  the  useful 
provision  made^by  the  great  Governor  of  all 
things  for  the  gfed  order  of  the  world. 

But  in  princes,  none  of  whose  actions  are  in¬ 
different,  who  'are  ‘  the  observed  of  all  obser¬ 
vers,’  reputation  cannot  be  too  highly  prized.  A 
^negligence  respecting  public  opinion,  or  a  con¬ 
tempt  for  the  judgment  of  posterity,  would  be 
inexcusable  ip  Ijhose,  whose  conduct  must,  in  no 
incbnsidelrabler  degree,  give,  in  their  own  time, 
the  law  to  miapjniers,  and  whose  exampleo  will 
hereafiter  be- T^dduced,  by  future  historians, 
either  to  illustrate  virtue,  or  to  exemplify  vice, 
and  to  stimulate  the  good  or  evil,  monarchs  yet 
unborn. 

‘  A  prince,’  however,  as  a  late  eloquent  states¬ 
man*  observed  in  his  own  case,  ‘  should  love 
that  fame  w’hich  follows,  not  that  which  is  pur¬ 
sued.’  He  should  bear  in  mind,  that  shadows 
owe  their  being  to  substances ;  that  true  fame 
derives  its  existence  from  something  more  solid 
than  itself ;  that  reputation  is  not  the  precursor, 
nor  the  cause,  but  the  fruit  and  effect  of  merit 

But  though,  in  superficial  characters,  the 
hunger  of  popularity  is  the  mainspring  of  ac¬ 
tion  :  knd  though  the  vain-glorious  too  often  ob 
tain,  what  they  so  sedulously  seek,  the  acclama 

*  The  first  earl  of  Mansfield. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


57: 


tions  of  the  vulgar  ;  yet  a  temperate  desire  to 
be  loved  and  esteemed  is  so  far  from  being  a 
proof  of  vanity,  that  it  even  indicates  the  con¬ 
trary  propensity :  for  reasonably  to  wish  for  the 
good  opinion  of  others,  evinces  that  a  man  does 
not  overvalue  and  sit  down  contented  with  his 
own.  It  is  an  over  estimation  of  himself,  an 
undue  complacency  in  his  own  merit,  which  is 
one  of  the  causes  of  his  disdain  of  public  opin¬ 
ion.  In  profligate  characters,  another  cause  is, 
ihat,  anticipating  the  contempt  which  they  must 
ye  aware,  they  have  deserved,  they  are  willing 
to  be  beforehand  with  the  world  in  proclaiming 
their  disdain  of  that  reputation  which  they  know 
that  their  course  of  life  has  made  unattainable. 

Pagan  philosophy,  indeed,  overrated  the  ho¬ 
nour  which  comet h  from  man.  But  even  the  sa- 
cred  scripture,  which,  as  it  is  the  only  true  foun¬ 
tain,  is  also  the  only  just  standard  of  all  excel¬ 
lence,  does  not  teach  us  to  despise,  but  only  not 
to  set  an  undue  value  upon  it.  It  teaches  us  to 
estimate  this  honour  in  its  due  order  and  just 
measure  ;  and  above  all,  it  exhorts  us  to  see  that 
it  be  sought  on  right  grounds ;  to  take  care  that 
it  tempt  not  to  vanity,  by  exciting  to  trifling 
pursuits  ;  nor  to  vice,  by  stimulating  to  such  as 
are  base ;  nor  to  false  honour,  by  seeking  it  in 
the  paths  of  ambition.  A  prince  must  not  be 
inordinate  in  the  desire,  nor  irregular  in  the 
pursuit,  nor  immoderate  in  the  enjoyment,  nor 
criminally  solicitous  for  the  preservation  of 
fame ;  but  he  must  win  it  fairly,  and  wear  it 
temperately.  He  should  pursue  it  not  as  the  ul¬ 
timate  end  of  life,  but  as  an  object,  which,  by 
making  the  life  honourable  makes  it  useful.  It 
must  not,  however,  be  omitted  that  the  scriptures 
exhort,  that  when  reputation  can  only  be  attain¬ 
ed  or  preserved  by  the  sacrifice  of  duty,  it  must 
then  be  renounced ;  that  we  must  submit  to  the 
loss  even  of  this  precious  jewel,  rather  than  by 
retaining  it,  wound  the  conscience,  or  offend 
God.  Happily,  however,  in  a  country  in  which 
religion  and  laws  are  established  on  so  firm  a 
basis,  a  prince  is  little  likely  to  be  called  to  such 
an  absolute  renunciation,  though  he  may  be  call¬ 
ed  to  many  trials. 

But  all  these  dangers  being  provided  for,  and 
all  abuses  guarded  against,  the  word  of  God  does 
not  scruple  to  pronounce  reputation  to  be  a  va¬ 
luable  possession.  In  a  competition  with  riches, 
the  pre-eminence  is  assigned  to  a  good  name ; 
and  wisdom,  that  is.  Religion  in  the  bold  lan¬ 
guage  of  eastern  imagery,  is  described  as  bear- 
ing  honour  in  her  left  hand.  Nor  has  the  sacred 
volume  been  altogether  silent,  respecting  even 
that  posthumous  renown  which  good  princes 
may  expect  in  history.  That  the  memory  of  the 
just  shall  be  blessed,  was  the  promise  of  one 
who  was  himself  both  an  author  and  a  monarch. 
And  that  the  righteous  shall  be  had  in  everlast¬ 
ing  remembrance,  was  the  declaration  of  another 
royal  author.* 

A  desire  of  popularity  is  still  more  honest  in 
princes  than  in  other  men.  And  when  the  end 
for  which  it  is  sought,  and  the  means  by  which 
it  is  pursued  are  strictly  just,  the  desire  is  not 
only  blameless,  but  highly  laudable.  Nor  is  it 
ever  censurable,  except  where  the  affection  of 

*  See  an  admirable  sermon  of  Dr.  Barrow,  on  the  re¬ 
ward  of  lionouring  God. 

VoL.  II. 


the  people  is  sought,  by  plausible  means,  for  per 
nicious  purposes.  On  the  part  of  the  people  at¬ 
tachment  is  a  natural  feeling,  which  nothing 
but  persevering  misconduct  in  their  rulers  can 
ever  wear  out.  A  prince  should  learn  not  to 
listen  to  those  flatterers  who  would  keep  him  ig¬ 
norant  of  the  public  opinion.  The  discontents 
of  the  people  should  not  be  stifled  before  they 
reach  the  royal  ear ;  nor  should  their  affection 
be  represented  as  a  fund  which  can  never  be 
drained.  It  is  a  rich  and  precious  stock,  which 
should  not  be  too  often  drawn  upon.  Impru¬ 
dence  will  diminish,  oppression  will  exhaust  it. 

A  prince  should  never  measure  his  rights  over 
a  people  by  the  greatness  of  their  attachment ; 
the  warmth  of  their  zeal  being  a  call  for  his 
kindness,  not  a  signal  for  his  e.xactions.  Im¬ 
provident  rigour  would  wear  out  that  affection, 
which  justice  would  increase,  and  consideration 
confirm. 

Britons,  in  general,  possess  that  obsequium 
erga  reges,  which  Tacitus  ascribes  to  the  Swedes- 
While  they  passionately  love  liberty,  they  also 
patiently  bear  those  reasonable  burdens  which 
are  necessary  in  order  to  preserve  it.  But  this 
character  of  our  countrymen  seems  not  to  have 
been  so  well  understood,  at  least  not  so  fairly 
represented,  by  one  of  their  own  sovereigns,  as 
hy  a  foreigner  and  an  enemy.  The  unfortunate 
James  calls  them  ‘a  fickle,  giddy,  and  rebellious 
people.’  If  the  charge  were  true,  he  and  his 
family  rather  made,  than  found  them  such. 
Agricola  had  pronounced  them  to  be  a  people,. 

‘  who  cheerfully  complied  with  the  levies  of  men, . 
and  tbe  imposition  of  taxes,  and  with  all  the  du¬ 
ties  enjoined  by  government,  provided  they  met 
with  just  and  lawful  treatment  from  their  go¬ 
vernors.’ — ‘Nor  have  the  Romans,’  continues  he, 

‘  any  farther  conquered  them,  than  only  to  form 
them  to  obedience.  They  never  will  submit  to 
he  slaves.'*  It  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  freest 
of  nations,  even  now,  acting  up  the  character 
given  them  by  the  first  of  historians,  on  such 
unquestionable  authority  as  that  of  their  illus¬ 
trious  invader,  near  two  thousand  years  ago. 

Even  the  fatal  catastrophe  of  Charles  I.  was 
not  a  national  act,  but  the  act  of  a  fanatical  par¬ 
ty.  The  kingdom  at  large  beheld  the  deed  with 
deep  abhorrence,  and  deplored  it  with  unfeigned 
sorrow.  The  fascinating  manners  of  his  son 
and  successor  so  won  the  hearts  of  every  one 
who  approached  him,  that  it  required  all  his 
vices  to  alienate  them.  If  that  gracious  outward 
deportment  was  of  so  much  use  to  him,  in  veil¬ 
ing  for  a  time  the  most  corrupt  designs,  how 
essentially  must  it  serve  a  prince  who  meditates 
only  such  as  are  beneficial !  William  was  not 
so  happy  as  to  find  out  this  secret.  Satisfied 
with  having  saved  the  country,  he  forgot  that  it 
was  important  to  please  it ;  and  he  in  some  , 
measure  lost,  by  his  forbidding  manners,  and 
his  neglect  of  studying  our  national  character, 
the  hearts  of  a  people  who  owed  him  their  best 
blessings. 

- Charles,  the  abject  tool  of  Prance, 

Came  back  to  smile  his  subjects  into  slaves. 

While  Belgic  William,  witWhis  warrior  frown, 

Coldly  declared  them  free. 

The  charming  frankness  and  noble  simulicity 
*  Tacitus’s  life  of  Agiicola. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


5» 

of  manners  which  distinguished  Henry  IV.  of 
France,  gained  the  affections  of  his  subjects 
more  than  all  the  refinements  of  artifice  could 
have  done.  He  had  established  such  a  reputa¬ 
tion  for  sincerity,  that  when,  on  a  certain  occa¬ 
sion,  he  offered  hostages  to  his  mortal  enemies 
the  Spartans,  they  refused  to  accept  them,  and 
would  only  take  his  word.  He  frequently  de¬ 
clared,  that  he  would  lose  his  crown  rather  than 
give,  even  to  his  worst  foe,  the  least  suspicion 
of  his  fidelity  to  his  engagements.  So  happily 
infectious  is  this  principle  in  a  king,  that  not 
only  Sully,  but  his  other  minister,  Jeannin,  was 
distinguished  by  the  same  strict  regard  to  truth ; 
and  the  popularity  both  of  the  king  and  his  mi¬ 
nisters  was  proportionably  great. 

The  only  way  then  for  a  prince  to  secure  the 
affection  of  the  people,  is  to  deserve  it ;  by  letting 
them  see  that  he  is  steadily  consulting  their  in¬ 
terests,  and  invariably  maintaining  them.  What 
but  this  so  long  preserved  to  Elizabeth,  that  root¬ 
ed  regard  in  the  hearts  of  her  subjects  ?  Cer¬ 
tainly  no  pliancy  of  manners,  no  gracious  com¬ 
plaisance.  She  treated  even  her  parliaments  in 
so  peremptory  a  manner,  that  they  sometimes 
only  bore  with  it  from  a  thorough  conviction 
that  the  interests  of  the  country  were  secure  in 
her  hands,  and  its  happiness  as  dear  to  her  as 
her  own.*  These  are  the  true  foundations  of 
popularity.  He,  who  most  consults  the  good  of" 
his  people,  will,  in  general,  be  most  trusted  by 
them ;  he  who  best  merits  their  affection,  will 
be  most  sure  to  obtain  it,  in  spite  of  the  arts  of 
a  cabal,  or  the  turbulence  of  a  faction. 

Pagan  fable  relates,  that  when  the  inferior 
gods  had  once  formed  a  conspiracy  to  bind  Jupi¬ 
ter,  Minerva  advised  him  to  send  for  Briareus, 
the  monster  with  the  hundred  hands,  to  come 
to  his  assistance ;  the  poets,  doubtless,  intimating 
by  this  fiction,  that  wisdom  will  always  suggest 
to  a  prince,  that  his  best  security  will  ever  be 
found  in  the  ready  attachment  and  assistance 
of  the  people.  And  it  was  a  good  practice  which 
the  famous  Florentine  secretaryt  records  of  the 
then  king  of  France,  that  he  would  never  allow 
any  person  to  say,  that  he  was  of  the  king's  'party, 
which  would  always  imply  that  there  was  an¬ 
other  party  against  him ;  whereas  the  king  pru¬ 
dently  desired  not  to  have  it  thought  that  there 
were  any  parties  at  all.  And,  indeed,  v;ise  so¬ 
vereigns  will  study  carefully  to  repress  all  nar¬ 
rowing  terms,  and  dividing  ideas.  Of  such  so¬ 
vereigns  the  people  are  the  party. 

Princes  will  have  read  history  with  little  at¬ 
tention  if  they  do  not  learn  from  it,  that  their 
own.  true  greatness  is  so  closely  connected  with 
the  happiness  of  their  subjects,  as  to  be  insepa¬ 
rable  from  it.  There  they  will  see  that  while 
great  schemes  of  conquest  have  always  been 
^productive  of  extreme  suffering  to  the  human 
race,  in  their  execution,  they  have  often  led  to 
ultimate  dishonour  and  ruin  to  the  monarchs 
themselves.  Herein  a  pious  mind  will  recog- 

*  ‘  You  have  lived,’  says  lord  Thomas  Howard  to  his 
friend  in  James  I.’s  reign,  ‘  to  se-i  the  trim  of  old  times, 
and  what  passed  in  the  ^een's  days.  These  things  are 
no  more  the  same ;  your  queen  did  not  talk  of  her  sub 
jects’  love  and  good  affections,  and  in  good  truth  she 
aimed  well;  our  king  talketti  of  his  subjects’  fear  and 
subjection,  dec.  dec. 

Machiavel. 


nise  the  goodness  of  the  Almighty,  which,  not¬ 
withstanding  the  temptations  and  impediments 
that,  in  this  probationary  state,  obstruct  the  pro¬ 
gress  and  render  difficult  the  practice  of  virtue 
in  private  life,  has  yet  held  out  to  those,  who  are 
endowed  with  kingly,  power,  a  strong  induce¬ 
ment  to  use  it  for  the  promotion  of  their  people’s 
happiness,  by  rendering  such  designs  as  tend  to 
the  gratification  of  many  vicious  appietites  which 
they  are  most  tempted  to  indulge,  far  more  diffi¬ 
cult  of  execution,  than  such  as  are  prompted  by 
benevolent  emotions,  and  have  in  view  the  ad¬ 
vancement  of  civil  and  social  happiness. 

Thus,  projects  of  conquest  and  ambition  are 
circumscribed  and  obstructed  by  a  thousand  in 
herent  and  unavoidable  difficulties.  They  are 
often  dependent  for  their  success  on  the  life  of  a 
single  man,  whose  death  perhaps  when  least  ex¬ 
pected,  at  once  disconcerts  them.  Often  they 
depend  on  what  is  still  more  uncertain, — the  ca¬ 
price  or  humour  of  an  individual.  When  all  is 
conceived  to  be  flourishing  and  successful,  when 
the  prosperous  enterpriser  fancies  that  he  is  on 
the  very  point  of  gaining  the  proud  summit  to 
which  he  has  so  long  aspired ;  or  at  the  very 
moment  when  it  is  attained,  and  he  is  exulting 
in  the  hope  of  immediate  enjoyment, — at  once 
he  is  dashed  to  the  ground,  his  triumphs  are  de¬ 
feated,  his  laurels  are  blasted,  and  he  himself 
only  remains. 

To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale, 

a  lasting  monument  of  the  folly  of  ambition,  and 
of  the  uncertainty  of  all  projects  of  worldly 
grandeur. 

But  the  monarch,  on  the  contrary,  whose  no¬ 
bler  and  more  virtuous  ambition  prompts  hirn  to 
employ  his  superior  power  of  promoting  the  in¬ 
ternal  prosperity  and  comforts  of  his  subjects 
is  not  liable  to  such  defeats.  His  path  is  plain 
his  duty  is  clear.  By  a  vigfilant,  prompt,  and 
impartial  administration  of  justice,  his  object  is 
to  secure  to  the  industrious  the  enjoyment  of 
their  honest  gains  ;  by  a  judicious  use  of  his  su¬ 
preme  power,  to  remove  difficulties  and  obstruc¬ 
tions,  out  of  the  way  of  commercial  enterprise, 
and  to  facilitate  its  progress  ;  to  reward  and  fos¬ 
ter  ingenuity ;  and  to  encourage  and  promote 
the  various  arts  by  which  civilized  societies  are 
distinguished  and  embellished ;  above  all,  to 
countenance  and  favour  religion,  morality,  good 
order,  and  all  the  social  and  domestic  virtues.  A 
monarch,  who  makes  these  benevolent  ends  the 
objects  of  his  pursuit,  will  not  so  easily  be  dis¬ 
appointed.  The  reason  is  obvious  ;  nothing  de¬ 
pends  on  a  single  individual.  His  plans  are 
carrying  on  through  ten  thousand  channels,  and 
by  ten  thousand  agents,  who,  while  they  are  all 
labouring  for  the  promotion  of  their  own  peculiar 
object,  are,  at  the  same  time,  unconsciously  per¬ 
forming  their  function  in  the  great  machine  of 
civil  society.  It  is  not,  if  we  may  change  the 
metaphor,  a  single  plant,  perhaps  an  exotic,  in  a 
churlish  climate,  and  an  unwilling  soil,  which 
raised  with  anxious  care,  a  sudden  frost  may 
nip,  or  a  sudden  blight  may  wither ;  but  it  is  the 
wide-spread  vegetation  of  the  meadow,  which 
abundantly  springs  up  in  one  unvaried  face  of 
verdure,  beauty  and  utility.  While  the  happy 
monarch,  whose  large  and  liberal  mind  has  pro 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


59 


jecled  and  promoted  this  scene  of  peaceful  in¬ 
dustry,  has  the  satisfaction  of  witnessing  the 
gradual  diffusion  of  comfort ;  of  comfort  which, 
enlarging  with  the  progress  of  his  plans  to  tlieir 
full  establishment  has  been  completed  ;  not  like 
the  successful  projects  of  triumphant  ambition, 
in  the  oppression  and  misery  of  subjugated 
slaves,  but  in  the  freedom  and  happiness  of  a 
contented  people, 

To  the  above  important  objects  of  royal  atten¬ 
tion,  such  a  sovereign  as  we  are  contemplating, 
will  naturally  add  a  disposition  for  the  promotion 
of  charitable  and  religious  institutions,  as  well 
as  of  those  whose  more  immediate  object  is  po¬ 
litical  utility,  proportioning,  with  a  judicious 
discrimination,  the  measure  of  support,  and 
counitenauce,  to  the  respective  degree  of  excel¬ 
lence.  To  these  will  be  superadded  a  beneficent 
patronage  to  men  of  genius,  learning,,  and  sci¬ 
ence.  Royal  patronage  will  be  likely,  not  only 
to  contribute  to  the  carrying  of  talents  into  be¬ 
neficial  channels,  but  may  be  the  means  of  pre¬ 
venting  them  from  being  diverted  into  such  as 
^e  dangerous.  And  when  it  is  received  as  an 
universally  established  principle,  that  the  direc¬ 
tion  of  the  best  abilities  to  none  but  the  soundest 
purposes,  is  the  way  to  insure  the  favour  of  the 
prince,  it  will  be  an  additional  spur  to  genius  to 
turn  its  efforts  to  the  promotion  of  virtue  and  of 
public  utility. — Such  are  the  views,  such  the 
exertions,  such  the  felicities  of  a  patriot  king,  of 
a  Christian  politician. 


CHAP.  XXL 

The  importance  of  royal  example  in  promoting 
loyalty. — On  false  patriotism. — Public  spirit. 

A  WISE  prince  will  be  virtuous,  were  it  only 
through  policy.  The  measure  of  his  power  is 
the  rule  of  his  duty.  He  who  practises  virtue 
and  piety  himself,  not  only  holds  out  a  broad 
shelter  to  the  piety  and  virtue  of  others,  but  his 
example  is  a  living  law,  efficacious  to  many  of 
those  who  would  treat  written  laws  with  con¬ 
tempt.  The  good  conduct  of  the  prince  will 
make  others  virtuous ;  and  the  virtuous  are  al¬ 
ways  the  peaceable.  It  is  the  voluptuous,  the 
prodigal,  and  the  licentious,  who  are  the  needy, 
the  unsettled,  and  the  discontented,  who  love 
change  and  promote  disturbance.  If  sometimes 
the  affluent,  and  the  independent,  swell  the  cata¬ 
logue  of  public  disturbers,  they  will  frequently 
be  found  to  bo  men  of  inferior  abilities,  used  by 
the  designing  as  necessary  implements  to  ac¬ 
complish  their  work.  The  one  set  furnish  mis¬ 
chief,  the  other  means.  Sallust  has,  in  four  ex¬ 
quisitely  chosen  words,  given,  in  the  character 
of  one  innovator,  that  of  almost  the  whole  tribe, 
Alieni  appetens,  sui  profusus.  But  allegiance  is 
the  fruit  of  sober  integrity ;  and  fidelity  grows 
on  the  stock  of  independent  honesty.  As  there 
is  little  public  honour,  where  there  is  little  pri¬ 
vate  principle;  so  it  is  to  be  feared  there  will  be 
little  private  principle,  at  least  among  young 
persons  of  rank,  where  the  throne  holds  out  the 
example  of  a  contrary  conduct 

It  is  true,  that  public  virtue  and  public  spirit . 


are  things,  which  all  men,  of  all  paities,  and  all 
characters,  equally  agree  to  extol,  equally  desire 
to  have  the  credit  of  possessing.  The  reputation 
of  patriotism  is  eagerly  coveted  by  the  most  op¬ 
posite  characters  ;  and  pursued  by  the  most  con¬ 
tradictory  means ;  by  those  who  sedulously  sup¬ 
port  the  throne  and  constitution,  and  by  those 
who  labour  no  less  sedulously  to  subvert  them. 
Even  the  most  factious,  those  who  are  governed 
by  the  basest  selfishness,  aspire  to  the  dignity 
of  a  character,  against  which  their  leading  prin¬ 
ciple  and  their  actual  practice  constantly  mili¬ 
tate. 

But  patriots  of  this  stamp  are  chiefly  on»the 
watch  to  exemplify  their  public  spirit  in  their 
own  restless  way  ;  they  are  anxiously  looking 
out  for  some  probable  occurrence,  which  may 
draw  them  into  notice,  and  are  more  eager  to 
fish  for  fame,  in  the  troubled  waters  of  public 
commotion,  than  disposed  to  live  in  the  quiet 
exercise  of  those  habitual  virtues,  which,  if  ge¬ 
neral,  would  preclude  the  possibility  of  any  com¬ 
motion  at  all-  These  innovating  reformers  al¬ 
ways  affect  to  suppose  more  virtue  in  mankind, 
than  they  know  they  shall  find,  while  their  own 
practice  commonly  exhibits  a  low  standard  of 
that  imaginary  perfection  on  which  their  falla¬ 
cious  reasonings  are  grounded.  There  is  scarce¬ 
ly  any  disposition  whieh  leads  to  this  factious 
spirit  more  than  a  restless  vanity,  because  it  is 
a  temper  which  induces  a  man  to  be  making  a 
continual  comparison  of  himself  with  others. 
His  sense  of  his  own  superior  merit  and  inferior 
fortune,  will  fill  his  mind  with  perpetual  compe¬ 
tition  with  the  inferior  merit  and  superior  for¬ 
tune  of  those  above  him.  He  will  ever  prefer  a 
storm  in  which  he  may  become  conspicuous,  to 
a  calm  in  which  he  is  already  secure.  Such  a 
soidisant  patriot  does  not  feel  for  the  general 
interests  of  his  country,  but  only  for  that  por¬ 
tion  of  it  which  he  himself  may  have  a  chance 
of  obtaining.  Though  a  loud  declaimer  for  the 
privileges  of  universal  man,  he  really  sees  no 
part  of  the  whole  circle  of  human  happiness,  ex¬ 
cept  that  segment  which  he  is  carving  for  him¬ 
self.  He  does  not  rejoice  in  those  plentiful  dews 
of  heaven  which  are  fertilizing  the  general  soil, 
but  in  those  which  fatten  his  own  pastures.  It 
is  not,’  says  the  admirable  South,  ‘from  the 
common,  but  the  inclosure,  from  which  he  cal¬ 
culates  his  advantages.’ 

But  true  public  spirit  is  not  the  new-born  off¬ 
spring  of  sudden  occasion,  nor  the  incidental 
fruit  of  casual  emergency,  nor  the  golden  apple 
thrown  out  to  contentious  ambition.  It  is  that 
genuine  patriotism,  which  best  prevents  dis¬ 
turbance,  by  discouraging  every  vice  that  leads 
to  it.  It  springs  from  a  combination  of  disin¬ 
terestedness,  integrity,  and  content.  It  is  the 
result  of  many  long  cherished  domestic  chari¬ 
ties.  Its  seminal  principles  exist  in  a  sober  love 
of  liberty,  order,  law,  peace,  and  justice,  the  best 
safeguards  of  the  throne,  and  the  only  happiness 
of  the  people.  Instead  of  that  selfish  patriotism 
which,  in  ancient  Rome,  consisted  in  subverting 
the  comfort  of  the  rest  of  the  world,  the  public 
spirit  of  a  British  patriot  is  not  only  consistent 
with  Christianity,  but  (maugre  the  assertion  of 
a  wit  already  quoted)*  in  a  good  degree  dictated 
*  Soame  Jenyns. 


60 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


by  it.  His  religion,  so  far  from  forbidding,  even 
enjoins  him  to  consider  himself  as  such  a  mem¬ 
ber  of  the  body  politic,  such  a  joint  of  the  great 
machine,  that,  remembering  the  defect  of  a  pin 
may  disconcert  a  system,  he  labours  to  fill  up 
his  individual  part  as  assiduously  as  if  the  mo¬ 
tion  of  every  wheel,  the  effect  of  every  spring, 
the  success  of  the  whole  operation,  the  safety  of 
the  entire  community  depended  on  his  single 
conduct.  This  patriotism  evinces  itself  by  sa¬ 
crifices  in  the  rich,  by  submission  in  the  poor, 
by  exertions  in  the  able,  strong  in  their  energy, 
but  quiet  in  their  operation  ;  it  evinces  itself  by 
the  ^ber  satisfaction  of  each  in  cheerfully  fill¬ 
ing  the  station  which  is  assigned  him  by  Provi¬ 
dence,  instead  of  aspiring  to  that  which  is  point¬ 
ed  out  by  ambition,  by  each  man  performing 
with  conscientious  strictness  his  own  proper 
duty,  instead  of  descanting  with  misleading 
plausibility,  and  unprofitable  eloquence  on  the 
duties  of  other  men. 


CHAP.  XXII. 

On  the  graces  of  deportment. — The  dispositions 

necessary  for  business. — Habits  of  domestic 

life. 

‘  Those,’  says  lord  Bacon,  ‘  who  are  accom¬ 
plished  in  the  forms  of  urbanity,  are  apt  to  please 
themselves  in  it  so  much  as  seldom  to  aspire  to 
higher  virtue.’  Notwithstanding  the  general 
truth  of  the  maxim,  and  the  high  authority  by 
which  it  comes  recommended,  yet  condescend¬ 
ing  and  gracious  manners  should  have  their  full 
share  in  finishing  the  royal  character  ;  but  they 
should  have  only  their  due  share.  They  should 
never  be  resorted  to  as  a  substitute  for  that 
worth,  of  which  they  are  the  best  decoration. 
In  all  the  graces  of  deportment,  whatever  ap¬ 
pears  outwardly  engaging,  should  always  pro¬ 
ceed  from  something  deeper  than  itself — The 
fair  fabric,  which  is  seen,  must  be  supported  by 
a  solid  foundation  which  is  out  of  sight ;  the 
loftiest  pyramid  must  rise  from  the  broadest 
base ;  the  most  beautiful  flower  from  the  most 
valuable  root;  sweetness  of  manners  must  be 
the  effect  of  benevolence  of  heart;  affability  of 
speech  should  proceed  from  a  well  regulated 
temper ;  a  solicitude  to  oblige  should  spring 
from  an  inward  sense  of  the  duty  owing  to  our 
fellow-creatures;  the  bounty  of  the  hands  must 
result  from  thp  feelings  of  the  heart ;  the  propri¬ 
eties  of  conversation,  from  a  sound  internal 
principle  ;  kindness,  attention,  and  all  the  out¬ 
ward  graces,  should  be  the  effect  of  habit  and 
dispositions  lying  in  the  mind,  and  ready  to 
show  themselves  in  action,  whenever  the  occa¬ 
sion  presents  itself. 

Just  views  of  herself,  and  of  what  she  owes  to 
the  world,  of  that  gentleness  which  Christianity 
inculcates,  and  that  graciousness  which  her 
station  enjoins,  will,  taking  the  usual  advan¬ 
tages  into  the  account,  scarcely  fail  to  produce 
in  the  royal  pupil  a  deportment,  at  once  digni¬ 
fied  and  engaging.  The  firmest  substances  alone 
are  susceptible  of  the  most  exquisite  polish, 
while  the  meanest  materials  will  admit  of  being 
varnished.  True  fine  breeding  never  betrays  1 


any  tincture  of  that  vanity,  which  is  the  effect 
of  a  mind  struggling  to  conceal  its  faults  ;  nor 
of  that  pride,  which  is  not  conscious  of  possess¬ 
ing  any.  This  genuine  politeness  resulting 
from  illustrious  birth,  inherent  sense,  and  im¬ 
planted  virtue,  will  render  superfluous  the  docu¬ 
ments  of  Chesterfield,  and  the  instructions  of 
Castiglione. 

But  the  acquisition  of  engaging  manners,  and 
all  the  captivating  graces  of  deportment,  need 
less  occupy  the  mind  of  the  royal  person,  as  she 
will  acquire  these  attractions  by  a  sort  of  in 
stinct,  almost  without  time  or  pains.  They  will 
naturally  be  copied  from  those  illustrious  exam¬ 
ples  of  grace,  ease,  and  condescending  dignity, 
which  fill,  and  which  surround  the  throne.  And 
she  will  have  the  less  occasion  for  looking  to 
remote,  or  foreign  examples,  to  learn  the  true 
arts  of  popularity,  while  the  illustrious  person¬ 
age  who  Wears  the  crown,  continues  to  exhibit 
not  only  a’  living  pattern  by  what  honest  means 
the  warm  affections  of  a  people  are  won,  but  by 
what  rectitude,  piety,  and  patriotism,  they  may 
be  preserved,  and  increased,  under  every  succes¬ 
sion  of  trial,  and  every  vicissitude  of  circum.^ 
stance. 

Among  the  habits  which  it  is  important  for  a 
prince  to  acquire,  there  is  not  one  more  essen¬ 
tial  than  a  love  of  business. — Lord  Bacon  has, 
among  his  essays,  an  admirable  chapter,  both 
of  counsel  apd  caution,  respecting  despatch  in 
affairs,  which  as  it  is  short  and  pointed,  the 
royal  pupil  might  commit  to  memory.  He  ad¬ 
vises  to  measure  despatch  not  by  the  time  of 
sitting  to  business,  but  by  the  advancement  of 
the  business  itself,  and  reprobates  the  affeeta- 
tion  of  those,  who,  ‘  to  gain  the  reputation  of 
men  of  despatch,  are  only  anxious  for  the  credit 
of  having  done  a  great  deal  in  a  little  time ;  and 
who  abbreviate,  not  by  contracting,  but  by  cut¬ 
ting  off.’ — On  the  other  hand,  procrastination 
wears  out  time,  and  accomplishes  nothing.  In¬ 
distinctness  also  in  the  framing  of  ideas,  and 
confusion  in  the  disorderly  disposition  of  them, 
perplex  business  as  much  as  irresolution  im¬ 
pedes  it.  Julius  Cajsar  was  a  model  in  this  re¬ 
spect  ;  with  all  his  turbulence  of  ambition,  with 
all  his  eagerness  of  enterprise,  with  all  his  ce 
lerity  of  despatch,  his  judgment  uniformly  ap 
pears  to  have  been  cool  and  serene ;  and  even 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  complicated  transac¬ 
tions,  no  perplexity  is  ever  manifest  in  his  con¬ 
duct,  no  entanglement  in  his  thoughts,  no  con¬ 
fusion  in  his  expressions.  Hence,  we  cannot  but 
infer,  that  an  unambiguous  clearness  in  the 
planning  of  affairs,  a  lucid  order  in  arranging, 
and  a  persevering  but  not  precipitate,  despatch 
in  conducting  them,  are  the  unequivocal  marks 
of  a  superior  mind. 

Yet  though  distribution,  order,  and  arrange¬ 
ment,  are  the  soul  of  business,  even  these  must 
not  be  too  minute,  ‘  for  he  that  does  not  divide,’ 
says  the  great  authority  above  cited,  ‘  will  never 
enter  clearly  into  business,  and  he  who  divides 
too  much,  will  not  come  out  of  it  clearly.’ 

A  prince  should  come  to  the  transaction  of 
business,  with  a  prepared,  but  not  with  a  preju¬ 
diced  mind :  and  the  mind  which  is  best  fur¬ 
nished  for  the  concern  which  it  is  about  to  inves¬ 
tigate,  while  it  will  be  least  liable  to  be  drawa 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


61 


aside  by  persuasion,  will  be  most  open  to  truth, 
and  most  disposed  to  yield  to  conviction,  because 
it  will  have  already  weighed  the  arguments,  and 
balanced  the  difficulties. 

A  g  reat  statesman  of  that  nation  to  which  we 
are  rather  apt  to  ascribe  steadiness  than  rapidity, 
has  bequeathed  a  valuable  lesson  to  princes  for 
the  despatch  of  business.  It  is  well  known  that 
De  Wit  assigned  as  the  chief  reason  why  he  had 
himself  been  enabled  to  prosecute  such  a  multi¬ 
plicity  of  concerns  so  easily  was,  hy  always 
doing  one  thing  at  a  time. 

It  is  therefore  important,  not  only  fully  to 
possess  the  mind  with  the  affair  which  is  under 
consideration,  but  to  bestow  on  it  an  undivided 
attention,  an  application  which  cannot  be  di¬ 
verted  by  irrelevant  or  inferior  objects  ;  and  to 
■possess  a  firmness  which  cannot  be  shaken  from 
its  purpose  by  art  or  flattery  ;  cautions  the  more 
necessary,  as  we  are  assured  by  a  penetrating 
observer,  that  even  the  strong  mind  of  Elizabeth 
was  not  always  proof  against  such  attacks. 
One  of  the  secretaries  of  this  great  queen  never 
came  to  her  to  sign  bills,  that  he  did  not  first 
take  care  to  engage  her  in  deep  discourse  about 
other  weighty  business,  that,  by  thus  pre-occu- 
pying  her  mind,  he  might  draw  off  her  atten¬ 
tion  from  the  bills  to  which  he  wanted  her  sig¬ 
nature. 

For  the  private  habits  of  life,  and  propriety 
of  conduct  to  those  around  her,  queen  Mary, 
as  described  by  bishop  Burnet*  and  Fowler, 
seems  to  have  been  a  model.  Her  goodness  was 
the  most  unostentatious,  her  gentleness  the  most 
unaffected,  her  piety  the  most  inwoven  into  her 
habits,  her  charity  the  best  principled,  and  her 
generosity  the  most  discriminating !  Vanity  and 
selfrJove  seem  to  have  been  not  merely  out¬ 
wardly  repressed  from  a  sense  of  decorum,  but 
to  have  been  inwardly  extinguished  ;  and  she 
did  not  want  the  veil  of  art  to  conceal  faults 
which  were  not  working  within.  She  seems  to 
have  united  consummate  discretion,  with  the 
most  conscientious  sincerity.  She  could  deny, 
says  her  admiring  biographer,  the  most  earnest 
solicitations,  with  a  true  firmness,  when  she 
thought  the  person  for  whom  they  were  made 
did  not  merit  them.  She  possessed  one  quality 
of  peculiar  value  in  her  station,  a  gentle,  but 
effectual  method  of  discouraging  calumny.  If 
any  indulged  a  spirit  of  censoriousness  in  her 
presence,  continues  he,  she  would  ask  them 
if  they  have  read  archbishop  Tillotson’s  ser¬ 
mon  on  evil-speaking?  or  give  them  some  other 
pointed,  but  delicate  reproof. 

Princes  should  never  forget,  that  where  sin- 
cerity  is  expected,  freedom  must  be  allowed ; 
and,  that  they  who  show  themselves  displeased 
at  truth,  must  not  be  surprised  if  they  never 
hear  it.  In  all  their  intercourse,  they  should 
not  only  be  habituated  to  expect  from  others, 
but  to  practise  themselves,  the  most  simple 
veracity  ;  they  should  no  more  employ  flattery, 
than  exact  it.  It  will  be  necessary  for  them  to 
bear  in  mind,  that  such  is  the  selfishness  of 
the  human  heart,  that  we  are  not  disinterested 
in  our  very  praises ;  and  that,  in  excessive  com¬ 
mendation,  we  commonly  consider  ourselves  the 

*  See  especially  bishop  Burnet’s  essay  on  queen  Mary 


more  than  the  person  we  commend.  It  is  often 
rather  a  disguised  effect  of  our  own  vanity,  than 
any  real  admiration  of|  the  person  we  extql. 
That  flattery  which  appears  so  liberal  is  in  fact, 
one  of  the  secret  artifices  of  self-love  ;  it  looks 
generous,  but  it  is  in  reality  covetous ;  and 
praise  is  not  so  much  a  free  gift,  as  a  mercenary 
commerce,  for  which  we  hope  to  receive,  in  re¬ 
turn,  more  than  an  equivalent. 

Is  there  not  something  far  more  cunning 
than  noble,  in  that  popular  art,  which  Pliny  re¬ 
commends,  ‘  to  be  liberal  of  praise  to  another 
for  any  thing  in  which  you  yourself  excel  V — 
The  motive  is  surely  selfish,  that  whether  you 
deserve  it  or  not,  you  may  thus  either  way,  be 
certain  of  securing  the  superiority  to  yourselfl 
— If  censure  wants  the  tenderness  of  charity  to 
make  it  useful,  praise  requires  the  modesty  of 
truth,  and  the  sanctity  of  justice  to  render  it 
safe.  It  is  observable,  that  in  the  sacred  Scrip¬ 
ture,  which  we  should  do  well  always  to  consult 
as  our  model,  though  there  is  sometimes  simple 
commendation,  yet  there  is  no  excessive  praise, 
nor  even  the  slightest  tincture  of  exaggeration. 

But  there  is  a  fault,  the  direct  opposite  to 
flattery,  which  should  with  equal  vigilance  be 
guarded  against.  There  is  nothing  which  more 
effectually  weans  attachment,  and  obstructs  po¬ 
pularity,  than  the  indulgence  of  intemperate 
speech,  and  petulent  wit  And  they  who  in 
very  exalted  stations,  unfortunately  feel  a  pro¬ 
pensity  to  impetuosity  or  sarcasm,  would  do 
well,  if  they  will  not  repress  the  feeling  (which 
would  be  the  shortest  way)  not  to  let  it  break 
out  in  pointed  sentenees,  or  cutting  sayings, 
sharp  enough  to  give  pain,  a,nd  short  enough  to 
be  remembered.  It  has  this  double  disadvan¬ 
tage,  every  wound  made  by  a  royal  hand  is 
mortal  to  the  feelings  of  those  on  whom  it  is 
inflicted  ;  and  every  heart  which  is  thus  wound¬ 
ed  is  alienated.  Besides,  it  is  an  evil,  which 
gathers  strength  by  going.’  The  sayings  of 
princes  are  always  repeated,  and  they  are  not 
always  repeated  faithfully.  Lord  Bacon  records 
several  instances  of  sovereigns  who  ruined  them¬ 
selves  by  this  sententious  indiscretion.  The 
mischief  of  concise  sayings,  he  observes,  is  that 
‘  they  are  darts,  supposed  to  be  shot  from  their 
secret  intentions,  while  long  discourses  are  flat, 
less  noticed,  and  little  remembered.’ 


CHAP.  XXIII 

On  the  choice  of  society. — Sincerity  the  hond  of 
familiar  intercourse. — Liberality. — Instances 
of  ingratitude  in  princes. — On  raising  the 
tone  of  conversation — and  of  manners. 

Princes  can  never  fall  into  a  more  fatal  error, 
than  when,  in  mixing  with  dishonourable  so¬ 
ciety,  they  fancy,  either  that  their  choice  can 
confirm  merit,  or  their  presence  compensate  for 
the  want  of  it.  It  is,  however,  sometimes  very 
difficult  for  them  to  discover  the  real  character 
of  those  around  them,  because  there  may  be  a 
kind  of  conspiracy  to  keep  them  in  the  dark. 
But  there  is  one  principle  of  selection,  which 
will  in  general  direct  them  well,  in  the  choice 


62 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


of  their  companions,  that  of  choosing  persons, 
who,  in  their  ordinary  habits,  and  in  selecting 
the  companions  of  their  own  hours  of  relaxation, 
show  their  regard  for  morality  and  virtue. 
From  such  men  as  these,  princes  may  more 
reasonably  expect  to  hear  the  language  of  truth. 
Such  persons  will  not  bo  naturally  led  to  connive 
at  the  vices  of  their  master,  in  order  to  justify 
their  own  ;  they  have  no  interest  in  being  dis- 
honest. 

The  people  are  not  unnaturally  led  to  fdrm 
their  judgment  of  the  real  principles  and  cha¬ 
racter  of  the  prince,  from  the  conduct  and  man¬ 
ners  of  his  companions  and  favourites.  Were 
not  the  subjects  of  the  unhappy  Charles  1.  in 
some  degree  excusable  for  not  doing  full  justice 
to  the  piety  and  moral  worth,  which  really  be¬ 
longed  to  his  character,  when  they  saw  that’ 
those  who  were  his  most  strenuous  advocates, 
were,  in  general,  avowedly  profligate  and  pro¬ 
fane  ? — If  a  monarch  have  the  especial  happi¬ 
ness  of  possessing  a  friend,  let  him  be  valued 
as  the  most  precious  of  all  his  possessions.  Let 
him  be  encouraged  to  discharge  the  best  oflice 
of  friendship,  by  finding,  that  the  frankest  re¬ 
proofs,  instead  of  generating  a  formality  too 
fatally  indicative  of  decaying  affection,  are  pro¬ 
ductive,  even  when  they  may  be  conceived  to  be 
misplaced,  of  warmer  returns  of  cordiality. 

But  kings,  whether  actual  or  expectant,  must 
not  hope,  in  general,  to  find  this  honest  frank¬ 
ness.  They  must  not  expect  to  have  their 
opinions  controverted,  or  their  errors  exposed 
directly  or  openly.  They  should,  therefore  ac¬ 
custom  themselves  to  hear  and  understand  the 
still  small  voice,  in  which  any  disapprobation 
will  be  likely  to  be  conveyed;  they  should  use 
themselves  to  catch  a  hint,  and  to  profit  from  an 
analogy :  they  should  be  on  the  watch  to  dis¬ 
cover  the  sense  which  is  entertained  of  their 
own  principles  or  conduct,  by  observing  the  lan¬ 
guage  which  is  used  concerning  similar  princi¬ 
ples  and  condu'ct  in  others.  They  must  con¬ 
sider  themselves  as  lying  under  special  disad¬ 
vantages,  in  respect  to  the  discovery  of  truth, 
wherever  they  are  themselves  concerned  ;  and 
must,  therefore,  strive  to  come  possessed  of  it, 
with  proportionate  diligence  and  caution. 

If  an  insinuating  favourite  find  it  more  ad¬ 
vantageous  to  himself  to  flatter  than  to  counsel 
his  prince,  counsel  will  be  withheld,  and  obse¬ 
quiousness  will  be  practised.  The  prince,  in 
return,  will  conclude  himself  to  be  always  in  the 
right,  when  he  finds  that  he  is  never  opposed  ; 
and  the  remembrance  of  his  faults,  and  the  duty 
of  correcting  them,  will  be  obliterated  in  the 
constant  approbation  which  he  is  confident  of 
receiving. 

Discretion  is  a  quality  so  important  in  the 
royal  person,  that  he  should  early  be  taught  the 
most  absolute  controul  over  his  own  mind  !  He 
should  learn,  that  no  momentary  warmth  of  feel¬ 
ing  should  over  betray  a  prince  into  the  disclo¬ 
sure  of  any  thing  which  wisdom  or  duty  requires 
him  to  conceal.  But  while  he  is  thus  vigi¬ 
lantly  careful  not  to  commit  himself,  he  should 
seldom  appear  to  entertain  any  distrust  of 
those,  in  whom  prudence  forbids  him  to  con¬ 
fide.  There  is  scarcely  a  more  unquestion¬ 
able  evidence  of  sound  sense  and  self-posses¬ 


sion,  than  never  to  seem  burthened  with  a  se¬ 
cret  of  one’s  own  ;  nor  a  surer  mark  of  true  po 
liteness,  than  not  to  pry  curiously  into  that  of 
another.  ‘  The  perfection  of  behaviour,’  says 
Livy,  though  he  said  it  on  another  occasion,  ‘  is 
for  a  man  (he  might  have  said  a  prince)  to  re¬ 
tain  his  own  dignity  without  intruding  on  the 
liberty  of  another.’ 

Those  who  have  solicitations  to  make,  should 
never  have  reason  given  tliem  to  suspect,  that 
they  can  work  their  way  to  the  royal  favour  by 
flatteries  which  sooth  rather  than  by  truths 
which  enlighten.  Above  all  a  prince  should 
avoid  discovering  such  weaknesses  as  may  en¬ 
courage  suiters  to  expect  success  in  their  appli¬ 
cations,  by  such  a  spirit  of  accommodation,  such 
silly  compliments,  servile  sacrifices,  and  unwor¬ 
thy  adulation,  as  are  derogatory  to  his  under¬ 
standing,  and  disgraceful  to  his  character.* 

A  royal  person  should  early  be  taught  that 
it  is  no  small  part  of  wisdom  and  virtue  to  repel 
improper  requests.  But  while  firm  in  the  prin¬ 
ciple,  as  Christian  duty  requires,  it  is  no  viola¬ 
tion  of  that  duty  to  be  as  gentle  in  the  expres¬ 
sion,  as  Christian  kindness  demands ;  never  for¬ 
getting  the  well  known  circumstance,  that  of 
two  sovereigns  of  the  house  of  Stuart,  one  re¬ 
fused  favours  in  a  more  gracious  manner  than 
the  other  granted  them.  It  is,  therefore,  not 
enough  that  a  prince  should  acquire  the  disposi- 
tion  to  confer  favours,  he  should  also  cultivate 
the  talent.  He  should  not  only  know  how  and 
yvhen  to  commend,  and  how  and  when  to  be¬ 
stow,  but  also  how  and  when  to  refuse ;  and 
should  carefully  study  the  important  and  happy 
art  of  discriminating  between  those  whose  merit 
deserves  favour,  and  those  whose  necessities 
demand  relief.  It  should  be  established  into  a 
habit,  to  make  no  vague  promises,  raise  no  false 
hopes,  and  disappoint  no  hopes  which  have  been 
fairly  raised. 

Princes  should  never  shelter  their  meaning 
under  ambiguous  expressions ;  nor  use  any  of 
those  equivocal  or  general  phrases,  which  may 

*  It  would  seem  superfluous  to  guard  the.  royal  mind 
against  such  jietty  dangers,  did  not  history  furnish  so 
many  instances  of  their  ill  effects.  IIow  iiiiich  the  weak 
vanity  of  king  James  I.  laid  him  open  to  these  despica¬ 
ble  flatteries,  we  have  some  curious  sptjcimens  in  a  letter 
of  lord  Thomas  Howard  to  Sir  John  Harrington,  from 
which  we  e.vtract  the  following  passage.  In  advising 
his  friend  how  locondiict  himself  in  the  king’s  presence, 
in  order  to  advance  his  fortune,  after  some  other  coun¬ 
sel,  he  adds,  ‘  Touch  but  lightly  on  religion.  Do  not  of 
yourself  say,  this  is  good  or  bad  but  if  it  wore  your 
majesty’s  good  opinion,  I  myself  should  think  so.  In 
private  discourse,  the  king  seldom  speaketh  of  any  man's 
temper,  discretion,  or  good  virtues ;  so  meddle  not  at  all  ; 
but  And  out  a  clue  to  guide  you  to  the  heart,  most  de¬ 
lightful  to  his  mind,  f  will  advise  one  thing;  the  roan 
Jennet,  whereon  the  king  rideth  every  day,  must  not  be 
forgotten  to  be  praised,  and  the  good  furniture  above  all. 
What  lost  a  great  man  much  notice  the  other  day,  a 
noble  did  come  in  suit  of  a  place,  and  saw  the  king 
mounting  the  roan,  delivered  his  petition,  which  was 
heeded  and  read,  but  no  answer  given.  The  noble  do 
parted,  and  came  to  court  the  ne.xt  day,  and  got  no  an¬ 
swer  again.  The  lord  treasurer  was  then  pressed  to 
move  the  king's  pleasure  touching  the  petition.  When 
the  king  was  asked  for  answer  thereto,  tie  said  in  some 
wrath,  •'  shall  a  king  give  heed  to  a  dirty  Mper  when 
the  beggar  noticeth  not  his  gilt  stirrups?”  Now  it  fell 
out,  that  the  king  had  new  furniture,  when  the  noble 
saw  him  in  tlie  court  yard,  but  he  being  over  charged 
with  confusion,  passed  by  admiring  the  dressing  of  the 
horse.  Thus,  good  night,  our  noble  failed  in  his  suit.’— 
Nugs  Antiqute. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


63 


be  interpreted  any  way,  and  which  either  from 
their  ambiguity,  or  indeterminate  looseness,  will 
be  translated  into  that  language,  which  happens 
to  suit  the  hopes  or  the  fears  of  the  petitioner. 
It  should  ever  be  remembered  that  a  hasty  pro¬ 
mise  given  to  gain  time,  to  save  appearances,  to 
serve  a  pressing  emergency,  or  to  avoid  a  pre¬ 
sent  importunity,  and  not  performed  when  the 
occasion  occurs,  does  as  much  harm  to  the  pro¬ 
miser  in  a  political,  as  in  a  moral  view.  For 
the  final  disappointment  of  such  raised  expecta¬ 
tions  will  do  an  injury  more  than  equivalent  to 
any  temporary  advantage,  which  could  be  de¬ 
rived  from  making  the  promise.  Even  the  wiser 
worldly  politicians  have  been  aware  of  this. 
Cardinal  Richelieu,  overbearing  as  he  was,  still 
preserved  the  attachment  of  his  adherents  by 
never  violating  his  engagements  :  while  Maza- 
rin,  whose  vices  were  of  a  baser  strain,  was  true 
to  no  man,  and  therefore,  attached  to  no  man. 
There  was  no  set  of  people  on  whom  he  could 
depend,  because  there  was  none  whom  he  had 
not  deceived.  Though  his  less  elevated  capacity, 
and  more  moderate  ambition,  enabled  him  to  be 
less  splendidly  mischievous  than  h^s  predeces¬ 
sor,  yet  his  bad  faith  and  want  of  honour,  his 
falsehood  and  low  cunning,  as  they  prevented 
all  men  from  confiding  in  him  during  his  life, 
so  have  they  consigned  his  memory  to  perpe¬ 
tual  detestation. 

In  habituating  princes  to  delight  to  confer  fa¬ 
vours  on  the  deserving,  it  should  be  remembered, 
that  where  it  is  right  to  bestow  them  at  all,  it  is 
also  right  not  to  wait  till  they  are  solicited.  But 
while  the  royal  person  is  taught  to  consider  mu¬ 
nificence  as  a  truly  princely  virtue,  yet  an  exact 
definition  of  what  true,  and  especially  what  roy¬ 
al,  munificence  is,  will  be  one  of  the  most  salu¬ 
tary  lessons  he  can  learn.  Liberality  is  one  of 
the  brightest  stars  in  the  whole  constellation  of 
virtues  ;  but  it  shines  most  benignantly,  when 
it  does  not  depend  on  its  own  solitary  lustre,  but 
blends  its  rays  with  the  confluent  radiance  of 
the  surrounding  lights.  The  individual  favour 
must  not  intrench  on  any  superior  claim  ;  no 
bounty  must  infringe  on  its  neighbouring  vir¬ 
tues,  justice,  or  discretion  ;  nor  must  it  take  its 
character  from  its  outwardly  resembling  vices, 
ostentation,  vanity  or  profusion.  Real  merit  of 
every  kind  should  he  remunerated ;  but  those 
who  possess  merits  foreign  from  their  own  pro¬ 
fession,  though  they  should  be  still  rewarded, 
should  not  be  remunerated  out  of  the  resources 
of  that  profession.  Nor  should  talents,  however 
considerable,  which  are  irrelevant  to  the  profes- 
sion,  be  made  a  motive  for  placing  a  man  in  it. 
Louis  XIV.  chose  father  la  Chaise  for  his  con¬ 
fessor,  because  he  understood  something  of  me¬ 
dals  ! 

There  is  an  idea  of  beautiful  humanity  sug¬ 
gested  to  princes  in  the  Spectator,*  in  a  fictitious 
account  of  the  emperor  Pharamond,  who  made 
it  his  refreshment  from  the  toils  of  business,  and 
the  fatigues  of  ceremony,  to  pass  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  apartment  of  his  favourite,  in  giving  au¬ 
dience  to  the  claim  of  the  meritorious,  and  in 
drying  the  tears  of  the  afflicted.  The  entrance 
bv  which  the  sorrowful  obtained  access,  was 

*  Number  84. 


called  THE  GATE  OF  THE  UNHAPPY.  A  munificeut 
prince  may,  in  some  degree,  realize  this  idea. 
And  what  proportions  in  architecture,  what  mag¬ 
nificence  in  dimensions,  what  splendour  of  deco¬ 
ration,  can  possibly  adorn  a  royal  palace,  so  glo¬ 
riously  as  such  a  gate  of  the  unhappy. 

A  royal  person  should  be  early  taught,  by  an 
invincible  love  of  justice,  and  a  constant  exer¬ 
cise  of  kindness,  feeling,  and  gratitude,  to  inva¬ 
lidate  that  maxim,  that  in  a  court  les  ahsens  et. 
les  mourans  out  toujours  tort.  He  should  possess 
the  generosity,  not  to  expect  his  favourites  to 
sacrifice  their  less  fortunate  friends  in  order  to 
make  their  court  to  him.  Examples  of  this  un¬ 
generous  selfishness  should  be  commented  on  in 
reading.  Madame  de  Maintenon  sacrificed  the 
exemplary  cardinal  de  Noailles,  and  the  elegant 
and  virtuous  Racine,  to  the  unjust  resentment 
of  the  king,  and  refused  to  incur  the  risk  of  dis¬ 
pleasing  him  by  defending  her  oppressed  and 
injured  friends. 

We  have  already  mentioned  the  remuneration 
of  services.  In  a  reign  where  all  was  baseness, 
it  is  not  easy  to  fix  on  a  particular  instance ; 
else  the  neglect  manifest  by  Charles  II.  towards 
the  author  of  Hudibras,  carries  on  it  a  stain  of 
peculiar  ingratitude.  It  is  the  more  unpardon¬ 
able,  because  the  monarch  had  taste  enough  to 
appreciate,  and  frequently  to  quote  with  admi¬ 
ration  the  wit  of  Butler :  a  wit  not  transiently 
employed  to  promote  his  pleasure,  or  to  win  his 
favour ;  but  loyally  and  laboriously  exercised  in 
composing  one  of  the  most  ingenious  and  ori¬ 
ginal,  and  unquestionably  the  most  learned 
poem  in  the  English  language.  A  poem,  which 
independently  of  its  literary  merit,  did  more  to 
advance  the  royal  cause,  by  stigmatizing  with 
unparalleled  powers  of  irony  and  ridicule,  the 
fanaticism  and  hypocrisy  of  the  usurper’s  party, 
than  had  perhaps  been  effected  by  all  the  histo¬ 
rians,  moralists,  divines,  and  politicians  put  to¬ 
gether.  It  is  not  meant,  however,  to  give  un¬ 
qualified  praise  to  this  poem.  From  the  heavy 
charges  of  levity,  and  even  of  profaneness,  Hu¬ 
dibras  cannot  be  vindicated  ;  and  a  scrupulous 
sovereign  would  have  wished  that  his  cause  had 
been  served  by  better  means. — Such  a  sovereign 
was  not  Charles.  So  far  from  it,  may  it  not  be 
feared,  that  these  grievous  blemishes,  instead  of 
alienating  the  king  from  the  poet,  would  too  pro¬ 
bably  have  been  an  additional  motive  for  his 
approbation  of  the  work,  and  consequently,  could 
not  have  been  his  reason  for  neglecting  the  au¬ 
thor.* 

A  somewhat  similar  imputation  of  ingratitude 
towards  Philip  de  Comnines,  though  on  different 
grounds  of  service,  detracts  not  a  little  from  the 
far  more  estimable  character  of  Louis  XII.  As 
it  was  this  monarch’s  honoilrable  boast,  on  ano¬ 
ther  occasion,  that  the  king  of  France  never  re¬ 
sented  the  injuries  offered  to  the  duke  of  Orleans, 
it  should  have  been  equally  his  care,  that  the 

*  Dryden  al.so  materially  served  the  royal  cause  by 
liis  admirable  poem  of  Absalom  and  Acbitophel  which 
determined  the  conquest  of  tlie  tories,  after  the  exclu¬ 
sion  parliaments.  But  Dryden  was  a  profligate,  whom 
no  virtuoMs  monarch  could  patronise.  Though,  when 
a  prince  refuses  to  remunerate  the  actual  services  of  a 
first  rate  genius,  becruise  he  is  an  unworthy  man,  it 
would  be  acting  consistently  to  withhold  all  favour  from 
those  who  have  only  the  vices  without  the  talents. 


•64 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


services  performed  for  the  one  should  never  have 
been  forgotten  by  the  other. 

To  confer  dignity  and  useful  elegance  on  the 
hours  of  social  pleasure  and  relaxation,  is  a  ta¬ 
lent  of  peculiar  value,  and  one  of  which  an 
highly  educated  prince  is  in  more  complete  pos¬ 
session  than  any  other  human  being.  He  may 
turn  even  the  passing  topics  of  the  day  to  good 
account,  by  collecting  the  general  opinion ;  and 
may  gain  clearer  views  of  ordinary  events  and 
opinions,  by  hearing  them  faithfully  related,  and 
fairly  canvassed.  Instead  of  falling  in  with  the 
prevailing  taste  for  levity  and  trifles,  he  may, 
without  the  smallest  diminution  of  cheerfulness 
or  wit  in  the  conversation,  insensibly  divert  its 
current  into  the  purest  channels.  The  standard 
of  society  may  be  gracefully,  and  almost  im¬ 
perceptibly  raised  by  exciting  the  attention  to 
questions  of  taste,  morals,  ingenuity,  and  litera¬ 
ture.  Under  such  auspicious  influence,  every 
talent  will  not  only  be  elicited,  but  directed  to 
its  true  end.  Every  taste  for  what  is  excellent 
•will  be  awakehed ;  every  mental  faculty,  and 
moral  feeling  will  be  quickened  ;  and  the  royal 
person  by  the  urbanity  and  condescension  with 
which  ho  thus  calls  forth  abilities  to  their  best 
exercise,  will  seem  to  have  infused  new  powers 
into  his  honoured  and  delighted  guests. 

A  prince  is  ‘the  maker  of  manners;’  and  as 
he  is  the  model  of  the  court,  so  is  the  court  the 
model  of  the  metropolis,  and  the  metropolis  of 
the  rest  of  the  kingdom.  He  should  carefully 
avail  himself  of  the  rare  advantage  which  his 
station  affords,  of  giving  through  this  widely 
extended  sphere,  the  tone  to  virtue  as  well  as 
to  manners.  He  should  bear  in  mind,  that  high 
authority  becomes  a  most  pernicious  power, 
when,  either  by  example  or  countenance,  it  is 
made  the  instrument  of  extending  and  establish¬ 
ing  corruptions. 

We  have  given  an  instance  of  the  powerful 
effect  of  example  in  princes,  in  the  influence 
which  the  sincerity  of  Henry  IV.  of  France  had 
on  those  about  him.  An  instance  equally  strik¬ 
ing  may  be  adduced  of  the  eagerness  with  which 
the  same  monarch  was  imitated  in  his  vices. 
Henry  was  passionately  addicted  togaming,and 
the  contagion  of  the  king’s  example  unhappily 
spread  with  the  utmost  rapidity,  not  only  through 
the  whole  court,  but  the  whole  kingdom. 

And  when,  not  gaming  only,  but  other  irre¬ 
gularities  ;  when  whatever  is  notoriously  wrong, 
by  being  thus  countenanced  and  protected,  be¬ 
comes  th(*roughly  established  and  fashionable, 
few  will  be  ashamed  of  doing  wrong.  Every 
thing,  indeed,  which  the  court  reprobates  will 
continue  to  be  stigmatized ;  but  unhappily,  every 
thing  which  it  co\>ntenances  will  cease  to  bo 
disreputable.  And  that  which  was  accounted  in¬ 
famous  under  a  virtuous,  would  cease  to  be  dis¬ 
honourable  under  a  corrupt  reign.  For,  while 
■vice  is  discouraged  by  the  highest  authority, 
notwithstanding  it  may  be  practised,  it  will  still 
be  accounted  disgraceful;  but  when  that  discoun¬ 
tenance  is  withdrawn,  shame  and  dishonour  will 
no  longer  attend  it.  The  contamination  will 
spread  wider,  and  descend  lower,  and  purity  will 
insensibly  lose  ground,  when  even  notorious 
deviations  from  it  are  no  longer  attended  with 
disgrace. 


Anne  of  Austria  has  been  flattered  by  histo¬ 
rians,  for  having  introduced  a  more  refined  po¬ 
liteness  into  the  court  of  France,  and  for  having 
multiplied  its  amusements.  We  hardly  know 
whether  this  remark  is  meant  to  convey  praise 
or  censure.  It  is  certain  that  her  cardinal,  and 
his  able  predecessor,  had  address  enough  to  dis¬ 
cover,  that  the  most  effectual  method  of  esta 
blishing  a  despotic  government,  was  to  amuse 
the  people,  by  encouraging  a  spirit  of  dissipa¬ 
tion,  and  sedulously  providing  objects  for  its  gra¬ 
tification.  These  dexterous  politicians  knew, 
that  to  promote  a  general  passion  for  pleasure 
and  idleness,  would  by  engaging  the  minds  of 
the  people,  render  them  less  dangerous  observers, 
both  of  the  ministers  and  of  their  sovereigns 
This  project,  which  had  perhaps  only  a  tempo¬ 
rary  view,  had  lasting  consequences.  The  na¬ 
tional  character  was  so  far  changed  by  its  suc¬ 
cess,  that  the  country  seems  to  have  been  brought 
to  the  unanimous  conclusion,  that  it  was  plea¬ 
santer  to  amuse  than  to  defend  themselves. 

It  is  also  worth  remarking,  that  even  where 
the  grossest  licentiousness  may  not  be  pursued, 
an  unbounded  passion  for  exquisite  refinement 
in  pleasure,  and  for  the  luxurious  gratification 
of  taste,  is  attended  with  more  deep  and  serious 
mischiefs  than  are  perhaps  intended.  It  stag¬ 
nates  higher  energies  ;  it  becomes  itself  the  pa¬ 
ramount  principle,  and  gradually  by  debasing 
the  heart,  both  disinclines  and  disqualifies  it  for 
nobler  pursuits.  The  court  of  Louis  XIV.  exhi¬ 
bited  a  striking  proof  of  this  degrading  perfection. 
The  princes  of  the  blood  were  so  enchanted  with 
its  fascinating  splendours,  that  they  ignomini- 
ously  submitted  to  the  loss  of  all  power,  import¬ 
ance,  and  influence  in  the  state,  because  with  a 
view  to  estrange  them  from  situations  of  real 
usefulness  and  dignity,  they  were  graciously 
permitted  to  preside  in  matters  of  taste  and 
fashion,  and  to  become  the  supreme  arbiters  in 
dress,  spectacles,  and  decoration.* 


CHAP.  XXIV. 

On  the  art  of  moral  calculation,  and  making  a 
true  estimate  of  things  and  persons. 

A  ROYAL  person  should  early  be  taught  to  act 
on  that  maxim  of  one  of  the  ancients  that  the 
chief  misfortunes  of  men  arise  from  their  never 
being  learned  the  true  art  of  calculation.  This 
moral  art  should  be  employed  to  teach  him  how 

*  It  is  humiliating  to  the  dignity  of  a  prince  when 
his  subjects  believe  that  they  can  recommend  themselves 
to  his  favour  by  such  lowqualiflcalions  as  a  nice  atten¬ 
tion  to  personal  appearance,  and  modish  attire.  Ofthis 
we  shall  produce  an  instance  from  another  passage  of 
Lord  Thomas  Howard’s  Letters  to  Sir  John  Harrington. 
‘The  king,’  says  he,  ’doth  admire  good  fashion  in 
cloaths.  I  prav  you  give  good  heed  hereunto.  I  would 
wish  you  to  be  well  trimmed  ;  get  a  good  jerkift  well 
bordered,  and  not  too  short :  The  king  sailli,  he  likclh  a 
flowing  garment.  Be  sure  it  be  not  all  of  one  sort,  but 
diversely  coloured  ;  the  collar  falling  somewhat  down, 
and  your  ruff  well  stiffened  and  bushy.  We  have  lately 
had  many  gallants  who  hare  failed  in  their  suit  for  want 
of  due  obserrance  in  these  matters.  The  king  is  nicely 
heedful  of  such  points,  and  dwelleth  on  good  looks  and 
handsome  accoutrements.’ — Nugte  Antique 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


65 


to  pay  the  comparative  value  of  thing;s  ;  and  to 
adjust  their  respective  claims ;  assigning  to 
each  that  due  proportion  of  time  and  thought  to 
-■which  each  will,  on  a  fair  valuation,  be  found  to 
be  entitled.  It  wilt  also  teach  the  habit  of  set¬ 
tling  the  concerns  of  time,  in  contrast  with  those 
-of  eternity.  This  last  is  not  one  of  those  specu¬ 
lative  points  on  which  persons  may  differ  with¬ 
out  danger,  but  one  in  which  an  erroneous  cal¬ 
culation  involves  inextricable  misfortunes. 

It  is  prudent  to  have  a  continual  reference  not 
only  to  the  value  of  the  object,  but  also  to  the 
probability  there  is  of  attaining  it;  not  only  to 
see  that  it  is  of  sufficient  importance  to  justify 
our  solicitude ;  but  also  to  take  care,  that  designs 
of  remote  issue,  and  projects  of  distant  execu¬ 
tion,  do  not  supersede  present  and  actual  duties. 
Providence,  by  setting  so  narrow  limits  to  life 
•itself,  in  which  these  objects  are  to  be  pursued, 
-jhas  clearly  suggested  to  us,  the  impropriety  of 
forming  schemes,  so  disproportionate  in  their 
■dimensions,  to  our  contracted  sphere  of  action. 
;Nothing  but  this  doctrine  of  moral  calculation, 
will  keep  up  in  the  mind  a  constant  sense  of 
that  future  reckoning,  which,  even  to  a  private 
•individual,  is  of  unspeakable  moment;  but,  which 
to  a  plince,  whose  responsibility  is  so  infinitely 
greater,  increases  to  a  magnitude,  the  full  sum 
of  which,  the  human  mind  would  in  vain  attempt 
to  estimate.  This  principle  will  afford  the  most 
■salutary  check  to  those  projects  of  remote  vain- 
.glory,  and  posthumous  ambition,  of  which  in 
almost  every  instance,  it  is  difficult  to  pronounce, 
whether  they  have  been  more  idle,  or  more  ca- 
•lamitous. 

History,  fertile  as  it  is  in  similar  lessons,  does 
•  not  furnish  a  more  striking  instance  of  the  mis¬ 
chiefs  of  erroneous  calculation,  than  in  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  Alexander.  How  falsely  did  he  esti¬ 
mate  the  possible  exertions  of  one  man,  and  the 
extent  of  human  life,  when,  in- the  course  of  his 
reign,  which  eventually  proved  a  short  one,  he 
resolved  to  change  the  face  of  the  world ;  to 
conquer  its  kingdoms,  to  enlighten  its  ignorance, 
and  to  redress  its  wrongs  !  a  chimera,  indeed, 
but  a  glorious  chimera,  had  he  not,  at  the  same 
time,  and  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life,  indulged 
passions  inconsistent  with  his  own  resolutions, 
and  subversive  of  his  own  schemes.  His  thirty- 
third  year  put  a  period  to  projects,  for  which 
many  ages  would  have  been  insufficient !  and 
the  vanity  of  his  ambition  forms  a  f()rcible  con¬ 
trast  to  the  grandeur  of  his  designs. — His  gi¬ 
gantic  empire,  acquired  by  unequalled  courage, 
ambition,  and  success,  did  not  gradually  decay 
by  the  lapse  of  time ;  it  did  not  yield  to  the  im¬ 
perious  control  of  strange  events  and  extraordi¬ 
nary  circumstances,  which  it  was  beyond  the 
wisdom  of  man  to  foresee,  or  the  power  of  man 
to  resist ;  but  naturally,  but  instantly,  on  the 
death  of  the  conqueror,  it  was  at  once  broken  in 
pieces,  all  his  schemes  were  in  a  moment  abo- 
jishcd,  and  even  the  dissolution  of  his  own  pa¬ 
ternal  inheritance  was  speedily  accomplished,  by 
the  contests  of  his  immediate  successors. 

But  we  need  not  look  back  to  ancient  Greece 
for  prrmfs  of  the  danger  of  erroneous  calculation, 
while  Louis  XIV.  occupies  the  page  of  history. 
This  descendant  of  fifty  kings,  after  a  triumphant 
-eign  of  sixty  years,  having,  like  Alexander, 
VoL  II.  K 


been  flattered  with  the  name  of  the  great,  and 
having,  doubtless,  like  him,  projected  to  reign 
after  his  decease,  was  not  dead  an  hour  before 
his  will  was  cancelled ;  a  will  not  made  in  se 
cret,  and  like  some  of  his  former  acts,  annulled 
by  its  own  inherent  injustice,  but  publicly  know’n 
and  generally  approved  by  princes  of  the  blood, 
counsellors,  and  parliaments.  This  royal  will 
was  set  aside  with  less  ceremony,  than  would 
have  been  shown,  in  this  country,  to  the  testa¬ 
ment  of  the  meanest  individual.  All  formalities 
were  forgotten  ;  all  decencies  trodden  under  foot. 
This  decree  of  the  new  executive  power  became, 
in  a  moment,  as  absolute  as  that  of  the  monarch, 
now  so  contemptuously  treated,  had  lately  been. 
No  explanation  was  given,  no  arguments  were 
heard,  no  objections  examined.  That  sovereign 
was  totally  and  instantly  forgotten — 

- whose  word 

Might  yesterday  have  stood  against  the  world ; 

And  none  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 

The  plans  of  Caesar  Borgia  were  so  ably  laid, 
that  he  thought  he  had  put  himself  out  of  the 
reach  of  Providence.  It  was  the  boast  of  this 
execrable  politician,  that  he  had,  by  the  infalli- 
ble  rules  of  a  wise  and  foreseeing  policy,  so  sure- 
ly  laid  the  immutable  foundations  of  his  own 
lasting  greatness,  that  of  the  several  possibilities 
which  he  had  calculated,  not  one  codld  shake 
the  stability  of  his  fortune.  If  the  pope,  his  fa¬ 
ther,  should  live,  his  grandeur  was  secure  ;  if  he 
died,  he  had,  by  his  interest  secured  the  next 
election.  But  this  deep  schemer  had  forgotten 
to  take  his  own  mortality  into  account.  He  did 
not  calculate  on  that  sickness,  which  would  re¬ 
move  him  from  the  scene  where  his  presence 
was  necessary  to  secure  these  events ;  he  did 
not  foresee,  that  when  his  father  died,  his  mortal 
enemy,  and  not  his  creature,  would  succeed, 
and  by  succeeding,  would  defeat  every  thing. 
Above  all  he  did  not  calculate,  that,  when  he  in¬ 
vited  to  his  palace  nine  cardinals,  for  whose  sup¬ 
per  he  had  prepared  a  deadly  poison,  in  order  to 
get  their  wealth  into  his  own  hands — he  did  not, 

I  say,  foresee,  that 

- he  but  taught 

Bloody  instructions,  which  being  taught,  returned] 

To  plague  the  inventor — 

He  did  not  think  that  lileralhj 

- Even-handed  justice 

Would  give  the  ingredients  of  the  poison’d  chalice 
To  his  own  lips. 

He  had  left  out  of  his  calculation,  that  the 
pope,  his  father,  would  perish  by  the  very  plot 
which  was  employed  to  enrich  him  ;  while  he, 
Borgia  himself,  with  the  mortal  venom  in  his 
veins,  should  only  escape  to  drag  on  a  life  of 
meanness,  and  misery,  in  want,  and  in  prison ; 
with  the  loss  of  his  boundless  wealth  and  power, 
losing  all  those  adherents  which  that  wealth  and 
power  had  attracted. 

It  is  of  the  last  importance,  that  persons  of 
high  condition  sliould  be  preserved  from  enter¬ 
ing  on  their  brilliant  career  with  false  princi¬ 
ples,  false  views,  and  false  maxims.  It  is  of  the 
last  importance,  to  teach  them  not  to  confound 


68 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


splendour  with  dignity,  justice  with  success, 
merit  with  prosperity,  voluptuousness  with  hap¬ 
piness,  refinement  in  luxury  with  pure  taste,  de¬ 
ceit  with  sagacity,  suspicion  with  penetration, 
prodigality  with  a  liberal  spirit,  honour  with 
Christian  principle,  Christian  principle  with  fa¬ 
naticism,  or  conscientious  strictness  with  hy¬ 
pocrisy. 

Young  persons  possess  so  little  clearness  in 
their  views,  so  little  distinctness  in  their  percep¬ 
tions,  and  are  so  much  inclined  to  prefer  the 
suggestions  of  a  warm  fancy  to.  the  sober  de¬ 
ductions  of  reason,  that,  in  their  pursuit  of  glory 
and  celebrity,  they  are  perpetually  liable  to  take 
up  with  false  way-marks ;  and  where  they  have 
some  general  good  intentions  respecting  the  end, 
to  defeat  their  own  purposes  by  a  misapplication 
of  means;  so  that,  very  often,  they  do  not  so 
much  err  through  the  seduction  of  the  senses, 
as  by  accumulating  false  maxims  into  a  sort  of 
system,  on  which  they  afterwards  act  through 
life. 

One  of  the  first  lessons  that  should  be  incul¬ 
cated  on  the  great  is,  that  God  has  not  sent  us 
into  this  world  to  give  us  consummate  happi¬ 
ness,  but  to  train  us  to  those  habits  which  lead 
to  it.  High  rank  lays  the  mind  open  to  strong 
temptations  ;  the  highest  rank  to  the  strongest. 
The  seducing  images  of  luxury  and  pleasure,  of 
splendour  and  of  homage,  of  power  and  inde¬ 
pendence,  are  too  seldom  counteracted  by  the 
only  adequate  preservative,  a  religious  educa¬ 
tion.  The  world  is  too  generally  entered  upon 
as  a  scene  of  pleasure,  instead  of  trial ;  as  a  thea¬ 
tre  of  amusement,  not  of  action.  The  High  born 
are  taught  to  enjoy  the  world  at  an  age  when 
they  should  be  learning  to  know  it ;  and  to  grasp 
the  prize  when  they  should  be  exercising  them¬ 
selves  for  the  combat.  They  consequently  look 
for  the  sweets  of  victory,  when  they  should  be 
enduring  the  hardness  of  the  conflict. 

From  some  of  these  early  corruptions,  a  young 
princess  will  be  preserved,  by  that  very  super- 
eminent  greatness,  which,  in  other  respects,  has 
its  dangers.  Her  exalted  station,  by  separating 
her  from  miscellaneous  society,  becomes  her 
protection  from  many  of  its  maxims  and  prac¬ 
tices.  From  the  dangers  of  her  own  peculiar 
situation  she  should  be  guarded  by  being  early 
laught  to  consider  power  and  influence,  not  as 
txemptirig  her  from  the  difficulties  of  life  or  in- 
airing  to  her  a  large  portion  of  pleasures,  but 

engaging  her  in  a  peculiarly  extended  sphere 
■jf  duties,  and  infinitely  increasing  the  demands 
jn  her  fortitude  and  vigilance. 

The  right  formation  of  her  judgment  will 
much  assist  in  her  acquisition  of  right  practical 
habits ;  and  the  art  of  making  a  just  estimate 
of  men  and  things,  will  be  one  of  the  most  use¬ 
ful  lessons  she  will  have  to  learn.  Young  per¬ 
sons,  in  their  views  of  the  world,  are  apt  to 
make  a  false  estimate  of  character,  something 
m  the  way  in  which  the  Roman  mob  decided  on 
that  of  Cassar.  They  are  dazzled  with  the  glit¬ 
ter  of  a  shining  action,  without  scrutinizing  the 
tharacter,  or  suspecting  the  motive  of  the  actor. 
From  the  scene  which  followed  Caesar’s  death, 
lliey  may  learn  a  salutary  lesson.  How  easily 
did  the  insinuating  Antony  persuade  the  people, 
lhat  the  man  who  had  actually  robbed  them  of 


their  liberty,  and  of  those  privileges  in  defence 
of  which  their  ancestors  had  shed  their  best 
blood,  was  a  prodigy  of  disinterested  generosity 
because  he  had  left  them  permission  to  walk  in 
his  pleasure-grounds !  the  bequest  of  a  few 
drachms  to  each,  was  sufiicient  to  convince  these 
shallow  reasoners,  that  their  deceased  benefac¬ 
tor,  was  the  most  disinterested,  and  least  selfish, 
of  mankind.  In  this  popular  act  they  forgot, 
that  he  had  ravaged  Greece,  depopulated  Gaul, 
plundered  Asia,  and  subverted  the  common¬ 
wealth  I 

The  same  class  of  ardent  and  indiscriminat- 
ing  judges  will  pass  over,  in  the  popular  charac¬ 
ter  of  our  fifth  Henry,  the  profligacy  of  his  mo 
rals,  and  the  ambition  of  his  temper,  and  think 
only  of  his  personal  bravery,  and  his  splendid, 
success.  They  will  forget,  in  the"  conqueror  of 
AginCourt,  the  abettor  of  superstition  and  cruel¬ 
ty,  and  the  unfeeling  persecutor  of  the  illustri¬ 
ous  lord  Cobham. 

But,  in  no  instance  has  a  false  judgment  been 
more  frequently  made,  than  in  the  admired  and 
attractive  character  of  Henry  IV.  of  France. 
The  frankness  of  his  manners,  the  gallantry  of 
his  spirit,  and  the  generosity  of  his  temper,  have 
concurred  to  unite  the  public  judgment  in  his 
favour,  and  to  obtain  too  much  indulgence  to 
his  unsteady  principles,  and  his  libertine  con¬ 
duct.  But  the  qualities  which  insure  popularity 
too  seldom  stand  the  scrutiny  of  truth.  Born 
with  talents  and  dispositions  to  engage  all  hearts, 
Henry  was  defective  in  lhat  radical  principle  of 
conscience,  which  is  the  only  foundation  of  all 
true  virtue.  The  renunciation  of  his  religion 
for  the  crown  of  France,  which  was  thought  a 
master-stroke  of  policy,  which  was  recommend¬ 
ed  by  statesmen,  justified  by  divines,  and  even 
approved  hy  Sully,  was  probably,  as  most  acts 
of  mere  worldly  pwlicy,  often  eventually  prove 
to  be,  the  source  of  his  subsequent  misfortunes- 
— Had  he  preferred  his  religion  to  the  crown  of 
France,  he  had  not  fallen  the  victim  of  a  fanati¬ 
cal  assassin.  Had  he  limited  his  desires  to  the 
kingdom  of  Navarre,  when  that  of  France  could 
only  be  obtained  by  the  sacrifice  of  his  con¬ 
science,  the  heroism  of  his  character  would  then 
have  been  unequivocal,  and  his  usefulness  to 
mankind  might  have  been  infinitely  extended. 
Nor  is  it  impossible,  that  those  who  urged  the 
condition  might  by  the  steady  perseverance  of 
his  refusal,  have  been  induced  to  relinquish  it ; 
and  French  protestantism,  from  h is  conscientious 
adherence  to  its  principles,  might  have  derived 
such  a  strength,  as  soon  to  have  made  it  para¬ 
mount  in  the  state  :  an  event  which  would  pro¬ 
bably  have  saved  Europe  from  those  horrors  and 
agitations,  with  which  the  late  century  closed, 
and  the  present  has  commenced,  the  termination 
of  which  remains  awfully  concealed  in  the  yet 
unrolled  volume  of  eternal  Providence. 

How  much  more  solid,  though  neither  sung 
by  the  poet  nor  immortalized  by  the  sculptor,* 
was  the  virtue  of  his  illustrious  mother,  honour¬ 
ably  introducing,  with  infinite  labour  and  ha¬ 
zard,  the  reformation  into  her  small  territory  ! 

*  Henry  IV.  was  chosen  hy  Voltaire  for  the  hero  of 
his  Epic  Poem,  and  bis  statue  was  for  a  long  time  re¬ 
spected  in  France,  when  those  of  other  kings  were  de 
stroyed. 


67 


THE  WORKS  OF 

■  thing,  says  her  warm  eulogist,  bishop  Bur¬ 
net,  was  wanting  to  make  the  queen  of  Navarre 
perfect,  but  a  larger  dominion.  ‘  She  not  only 
reformed  her  court,  but  her  whole  principality, 
to  such  a  degree,  that  the  golden  age  seems  to 
have  returned  under  her,  or  rather  Christianity, 
appeared  again,  with  its  pristine  purity  and 
lustre.  Nor  is  there  one  sihgle  abatement  to 
be  made  her.  Only  her  sphere  was  narrow: 
But  is  not  this  to  make  greatness  depend  too 
much  on  extrinsic  aceicmnt  ?  That  sphere  is 
large  enough  which  is  rounded  with  perfection. 
A  Christian  queen  during  her  troubled  life  1  A 
martyr  in  her  exemplary  death,  hastened,  as  is 
too  probable,  by  the  black  devices  of  one,  as 
much  the  opprobrium,  as  she  herself  was  the 
glory  of  queens ;  the  execrable  plotter  of  the 
massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew !  Blappy  for  Ca¬ 
therine  di  Medici,  and  for  France,  of  wdiich  she 
was  regent  during  the  minority  of  three  kings, 
had  her  sphere  been  as  contracted  as  was  that 
of  Jane  of  Navarre  1* 

For  want  of  having  learned  to  make  a  just 
estimate  of  the  relative  value  of  actions,  Louis 
XIV.  vvhile  he  was  laying  Flanders  waste,  and 
depopulating  whole  provinces,  probably  per¬ 
suaded  himself,  that  he  was  actuated  by  pure 
charity  and  love  of  the  people,  because  he  car¬ 
ried  in  his  military  caleche  some  bags  of  bread 
and  money,  which  he  distributed,  as  he  passed, 
to  the  famished  peasantry ;  beings,  whose  hunger 
was  caused  by  his  ambition  :  hunger  which  the 
ostentatious  distribution  of  a  few  loaves  and 
livres  could  relieve  but  for  a  moment.  He 
might  have  given  them  peace,  and  saved  his 
bread.  He  should  have  reflected,  that  the  most 
munificent  charities  of  a  prince,  commendable 
as  they  are  in  themselves,  can  be  only  local  and 
partial ;  and  are  almost  nothing,  in  the  way  of 
benefit,  compared  with  a  deliverance,  which  it 

*  Nature,  perhaps,  never  produced  a  more  perfect  con¬ 
trast,  than  these  two  contemporary  queens.  The  intel¬ 
lectual  subtilty  of  Catharine’s  vices  more  resembled 
those  of  an  infernal  spirit,  than  of  a  corrupt  woman. 
She  had  an  exquisite  genius  for  crimes.  The  arts  she 
employed  against  .those,  whose  destruction  she  medita¬ 
ted,  were  varied  and  applied  with  the  nicest  appropria¬ 
tion  to  their  case  and  character :  and  her  success  was 
proportioned  to  her  skill.  Power,  riches,  pleasures, 
were  the  bait.s  which  she  held  out,  with  exact  discrimi¬ 
nation,  to  different  men,  according  as  their  tempers  in¬ 
clined  them  to  either.  Her  deep  knowledge  of  mankind 
she  converted  to  the  purpose  of  alluring,  betraying,  and 
destroying  all,  against  whom  she  had  designs  :  and  she 
had  tire  ingenuity  to  ruin  every  one  in  his  own  way. 
She  not  only  watched  the  viceS  and  weaknesses,  but 
the  very  virtues  of  men,  in  order  to  work  with  them  to 
their  destruction. — The  excess  of  a  good  quality,  the 
elevation  of  a  virtue,  was  in  her  hands  a  better  iuiple- 
ment  for  working  the  ruin  of  its  possessor  than  even  his 
faults.  Her  dissimulation  was  so  exquisite,  her  patience 
in  evil  so  persevering,  that  no  time  appeared  too  long 
lor  nourishing  impious  projects,  and  ripening  them  to 
lierfection.  Aware,  at  length,  that  that  rare  combina¬ 
tion  of  deceit  and  cruelty  which  met  in  her  character 
was  detected  ;  in  order  to  complete  the  destruction  of 
the  protestants  more  signally,  her  son,  a  puppet  in  her 
hands,  was  taught  to  foster  and  care.ss  them.  Two 
vears  did  this  pernicious  Italian  brood  over  this  plot.f 
its  dire  catastrophe  who  does  not  know  ?  Q,ueen  Jane 
was  poisoned,  as  a  prologue  to  this  bloody  tragedy,  a  so¬ 
vereign  to  whom  even  the  bigotted  historians  of  the  po¬ 
lish  communion  concur  in  ascribing  all  that  was  ele- 
jant,  accomplished,  and  pure  in  woman,  with  all  that 
was  wise,  heroic,  learned,  and  intrepid  in  man  ! 

t  For  a  more  detailed  character  of  Catharine,  .see  the 
Life  of  Agiippa  D’Aubjgne, 


HANNAH  iMORE. 

was  in  his  power  to  have  granted  them,  from  the 
miseries  of  war.  In  a  prince,  to  love  peace, 
is  to  be  charitable  on  a  grand  scale. — The  evils 
which  he  personally  relieves,  in  consequence  of 
their  presenting  themselves  to  his  senses,  highly 
as  that  species  of  bounty  should  be  rated,  must 
be  out  of  all  proportion  few,  compared,  with 
those  which  never  meet  his  eyes.  If,  by  com¬ 
passionating  the  one,  he  soothes  his  own  feel¬ 
ings,  while  he  forgets  the  other,  only  because 
they  are  too  remote  to  come  in  contact  with 
these  feelings,  his  charity  is  little  better  than 
self-love. 


CHAP.  XXV. 

On  erroneous  judgment. — Character  of  queen 

Christina  of  Sweden. — Comparison  of  Chris¬ 
tina  with  Alfred, 

Nothing  leads  more  to  false  estimates  than, 
our  suffering  that  natural  desire  of  happi¬ 
ness,  congenial  to  the  human  heart,  to  mislead 
us  by  its  eagerness.  The  object  in  itself  is  not 
only  natural,  but  laudable  ;  but  the  steps  which 
are  supposed  to  lead  to  it,  when  ill  regulated, 
never  attain  the  end.  Vice,  of  whatever  kind, 
leads  to  inevitable  misery  ;  yet,  through  a  false 
calculation,  even  while  happiness  is  intended, 
vice  is  pursued.  The  voluptuous  will  not  be  per¬ 
suaded  to  set  bounds  to  their  indulgencies. 
Thus  they  commonly  destroy  both  health  of 
body,  and  peace  of  mind ;  yet  the  most  volup¬ 
tuous  never  intend  to  be  miserable.  What  a 
necessity  hence  arises,  for  early  infusing  right 
principles,  and  training  to  safe  and  temperate 
habits,  when  even  the  very  desire  of  happiness, 
if  left  merely  to  its  instinctive  movement,  is 
almost  certain  to  plunge  its  votary  into  final  and 
irremediable  wretchedness ! 

But  in  no  instance  is  the  defective  judgment 
which  leads  to  false  estimates,  more  to  be  re¬ 
gretted,  than  in  the  case  of  those  who  apply 
themselves  to  pursuits,  and  affect  habits  foreign 
from  their  station ;  who  spend  their  season  of 
impravement  in  cultivating  talents,  which  they 
can  rarHy  bring  into  exercise,  to  the  neglect  of 
those  which  they  are  peculiarly  called  to  ac¬ 
quire  ;  who  run  out  of  their  proper  road  in  pur¬ 
suit  of  false  fame,  while  they  renounce  the  solid 
glory  of  a  real,  an  attainable,  and  an  appropriate 
renown. 

The  danger  of  a  prince  often  becomes,  in 
this  respect,  the  greater,  because,  while  he  sees 
a  path  open  before  him,  suppose  in  the  case  of 
the  fine  arts,  by  which  he  beholds  others  rising 
into  universal  notice  and  celebrity,  he  feels,  per¬ 
haps,  a  natural  propensity  to  the  same  pursuits, 
and  a  consciousness  of  being  able  to  excel  in 
them.  Meanwhile,  even  his  weakest  efforts  are 
flattered  by  those  around  him,  as  the  sure  pre¬ 
sages  of  excellence  ;  and  he  is  easily  led  to  be¬ 
lieve,  that  if  he  will  condescend  to  enter  the  lists, 
he  is  certain  to  attain  the  palm  of  victory. 
When  we  consider  the  amount  of  the  temptation, 
we  should  be  almost  ready  to  forgive  the  em- 
peror  Nero,  had  it  been  only  in  displaying  his 
musical  or  theatrical  talents,  that  he  had  de 


68 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


parted  from  the  line  of  rectitude.  But  to  see  a 
Romaa  emperor  travelling  through  Greece  in 
character  of  an  artist,  in  order  to  extort  the  ap¬ 
plause  of  a  people  eminent  for  their  taste,  was 
an  indication  of  farther  evils.  The  infatuation 
remained  to  his  last  hour  ;  for,  in  his  dying  mo¬ 
ments,  instead  of  thinking  how  Rome  must  re¬ 
joice  to  be  rid  of  such  a  master,  he  only  won¬ 
dered  how  the  world  could  submit  to  the  loss 
of  such  a  performer. 

It  is  one  of  the  many  evils  which  result  from 
indulging  such  misplaced  propensities,  that  it 
produces  a  fatal  forgetfulness  of  all  the  proper 
duties  of  a  sovereign,  and  of  his  legitimate 
sphere  of  emulation.  Having  once  eaten  of  the 
forbidden  fruit  of  this  meretricious  praise,  he 
becomes  fonder  of  the  relish,  his  taste  is  cor¬ 
rupted, — his  views  are  lowered, — his  ambition 
is  contracted ;  and  indolence  conspires  with 
vanity,  in  perpetuating  his  delusion,  and  in 
making  him  take  up  with  pursuits,  and  gratifi¬ 
cations,  far  below  the  level  of  his  high  original. 

For  a  prince,  who  has  formed  a  just  estimate 
of  his  own  exalted  station,  will  ever  bear  in 
mind,  that  as  its  rank,  its  rights,  and  its  pri¬ 
vileges,  are  all  of  a  kind  peculiar  to  itself,  so 
also  must  be  its  honours.  Providence  has  laid 
open  to  a  prince  an  elevated  and  capacious  field 
of  glory,  from  which  subjects  must  be  ever  ex¬ 
cluded,  by  the  very  circumstances  of  their  civil 
condition.  A  prince  will  but  degrade  himself, 
when  he  descends  from  his  vantage  ground, 
which  he  naturally  occupies,  to  mix  in  the  com¬ 
petitions  of  ordinary  men.  He  engages  in  a 
contest  in  which,  though  failure  may  disgrace, 
success  cannot  do  him  honour.  Monarchs, 
therefore,  would  do  well  to  remember,  and  to 
improve  upon  the  principle  of  the  dignified  re¬ 
ply  of  Alexander,  who  being  asked  whether  he 
would  not  engage  in  the  competition  for  the 
prize  at  the  Olympic  games,  answered,  ‘ — Yes, 
if  KINGS  are  to  be  my  competitors.’  Nor  per¬ 
haps  would  the  high-minded  answer  of  Alei- 
biades  be  unbecoming  in  a  prince, — *  It  is  not 
for  me  to  give,  but  to  receive  delight.' 

Ever  therefore,  let  those  whose  important  duty 
it  is,  to  superintend  the  education  of  a  royal 
person,  labour  to  fix  in  him  a  just  conception  of 
the  proprieties  of  his  princely  character.  Let 
them  teach  him  how  to  regulate  all  his  judg¬ 
ments  and  pursuits,  by  the  rule  of  reason,  by  a 
sound  and  serious  estimate  of  his  own  condition, 
and  of  the  peculiar  duties,  excellencies,  and 
honours,  which  belong  to  it,  on  grounds  no  less 
of  wisdom  than  of  virtue. 

We  know  not  how  better  to  illustrate  the  na¬ 
ture  and  confirm  the  truth  of  these  remarks, 
than  by  adducing,  as  an  eminent  instance  of  a 
contrary  kind,  the  character  of  queen  Christina 
of  Sveden,  the  memorable  tale  of  her  false 
judgment,  and  perverted  ambition — Christina, 
a  woman  whose  whole  character  was  one  mass 
of  contradictions!  That  same  defect  in  judg¬ 
ment,  which,  after  she  had,  with  vast  cost  and 
care,  cCllected  some  of  the  finest  pictures  in 
Rome,  led  her  to  spoil  their  proportions,  by 
clipping  them  with  sheers,  till  they  fitted  her 
apartment,  appeared  in  all  she  did.  It  led  her, 
while  she  thirsted  for  adulation,  to  renounce,  in 
abdicating  her  crown,  the  means  of  exacting  it. 


It  led  her,  to  read  almost  all  books,  without 
digesting  any  ;  to  make  them  the  theme  of  her 
discourse,  but  not  the  ground  of  her  conduct. 
It  led  her,  fond  as  she  was  of  magnificence,  to 
reduce  herself  to  such  a  state  of  indigence,  as 
robbed  her  of  the  power  of  enjoying  it.  And 
it  was  the  same  inconsistency  which  made  her 
court  the  applausi  of  men,  eminent  for  their  re¬ 
ligious  character,  while  she  valued  herself  on 
being  an  avowed  infidel. 

This  royal  wanderer  roamed  from  country  to 
country,  and  from  court  to  court,  for  the  poor 
purpose  of  entering  the  lists  with  wits,  or  of  dis¬ 
cussing  knotty  points  with  philosophers :  proud 
of  aiming  to  be  the  rival  of  Vossius,  when  her 
true  merit  would  have  consisted  in  being  his 
protector.  Absurdly  renouncing  the  solid  glory 
of  governing  well,  for  the  sake  of  hunting  after 
an  empty  phantom  of  liberty,  which  she  never 
enjoyed,  and  vainly  grasping  at  the  shadow  of 
fame,  which  she  never  attained. 

Nothing  is  right,  which  is  not  in  its  right 
place. — Disorderly  wit,  even  disorderly  virtues, 
lose  much  of  their  natural  value.  There  is  an 
exquisite  symmetry  and  proportion  in  the  quali¬ 
ties  of  a  well-ordered  mind.  An  ill-regulated 
desire  of  that  knowledge,  the  best  part  of  which 
she  might  have  acquired  with  dignity,  at  her 
leisure  hours :  an  unbounded  vanity,  eager  to 
exhibit  to  foreign  countries  those  attainments 
which  ought  to  have  been  exercised  in  govern¬ 
ing  her  own ; — to  be  thought  a  philosopher 
by  wits,  and  a  wit  by  philosophers  ; — this  was 
the  preposterous  ambition  of  a  queen  born  to 
rule  a  brave  people,  and  naturally  possessed  of 
talents,  which  might  have  made  that  people 
happy.  Thus  it  wasthat  the  daughter  of  the 
great  Gustavus,  who  might  have  adorned  that 
throne  for  which  he  so  bravely  fought,  for  want 
of  the  discretion  of  a  well-balanced  mind,  and 
the  virtues  of  a  well-disciplined  heart,  became 
the  scorn  of  those,  whose  admiration  she  might 
have  commanded.  Her  ungoverned  tastes  were, 
as  is  not  unusual,  connected  with  passions 
equally  ungovernable ;  and  there  is  too  much 
ground  for  suspecting  that  the  mistress  of  Mo- 
naldeschi  ended  with  being  his  murderer. — It 
is  not  surprising  that  she  who  abdicated  her 
throne  should  abjure  her  religion.  Having  re¬ 
nounced  every  thing  else  which  was  worth 
preserving,  she  ended  by  renouncing  the  pro- 
tostant  faith. 

It  may  not  be  without  its  uses  to  the  royal 
pupil,  to  compare  the  conduct  of  Christina 
with  that  of  Alfred,  in  those  points  in  which 
they  agreed,  and  those  in  which  they  exhibit¬ 
ed  so  striking  an  opposition. — To  contrast 
the  Swede,  who  with  the  advantage  of  a  let¬ 
tered  education,  descended  from  the  throne, 
abandoned  the  noblest  and  wisest  sphere  of 
action  in  which  the  instructed  mind  could  de¬ 
sire  to  employ  its  store,  and  renounced  the  high¬ 
est  social  duties  which  a  human  being  can  be 
called  to  perform,  with  Alfred,  one  of  the  few 
happy  instances  in  which  genius  and  virtue 
surmounted  the  disadvantages  of  an  education 
so  totally  neglected,  that  at  twelve  years  old  he 
did  not  even  know  the  letters  of  the  alphabet. 
He  did  not  abdicate  his  crown,  in  order  to  cul¬ 
tivate  his  own  talents,  or  to  gratify  his  fancy 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


■with  the  talents  of  others,  but  laboured  rig-ht 
royally  to  assemble  around  the  throne  all  the 
abilities  of  his  country.  Alfred  had  no  sooner 
tasted  the  charms  of  learning,  than  his  great 
genius  unfolded  itself.  He  was  enchanted  with 
the  elegancies  of  literature  to  a  degree  which  at 
first  seemed  likely  to  divert  hin\  from  all  other 
objects.  But  he  soon  reflected  that  a  prince  is 
not  born  for  himself.  When  therefore,  he  was 
actually  called  to  the  throne,  did  he  weakly  de¬ 
sert  his  royal  duties,  to  run  into  distant  lands, 
to  recite  Saxon  verses,  or  to  repeat  that  classic 
poetry  of  which  he  became  so  enamoured  ?  No. 
Like  a  true  patriot  he  devoted  his  rare  genius 
to  the  noblest  purposes.  He  dedicated  the  ta- 
.  ents  of  the  sovereign  to  the  improvement  of  the 
people.  He  did  not  renounce  his  learning  when 
he  became  a  king,  but  he  consecrated  it  to  a 
truly  royal  purpose.  And  while  the  Swedish 
vagrant  was  subsisting  on  eleemosynary  flattery, 
bestowed  in  pity  to  her  real  but  misapplied  abi¬ 
lities,  Alfred  was  exercising  his  talents  like  the 
father  of  his  country.  He  did  not  consider  study 
as  a  mere  gratification  of  his  own  taste.  He 
knew  that  a  king  has  nothing  exclusively  his 
own,  not  even  his  literary  attainments.  He 
threw  his  erudition,  like  other  possessions,  into 
the  public  stock.  He  diffused  among  the  people 
his  own  knowledge,  which  flowed  in  all  direc¬ 
tions,  like  streams  from  their  parent  fountain, 
fertilizing  every  portion  of  the  human  soil,  so  as 
to  produce,  if  not  a  rapid  growth,  yet  a  disposi¬ 
tion  both  for  science  and  virtue,  where  shortly 
before  there  had  been  a  barbarous  waste,  a  com¬ 
plete  moral  and  mental  desolation. 


CHAP.  XXVI. 

Observations  on  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  and  on 
Voltaire. 

Ir  in  the  present  work  we  frequently  cite 
Ijouis  XIV.  it  is  because  on  such  an  occasion  his 
idea  naturally  presents  itself.  His  reign  was  so 
long ;  his  character  so  prominent ;  his  qualities 
so  ostensible;  his  affairs  were  so  interwoven 
with  those  of  the  other  countries  of  Europe,  and 
especially  with  those  of  England ;  the  period  in 
which  he  lived  produced  such  a  revolution  in 
manners  ;  and,  above  all,  his  encomiastic  histo¬ 
rian,  Voltaire,  has  decorated  both  the  period  and 
the  king,  with  so  much  that  is  great  and  bril¬ 
liant,  that  they  fill  a  large  space  in  the  eye  of 
the  reader.  Voltaire  writes  as  if  the  age  of 
Louis  XIV.  bounded  the  circle  of  human  glory; 
as  if  the  antecedent  history  of  Europe  were 
among  those  inconsiderable  and  obscure  annals, 
which  are  either  lost  in  fiction,  or  sunk  in  in- 
significance ;  as  if  P'rance,  at  the  period  ha  ce¬ 
lebrates,  bore  the  same  relation  to  the  modern, 
that  Rome  did  to  the  ancient  world,  when  she 
divided  the  globe  into  two  portions,  Romans  and 
barbarians ;  as  if  Louis  were  the  central  sun 
from  which  all  the  lesser  lights  of  the  European 
firmament  borrowed  their  feeble  radiance. 

But  whatever  other  countries  may  do,  England 
at  least  is  able  to  look  back  with  triumph  to 
ages  anterior  to  that  which  is  exclusively  deno- 


09 

minated  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  Nay,  in  that 
vaunted  age  itself  we  venture  to  dispute  with 
France  the  palm  of  glory.  To  all  they  boast  of 
arms,  we  need  produce  no  other  proof  of  supe¬ 
riority  than  that  we  conquered  the  boasters.  To 
all  that  they  bring  in  science,  and  it  must  be  al¬ 
lowed  that  they  bring  much,  or  where  would  be 
the  honci.  of  eclipsing  them  ?  we  have  to  op¬ 
pose  our  Locke,  our  Boyle,  and  our  Newton. 
To  their  long  list  of  wits  and  poets,  it  would  be 
endless,  in  the  way  of  competition,  to  attempt 
enumerating,  star  by  star,  the  countless  con¬ 
stellation  which  illuminated  the  bright  contem¬ 
porary  reign  of  Anne. 

The  principal  reason  for  which  we  so  often 
cite  the  conduct,  and,  in  Cikin  g  the  conduct,  re¬ 
fer  to  the  errors  of  Louis,  is,  that  there  was  a 
time,  when  the  splendor  of  his  character,  his 
imposing  magnificence  and  generosity,  made  us 
in  too  much  danger  of  considering  him  as  a  mo¬ 
del.  The  illusion  has  in  a  good  degree  vanish¬ 
ed  ;  yet  the  inexperienced  reader  is  not  only 
still  liable,  by  the  dazzling  qualities  of  the  king, 
to  be  blinded  to  his  vices,  but  is  in  danger  of  not 
finding  out  that  those  very  qualities  were  them¬ 
selves  little  better  than  vices. 

But  it  is  not  enough  for  writers,  who  wish  to 
promote  the  best  interests  of  the  great,  to  expose 
vices,  they  should  also  consider  it  as  part  of  their 
duty  to  strip  off  the  mask  from,  false  virtues, 
especially  those  to  which  the  highly  born  and 
the  highly  flattered  are  peculiarly  liable.  To 
those  who  are  captivated  with  the  shining  an¬ 
nals  of  the  ambitious  and  the  magnificent ;  who 
are  struck  with  the  glories  with  which  the  brows 
of  the  bold  and  the  prosperous  are  encircled  * 
such  calm,  unobtrusive  qualities  as  justice,  cha¬ 
rity,  temperance,  meekness,  and  purity,  will 
make  but  a  mean  figure  ;  or,  at  best,  will  be 
considered  only  as  the  virtues  of  the  vulgar,  not 
as  the  attributes  of  kings.  While  in  the  portrait 
of  the  conqueror,  ambition,  sensuality,  oppres¬ 
sion,  luxury,  and  pride,  painted  in  the  least  of¬ 
fensive  colours,  and  blended  with  the  bright  tints 
of  personal  bravery,  gayety,  and  profuse  libe¬ 
rality,  will  lead  the  sanguine  and  the  young  to 
doubt  whether  the  former  class  of  qualities,  can 
be  very  mischievous,  which  is  so  blended  and 
lost  in  the  latter,  especially  when  they  find  that 
hardly  any  abatement  is  made  by  the  historian 
for  the  one,  while  the  other  is  held  up  to  admi¬ 
ration. 

There  is  no  family  in  which  the  showy  quali¬ 
ties  have  more  blinded  the  reader,  and  sometimes 
the  writer  also,  to  their  vices,  than  the  princes 
of  the  house  of  Medici.  The  profligate  Alexan¬ 
der,  the  first  usurper  of  the  dukedom  of  Flo¬ 
rence,  is  declared  by  one  of  his  historians,  San¬ 
doval,  to  be  a  person  of  excellent  conduct ;  and 
though  the  writer  himself  acknowledges  his  ex¬ 
treme  licentiousness,  yet  he  says,  ‘  he  won  the 
Florentines  by  his  obliging  manners  those  Flo¬ 
rentines  whom  he  not  only  robbed  of  their  free¬ 
dom,  but  dishonoured  in  the  persons  of  their 
wives  and  daughters;  his  unbounded  profligacy 
not  even  respecting  the  sanctity  of  convents! 
Another  writer,  speaking  of  the  house  of  Medici 
collectively,  says,  ‘  their  having  restored  know- 
ledge  and  elegance  will,  in  time,  obliterate  their 
faults.  Their  usurpation,  tyranny, pride,  perfidy. 


70 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


tindictive  cruelty,  parricides,  and  incest,  will  be 
Ssmembered  no  more.  Future  ages  will  forget 
Hieir  atrocious  crimes  in  fond  admiration  I’* 
Ought  historians  to  teach  such  lessons  to  princes? 
Ought  they  to  be  told  that  ‘  knowledge  and  ele¬ 
gance’  cannot  be  bought  too  dear,  though  pur¬ 
chased  by  such  atrocious  crimes  ? — The  illus¬ 
trious  house  of  Medici  seems  to  have  revived  in 
every  point  of  resemblance,  the  Athenian  cha¬ 
racter.  With  one  or  two  honourable  exceptions, 
it  exhibits  the  same  union  of  moral  corruption, 
with  mental  taste  ;  the  same  genius  for  the  arts, 
and  the  same  neglect  of  the  virtues  ;  the  same 
polish  and  the  same  profligacy  ;  the  same  pas¬ 
sion  for  learning,  and  the  same  appetite  for  plea¬ 
sure  ;  the  same  interchange  of  spectacles  and 
assassinations;  the  same  preference  of  the  beauty 
of  a  statue  to  the  life  of  a  citizen. 

So  false  are  the  estimates  which  have  ever 
been  made  of  human  conduct ;  so  seldom  has 
praise  been  justly  bestowed  in  this  life ;  so  many 
wrong  actions  not  only  escape  censure,  but  are 
accounted  reputable,  that  it  furnishes  one  strong 
argument  for  a  future  retribution.  This  injus¬ 
tice  of  human  judgment  led  even  the  pagan 
Plato,  in  the  person  of  Socrates,  to  assign,  in  an 
ingenious  fiction,  a  reason  why  a  judgment  after 
death  was  appointed.  He  accounts  for  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  this,  by  observing,  that  in  a  preceding 
period  each  person  had  been  judged  in  his  life, 
time  and  by  living  judges.  The  consequence  was, 
that  false  judgments  were  continually  passed. 
The  reason  of  these  unjust  decisions,  he  ob¬ 
serves,  is,  that  men  being  judged  in  the  body, 
the  blemishes  and  defects  of  their  minds  are 
overlooked,  in  consideration  of  their  beauty, 
their  high  rank,  or  their  riches  ;  and  being  also 
surrounded  by  a  multitude  who  are  always  ready 
to  extol  their  virtues,  the  judges  of  course  are 
biassed  ;  and  being  themselves  also  in  a  body, 
their  own  minds  also  are  darkened.  It  was 
therefore  determined,  that  men  should  not  be 
called  to  their  trial  till  after  death,  when  they 
shall  appear  before  the  judge,  himself  a  pure 
ethereal  spirit,  stripped  of  that  body  and  those 
ornamental  appendages  which  had  misled  earth¬ 
ly  judges.t  The  spirit  of  this  fable  is  as  appli¬ 
cable  to  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  as  it  was  to  that 
of  Alexander,  in  which  it  was  written. 

Liberality  is  a  truly  loyal  virtue,  a  virtue  too, 
which  has  its  own  immediate  reward  in  the  de¬ 
light  which  accompanies  its  exercise.  All  wealth 
is  in  order  to  diffusion.  If  novelty  be,  as  has 
been  said,  the  great  charm  of  life,  there  is  no 
way  of  enjoying  it  so  perfectly  as  by  perpetual 
acts  of  beneficence-  The  great  become  insen¬ 
sible  to  the  pleasure  of  their  own  affluence,  from 
having  been  long  used  to  it :  but,  in  the  distri¬ 
bution  of  riches,  there  is  always  something  fresh 
and  reviving;  and  the  opulent  add  to  their  own 
stock  of  happiness  all  that  their  bounty  bestows 
on  others.  It  is  pity,  therefore,  on  the  mere 
score  of  voluptuousness,  that  neither  Vitellius 
nor  Eliogabalus,  nor  any  of  the  other  imperial 
gourmands,  was  ever  so  fortunate  as  to  find  out 
this  multiplied  luxury  of  ‘eating  with  many 
mouths  at  once.’ — Homage  must  satiate,  intem¬ 
perance  will  cloy,  splendor  will  fatigue,  dissipa- 

*  Noble's  memoirs  of  the  illustrious  house  of  Medici. 

1  See  Guardian,  No.  ‘27.  i 


tion  exhaust,  and  adulation  subject ;  but  the  de  ■ 
lights  of  beneficence  will  be  always  new  and  re¬ 
freshing.  And  there  is  no  quality  in  which  a 
prince  has  it  more  in  his  power  to  exhibit  a  feint 
resemblance  of  that  great  being,  whose  repre¬ 
sentative  he  is,  than  in  the  capacity  and  the  love 
of  this  communicative  goodness. 

But,  it  is  the  perfection  of  the  Christian  vir¬ 
tues,  that  they  never  intrench  on  each  other.  It 
is  a  trite  remark,  yet  a  remark  that  requires  to 
be  repeated,  that  liberality  loses  the  very  name 
of  virtue,  when  it  is  practised  at  the  expense  of 
justice,  or  even  of  prudence.  It  must  be  allowed, 
that  of  all  the  species  of  liberality,  there  is  not 
one  more  truly  royal  than  that  which  fosters 
genius  and  rewards  letters.  But  the  motive  of 
the  patron,  and  the  resources  from  which  his 
bounty  is  drawn,  must  determine  on  the  merit 
of  the  action.  Leo  X.  has  been  extolled  by  all 
his  historians  as  a  prodigy  of  generosity  ;  a  qua¬ 
lity,  indeed,  which  eminently  distinguished  his 
whole  family  :  but  the  admiration  excited  by 
reading  the  numberless  instances  of  his  munifi¬ 
cent  spirit  that  in  remunerating  men  of  talents, 
will  receive  a  great  drawback,  by  reflecting,  he 
drew  a  large  part  of  the  resources  necessary  for 
his  liberality  from  the  scandalous  sale  of  indul¬ 
gences.  This  included  not  only  selling  the  good 
works  of  the  saints,  (of  which  the  church  had 
always  an  inexhaustible  chest  on  hand,)  over 
and  above  such  as  wore  necessary  to  their  own 
salvation.  To  any  affluent  sinner  who  was  rich 
enough  to  pay  for  them  ;  not  only  a  full  pardon 
for  sins  past  and  present  of  the  living  offender, 
but  for  all  that  were  to  come,  however  great 
their  number  or  enormous  their  nature.* 

The  splendid  pontift’  earned  an  immortal  fame 
in  the  grateful  pages  of  those  scholars  who  tasted 
of  his  bounty,  while  by  this  operation  of  fraud 
upon  folly,  the  credulous  multitude  were  drained 
of  their  money,  the  ignorant  tempted  to  the  bold¬ 
est  impiety,  the  vicious  to  the  most  unbounded 
profligacy,  and  the  measure  of  the  iniquities  of 
the  church  of  Rome  was  filled  up. 

But  Louis  XIV.  carried  this  honourable  gene¬ 
rosity  to  an  extent  unknown  before.  He  be¬ 
stowed  presents  and  pensions  on  no  less  than 
sixty  men  of  the  most  eminent  talents  and  learn¬ 
ing  in  different  countries  of  Europe.  One  is 
sorry  to  be  compelled,  by  truth,  to  detract  from 
the  splendour  of  such  liberality,  by  two  remarks. 
In  the  first  place,  it  is  notorious,  that  the  bounty 
originated  from  his  having  learned  that  cardinal 
Richelieu  had  sent  large  presents  to  many  learn¬ 
ed  foreigners,  who  had  written  panegyrics  on 
him.  Who  can  help  suspecting,  that  the  king, 
less  patient  or  less  prudent  than  the  cardinal, 
was  eager  to  pay  beforehand  for  his  own  antici¬ 
pated  panegyrics  ?  Secondly,  wlio  can  help  re¬ 
gretting,  tliat  the  large  sums  thus  liberally  be¬ 
stowed,  had  not  been  partly  subtracted  from  the 
expense  of  his  own  boundless  self-gratifications, 
which  were  at  the  same  time  carried  on  with  a 

*  This  munificent  pope,  not  contented  withsupplyin'j 
his  own  wants  by  this  spiritual  traffic,  provided  aiso  for 
his  relations  by  settinp  them  up  in  the  same  lucrative 
commerce.  His  sister  Magdalen’s  portion  was  derived 
from  the  large  sphere  assigneil  lier  for  carrying  on  thi.s 
merchandize;  her  warehouse  was  in  Saxony.  More  di? 

I  ant  relations  had  smaller  shops  ni  dilTerehl  provinces 
for  the  sale  of  this  popular  comirWity. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


71 


profusion  without  example  ?  For  Louis  was 
contented  with  bringing  into  action  a  sentiment 
which  Nero  even  ventured  to  put  into  words, 

that  there  was  no  other  use  of  treasure  but  to 
squander  it.  Who.  can  forget  that  this  money 
had  been  extorted  from  the  people,  by  every  im¬ 
post  and  exaction  which  Colbert,  his  indefatiga¬ 
ble  minister,  himself  a  patron  of  genius,  could 
devise?  How  ineffectually  does  the  historian 
and  eulogist  of  the  king  labour  to  vindicate  him 
on  this  very  ground  of  profusion,  from  the  im¬ 
puted  charge  of  avarice,  by  strangely  asserting, 
that  a  king  of  France,  who  possesses  no  income 
distinct  from  the  revenues  of  the  state,  and  who 
only  distributes  the  public  money,  cannot  be  ac¬ 
cused  of  covetousness  I  an  apology  almost  as 
bad  as  the  imputed  crime.  For,  where  is  the 
merit  of  any  liberality  which  not  only  subtracts 
nothing  from  the  gratification  of  the  giver,  but 
which  is  exercised  at  the  positive  expense  of 
the  public  comfort  ?* 

Colbert  has  been  even  preferred  to  Sully,  for 
his  zeal  in  diminishing  peculation  and  public 
abuses.  But  tliough  Colbert  was  a  very  able  mi¬ 
nister,  yet  there  was  a  wide  difference  between 
his  motives  of  action  and  those  of  Sully,  and  be¬ 
tween  their  application  of  the  public  money.  But, 
even  the  profuseness  of  the  extortioner  Fouquet, 
in  squandering  the  revenues  of  the  state  as  free¬ 
ly  as  if  they  had  been  his  own  private  property, 
is  converted  by  Voltaire  into  a  proof  of  tlie  great¬ 
ness  of  his  soul,  because  his  depredations  were 
spent  in  acts  of  munificence  and  liberality  ;  as 
if  the  best  possible  application  of  money  could 
atone  for  injustice  or  oppression  in  the  acquisi¬ 
tion  of  it ! 

In  how  different  a  mould  was  the  soul  of  Gus¬ 
tav, us  Adolphus  cast !  and  how  much  more  cor¬ 
rect  were  tlie  views  of  that  great  king  as  to  the 
true  grounds  of  liberality  !  As  brave  a  warrior 
as  Charles  XII.  without  his  brutal  ferocity  ;  as 
liberal  as  Louis,  without  his  prodigality ;  as 
zealous  a  patron  of  letters  as  Henry  VIII.  with¬ 
out  his  vanity  ! — He  was,  indeed,  so  warm  a 
friend  to  learning,  that  he  erected  schools,  and 
fou?ided  universities,  in  the  very  uproar  of  war. 
— These  he  endowed,  not  by  employing  his  mi¬ 
nisters  to  levy  taxes  on  the  distressed  people,  not 
by  exhausting  the  resources  of  the  state,  meri- 
torious  as  was  the  object  to  be  established ;  but 
by  converting  to  these  noble  institutions,  almost 
all  his  own  patrimonial  lands  of  the  house  of 
Vasa. 

Against  the  principles  of  Voltaire,  it  is  now 
scarcely  necessary  to  caution  the  young  reader. 
His  disgrace  has  become  almost  as  signal  as  his 
offences ;  his  crimes  seem  to  have  procured  for 
his  works  their  just  reprobation.  To  enter  on 
a  particular  censure  of  them,  might  be  only  to 

*  The  person  wtio  now  holds  the  reins  of  government 
in  a  neighhouring  nation,  is  said  aiiccessfully  to  have 
.adopted  similar  measures.  He  early  made  it  his  studious 
care  to  buy  up  the  good  report  of  authors  and  men  of 
talents,  knowing  mankind  well  enough  to  be  assured, 
that  this  was  the  sure  and  immediate  road  to  that  fame 
for  which  he  pants.  Near  spectators  instantly  detect 
the  fallacy ;  but  strangers,  as  he  foresaw,  would  mis¬ 
take  the  adulation  of  these  bribed  witnesses  for  the  ge¬ 
neral  opinion  ;  the  assertion  of  the  declaimcr  for  the 
sentiment  of  the  public.  Accordingly  the  sycophantry 
of  th ;  journalist  has  been  represented  as  tlie  voice  of  the 
Iteople, 


invite  our  readers  to  their  perusal ;  and,  indeed, 
a  criticism  on  his  philosophical  and  innumera¬ 
ble  miscellaneous  writings,  pestilential  as  their 
general  principle  is,  would  be  foreign  from  the 
present  purpose,  as  there  is  little  danger  that  the 
royal  pupil  should  ever  be  brought  within  the 
sphere  of  their  contamination.  I  shall  therefore 
confine  myself  to  a  very  few  observations  on 
his  character  of  the  monarch,  in  the  work  un- 
der  consideration ;  a  work  which  is  still  most 
likely  to  be  read,  and  which,  notwithstanding 
its  faults,  perhaps,  best  deserves  a  perusal — His 
age  of  Louis  the  fourteentli. 

In  summing  up  the  king’s  character,  he  calls 
his  unbounded  profligacy  in  the  variety  of  his 
mistresses,  and  the  ruinous  prodigality  with 
which  they  were  supported,  by  the  cool  term  of 
weakness.  Voltaire  again  does  not  blush  to 
compliment  a  sovereign,  whose  life  was  one  long 
tissue  of  criminal  attachments,  with  having 
‘  uniformly  observed  the  strictest  rules  of  de¬ 
cency  and  decorum  towards  his  wife.’  His  ran¬ 
cour  against  the  Jansenists ;  his  unjust  ambi¬ 
tion  and  arbitrary  temper  ;  his  wars,  which  Vol¬ 
taire  himself  allows  ‘  to  have  been  undertaken 
without  reason  his  cruel  ravaging  of  the  Pa¬ 
latinate  with  fire  and  sword,  and  its  wretched 
inhabitants  driven  from  shelter  to  woods  and 
dens,  and  caves  of  the  earth ;  his  bloody  perse¬ 
cution  of  the  protestants ;  these  he  calls  by  the 
gentle  name  of  littleness ;  not  forgetting,  in  the 
true  modern  spirit  of  moral  calculation,  to  place 
in  one  scale  his  admired  qualities  of  whatsoever 
class,  his  beauty,  valour,  taste,  generosity,  and 
magnificence  ;  and  to  throw  into  the  other,  his 
crimes  and  vices,  which  being  assumed  to  be 
only  littlenesses  and  weaknesses,  it  is  no  wonder 
if  he  glories  in  the  preponderance  of  his  virtues 
in  the  balance. 

By  thus  reducing  a  mass  of  mischief  into  al¬ 
most  impalpable  frailties,  and  opposing  to  them 
with  enthusiastic  rapture,  qualities  of  no  real 
solidity,  he  holds  out  a  picture  of  royalty  too 
alluring  to  the  unformed  judgment  of  young 
and  ardent  readers,  to  whom  it  ought  to  be  ex¬ 
plained,  that  this  tinsel  is  not  gold,  that  les  bien- 
seances  are  not  virtues,  and  that  graces  of  man- 
ner  are  a  poor  substitute  for  integrity  of  heart 
and  rectitude  of  conduct. 

By  the  avowal  of  the  same  author,  it  was  in 
the  very  lap  of  pleasure,  when  all  was  one  un¬ 
broken  scene  of  joy,  when  life  was  one  perpetqal 
course  of  festive  delight,  masked  balls,  pageants, 
and  spectacles,  that  the  Palatinate  was  twice 
laid  in  ashes,  the  extermination  of  the  Protest¬ 
ants  decreed,  and  the  destruction  of  Holland 
planned. — Tho  latter,  not  by  the  sudden  ardour 
of  a  victorious  soldiery,  but  bj'  a  cool  deliberate 
mandate,  in  a  letter  under  the  king’s  own  hand. 

Voltaire  has  expressed  his  astonishment  that 
these  decrees,  which  he  himself  allows  to  have 
been  ‘cruel  and  merciless,’  should  proceed  from 
the  bosom  of  a  court  distinguished  for  softness 
of  manners,  and  sunk  in  voluptuous  indulgences. 
Wo  might  rather  wonder  at  any  such  expres¬ 
sion  of  astonishment  in  so  ingenious  a  writer, 
were  we  not  well  assured,  that  no  acuteness  of 
genius  can  give  that  deep  insight  into  tho  hu- 
man  heart,  which  our  religion  alone  teaches,  in 
teaching  us  the  corruption  of  our  nature ;  much 


72 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


less  can  it  inspire  the  infidel  with  that  quick¬ 
ness  of  moral  taste,  which  enables  the  true  dis¬ 
ciples  of  Christianity,  to  appreciate,  as  if  by  a 
natural  instinct,  human  characters. 

It  is  indeed  obvious  to  all  who  have  sound 
views  of  religion,  and  a  true  knowledge  of  man¬ 
kind,  that  this  cruelty,  so  far  from  being  incon¬ 
sistent  with,  actually  sprung  from  that  very 
spirit  of  voluptuousness,  which,  by  concentrat¬ 
ing  all  feeling  into  self,  totally  hardens  the  heart 
to  the  happiness  of  others. — Who  does  not  know 
that  a  soul  dissolved  in  sensual  pleasure,  is  na¬ 
turally  dead  to  all  compassion,  and  all  kindness, 
which  has  not  fame,  or  interest,  or  self-gratifi¬ 
cation,  for  its  object?  Who  are  they  of  whom 
the  prophet  declares,  that  ‘  they  are  not  moved 
by  the  affliction  of  their  brethren  V — It  is  they 
‘  who  lie  in  beds  of  ivory,  that  chant  to  the  sound 
of  the  viol,  that  drink  wine  in  bowls,  and  anoint 
themselves  with  ointments.’  Selfishness  was 
the  leading  charge  brought  by  the  apostle  against 
the  enemies  of  religion.  It  stands  foremost  in 
that  catalogue  of  sins  assigned  by  him  as  the 
mark  of  the  apostate  times,  that  men  should  be 
lovers  of  their  ownselves. 

But  even  without  this  divine  teaching,  Vol- 
taire  might  have  been  informed  by  general  his¬ 
tory,  of  which  he  was  not  only  an  universal 
reader,  but  an  universal  writer,  of  the  natural 
connection  between  despotism  and  licentious¬ 
ness.  The  annals  of  all  nations  bear  their  con¬ 
current  testimony  to  this  glaring  truth.  It 
would  be  endless  to  enumerate  exemplifications 
of  it  from  the  melancholy  catalogue  of  Roman 
emperors.  Nero,  who  claims  among  the  mo- 
narchs  of  the  earth  the  execrable  precedency  in 
cruelty,  was  scarcely  less  pre-eminent  in  volup¬ 
tuousness.  Tiberius  was  as  detestable  for  pro¬ 
fligacy  at  Caprea,  as  infamous  for  tyranny  at 
Rome. — In  the  history  of  the  Mohammedan 
kings,  barbarity  and  self-indulgence  generally 
bear  a  pretty  exact  proportion  to  each  other. — 
Sensuality  and  tyranny  equally  marked  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  our  eighth  Henry.  Shall  we  then  won¬ 
der,  if,  under  Lewis,  feasts  at  Versailles,  which 
eclipsed  all  former  splendour,  and  decorations 
at  Trianon  and  Marli,  which  exhausted  art  and 
beggars  invention,  were  the  accompaniments  to 
the  flight,  despair,  and  execution  of  the  Hugo- 
nots  ?  So  exactly  did  luxury  keep  pace  with  in¬ 
tolerance,  and  voluptuousness  with  cruelty. 

Even  many  of  the  generally  admired  quali¬ 
ties  of  Louis,  which  assumed  the  air  of  more 
solid  virtues,  were  not  sterling.  His  resolution 
and  spirit  of  perseverance  were  nothing  better 
than  that  obstinacy  and  self-sufficiency,  which 
were  the  common  attributes  of  ordinary  charac¬ 
ters.  Yet,  this  pride  and  stubbornness  were  ex¬ 
tolled  in  the  measure  they  were  persisted  in, 
and  in  proportion  to  the  evils  of  which  they 
were  the  cause  :  and  his  parasites  never  failed 
to  elevate  these  defects  to  the  dignity  of  forti¬ 
tude,  and  the  praise  of  firmness. 


CHAP.  XXVII. 

Farther  observations  on  Louis  XIV.  An  exami¬ 
nation  of  the  claims  of  those  princes  who  have 
obtained  the  appellation  of  “  the  great.’' 


In  considering  the  character  of  Louis  XIV.  in' 
the  foregoing  chapter,  we  are  led  by  the  impos¬ 
ing  appellation  of  the  great,  which  has  been, 
conferred  on  this  monarch,  to  inquire  how  far  a 
passion  for  shows  and  pageants ;  a  taste  for  ■ 
magnificence  and  the  polite  arts  ;  a  fondness  for 
war,  the  theatre  of  which  he  contrived  to  make 
a  scene  of  the  most  luxurious  accommodation  ; 
together  with  a  profuse  and  undistinguishing 
liberality,  entitled  Louis  to  that  appellation, 
which  would  seem  to  imply  the  possession  of  all 
the  heroic  qualities,  of  which  he  appears  to  have 
been  utterly  destitute. 

We  are  aware  that  the  really  heroic  virtues 
are  growing  into  general  disesteem. —  The  age 
of  chivalry  is  gone  !  said  a  great  genius  of  our 
own  time ;  one  who  laboured,  though  with  less 
effect,  to  raise  the  spirit  of  true  chivalry,  as 
much  as  Cervantes  had  done  to  lay  the  false. 

‘  The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence 
of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  he¬ 
roic  enterprise  is  gone  !’* 

Selfishness  is  scarcely  more  opposite  to  true 
religion  than  true  gallantry.  Men  are  not  fond 
of  establishing  a  standard  so  much  above  ordi¬ 
nary  practice.  Selfishness  is  become  so  predo¬ 
minant  a  principle,  especially  among  the  rich 
and  luxurious,  that  it  gives  the  mind  an  uneasy 
sensation  to  look  up  to  models  of  exalted  and 
disinterested  virtue.  Habits  of  indulgence  cloud 
the  spiritual  faculties,  and  darken  those  organs 
of  mental  vision  which  should  contemplate  truth 
with  unobstructed  distinctness.  Thus,  in  cha¬ 
racters  which  do  not  possess  one  truly  heroic 
virtue,  superficial  qualities  are  blindly  adopted 
as  substitutes  for  real  grandeur  of  mind. 

But,  in  pursuing  our  inquiry  into  the  claims 
of  those  princes  who  have  acquired  the  title  of 
THE  GREAT,  many  difficulties  occur.  It  requires 
not  only  clearness  of  sight,  but  niceness  of  posi¬ 
tion  to  enable  us  to  determine. — Perhaps  the 
fifty  years  which  the  church  of  Rome  wisely 
ordained  should  elapse,  before  she  allows  inqui¬ 
ries  to  be  made  into  the  characters  of  her  in¬ 
tended  saints,  previous  to  their  canonization, 
pass  away  to  an  opposite  purpose  in  the  case  of 
ambitious  princes ;  and  the  same  period  which 
is  required  to  make  a  saint  would  probably  un¬ 
make  a  hero,  and  thus  annul  the  posthumous 
possession  of  that  claim,  which  many  living 
kings  have  put  in  for  the  title  of  the  great. 

From  all  that  we  are  able  to  collect  of  the 
annals  of  so  obscure  a  period,  it  must  be  allowed, 
that  the  emperor  Charlemagne  appears  to  have 
had  higher  claims  to  this  appellation,  than  many 
on  whom  we  have  been  accustomed  to  bestow  it. 
But,  while  this  illustrious  conqueror  gallantly 
defeated  the  renowned  pagan  prince  and  his 
Saxons ;  while  he  overthrew  their  temples,  de¬ 
stroyed  their  priests,  and  abolished  their  wor- 

♦  We  cannot  pass  over  the  brilliant  passages  of  Mr. 
Burke,  of  which  this  is  a  part,  without  hazarding  a  cen¬ 
sure  on  the  sentiment  which  closes  it.  He  winds  up  the 
paragraph  by  asserting,  that  under  the  old  .system,  ‘  vice 
itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing  ail  its  grossness.’  Surely 
one  of  the  great  dangers  of  vice  is  its  attractireness 
Now,  is  not  grossness  rather  repulsive  than  attractive  ? 
So  thought  the  Spartans,  when  they  exposed  their 
drunken  slaves  to  the  eyes  of  their  children.  Had  .Mr 
Burke  said,  that  those  who  add  grossness  to  it  make  it 
more  odious,  it  would  have  been  just.  Not  so,  when  h« 
declares  that  its  absence  mitigates  the  evil 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


73 


ship ; — while  he  made  kings  in  one  country,  and 
laws  in  another  ;  while  he  seems  to  have  govern¬ 
ed  with  justice,  as  well  his  hereditary  realms  as 
those  which  he  obtained  by  the  sword  ;  while, 
in  a  subsequent  engagement  with  the  same 
pagan  prince,  he  not  only  obtained  fresh  con¬ 
quests,  but  achieved  the  nobler  victory  of 
bringing  his  captive  to  embrace  Christianity, 
and  to  become  its  zealous  defender ;  while  he 
vigorously  executed,  in  time  of  peace,  those 
laws  which  he  enacted  even  in  the  tumult  of 
war  ;  and  while  he  was  the  great  restorer  and 
patron  of  letters,  though  he  could  not  write  his 
name  ; — and  while  as  Alfred  is  the  boast  of  the 
English  for  having  been  the  founder  of  their 
constitution  by  some  of  his  laws,  so  the  French 
ascribe  to  Charlemagne  the  glory  of  having 
suggested,  by  those  learned  conferences  which 
he  commanded  to  be  held  in  his  presence,  the 
first  idea  of  their  academies  of  sciences  and 
letters ; — while  he  seemed  to  possess  the  true 
notion  of  royal  magnificence,  by  employing  it 
chiefly  as  a  political  instrument  ;*  and  though, 
for  his  various  mei  its,  the  ancient  Romans  would 
have  deified  him,  and  the  French  historians 
seem  to  have  done  little  less  : — yet,  this  de¬ 
stroyer  of  paganism,  this  restorer  of  learning, 
this  founder  of  cities,  laws,  schools,  colleges,  and 
churches,  by  the  unprovoked  murder  of  near 
five  thousand  Saxons,  for  no  other  crime  but 
their  allegiance  to  their  own  legitimate  prince, 
must  ever  stand  excluded,  by  the  Christian 
censor,  from  a  complete  and  unqualified  right 
to  the  appellation  of  the  great  ;  a  title  to  which 
the  pretensions  of  our  Alfred,  seem  to  have 
been,  of  all  princes,  the  least  questionable. 

Nor  can  we  dismiss  the  character  of  Charle¬ 
magne,  without  producing  him  as  a  fresh  in¬ 
stance  of  the  political  mischief  arising  from  the 
private  vices  of  princes.  The  licentiousness  of 
this  mcmarch’s  conduct,  proved  an  irreparable 
injury  to  the  state,  the  number  of  natural  chil¬ 
dren  which  he  left  behind  him,  being  the  occa¬ 
sion  of  long  contentions  respecting  the  division 
of  the  empire. 

In  not  a  few  respects  the  emperor  Charles  V. 
possesses  a  considerable  claim  to  the  name  of 
great,  while  yet  there  is  an  invincible  flaw  in 
his  title. — So  eminent  in  the  field  as  to  have 
equalled  the  most  skilful,  and  to  have  vanquish¬ 
ed  the  most  successful  generals  of  his  age. — 
So  able  in  the  cabinet,  that  he  formed  plans  with 
as  much  wisdom,  deliberation,  and  foresight,  as 
he  afterwards  executed  them  with  promptitude 
and  vigour  ;  and  constantly  manifesting  a  pru¬ 
dence  which  secured  his  superiority  over  his 
pleasure-loving  contemporaries,  the  unguarded 
Francis,  and  the  jovial  Henr}'.  But  his  prin¬ 
cipal  claim  to  greatness  arises  from  that  spe¬ 
cies  of  wisdom,  which  his  admirable  historian 
allows  him  to  have  possessed  in  the  highest  de¬ 
gree  ,  that  science,  which  of  all  others,  is  the 
)nost  important  in  a  monarch,  ‘  the  exact  know¬ 
ledge  of  mankind,  and  the  great  art  of  adapting 
their  talents  to  the  departments  which  he  allot¬ 
ted  them.  So  that  he  employed,’  continues 
Robertson,  ‘no  general  in  the  field,  no  minister 

♦  See  tlie  extraordinary  account  of  Charlemagne’s 
splendid  reception  of  the  ambassadors  from  the  emperor 
of  the  East. 


in  the  cabinet,  no  ambassador  to  a  foreign  court, 
no  governor  of  a  province,  whose  abilities  were 
inadequate  to  the  trust  reposed  in  him.’  Yet,, 
the  grandeur  of  Charles,  consisted  entirely  in 
the  capacity  of  his  mind,  without  any  conso¬ 
nant  qualities  of  the  heart.  And  it  was  the  mis¬ 
fortune  of  this  renowned  politician  and  warrior 
to  fail  of  the  character  of  true  greatness  alike 
when  he  pursued,  and  when  he  renounced  hu¬ 
man  glory ;  to  err,  both  when  he  sought  hap- 
piness  in  the  turmoil  of  war  and  politics,  and 
when  he  at  last  looked  for  it,  in  the  quiet  shel¬ 
ter  of  religious  retreat.  In  the  latter,  his  ob¬ 
ject  was  indeed  far  more  pure ;  but  his  pursuit 
was  almost  equally  mistaken.  In  the  bustling 
scenes  of  life,  he  was  sullen,  cruel,  insidious, 
malignant ;  the  terror  of  mankind  by  his  ambi¬ 
tion,  the  scourge  of  protestantism  by  his  intoler¬ 
ance.  In  his  solitnde  he  was  the  tormentor  of 
himself,  by  unhappily  mistaking  superstitious 
observances  for  repentance,  and  uncommanded 
austerities  for  religion. 

Who  can  figure  to  himself  a  more  truly  piti¬ 
able  state,  than  that  of  a  capacious  mind,  which, 
after  a  long  possession  of  the  plenitude  of  power, 
and  an  unbounded  field  for  the  indulgence  of 
ambition,  begins  to  discover  the  vanity  of  its 
loftiest  aims,  and  actually  resolves  to  renounce 
its  pursuits,  but  without  substituting  in  its  stead 
any  nobler  object,  without  replacing  the  dis¬ 
carded  attachment  with  any  better  pursuit,  or 
any  higher  hope  ?  To  abandon  what  may  almost 
be  called  the  empire  of  this  world,  without  a 
well-grounded  expectation  of  happiness  in  the 
world  to  come !  To  renounce  the  full-blown 
honours  of  earthly  glory,  without  any  reason¬ 
able  hope  of  that  glory  which  fadeth  not  away  ; 
this  perhaps  is,  of  all  human  conditions,  that 
which  excites  tire  deepest  commiseration  in  the 
bosom  of  a  Christian  ! 

There  are  few  things  which  more  strikingly 
evince  the  value  of  true  religion  than  the  des¬ 
pondency  and  misery  experienced  by  great,  but 
perverted  minds,  when  after  a  long  and  success¬ 
ful  course  of  ambition,  they  are  thus  brought  to 
a  deep  feeling  of  its  emptiness.  Alexander 
weeping  for  more  worlds !  Dioclesian  weary 
of  that  imperial  power,  which  had  been  exer¬ 
cised  in  acts  of  tyranny  and  persecution ;  abdi¬ 
cating  his  throne,  and  retiring  to  labour  in  a 
little  garden  at  Salona  forgetting  that  solitude 
requires  innocence  to  make  it  pleasant,  and 
piety  to  make  it  profitable !  And  though  the  re¬ 
treat  was  voluntary,  and  though  he  deceived 
himself  in  the  first  mompnts  of  novelty,  by  de¬ 
claring  that  he  found  more  pleasure  in  culti¬ 
vating  cabbages,  than  in  governing  Rome  ;  yet, 
ho  soon  gave  the  lie  to  this  boast,  by  terminat¬ 
ing  his  life  in  a  way  more  congenial  to  the 
manner  in  which  it  had  been  spent,  by  poison, 
or  madness,  or,  as  some  assert,  by  both  ! — The 
emperor  Charles,  after  having,  for  a  long  series 
of  years,  alarmed  and  agitated  Europe  by  his 
restless  ambition,  yet,  just  when  its  objects  were 
accomplished,  flying  to  a  gloomy  retreat,  de¬ 
voting  himself  to  severe  austerities,  and  useless 
self-discipline,  and  mournfully  acting  the  weak, 
but  solemn  farce  of  his  own  living  funeral ! 

How  does  the  reflecting  mind  regret  that 
these  great,  but  misguided  princes,  Charles 


74 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAJVNAH  MORE. 


esjiecialiy,  in  whose  heart  deep  remorse  seems 
to  liave  been  awakened,  should  fail  finally  of 
that  only  consolation  which  could  have  poured 
balm  into  their  aching  bosoms,  and  administer¬ 
ed  relief  to  their  lacerated  consciences  !  Had 
Charles,  instead  of  closing  his  days  with  igno¬ 
rant  and  bigoted  monks,  been  surrounded  by 
enlightened  Christians,  they  would  have  pre¬ 
vented  his  attempting  to  heal  his  wounded  spirit 
by  fruitless  and  unexpiating  self-inflictions.  In¬ 
stead  of  ‘  laying  this  flattering  unction  to  his 
soul,’  he  might  have  been  led  to  sound  and 
rational  repentance.  His  weary  and  heavy- 
laden  spirit  might  have  been  conducted  thither, 
where  alone  true  rest  is  to  be  found.  He  might 
Jiave  been  directed  to  the  only  sure  source  of 
pardon  for  sin,  and  have  closed  his  guilty  and 
"oerturbed  life  with  a  hope  full  of  immortality. 
Teace  might  have  been  restored  to  his  mind, 
not  by  lessening  his  sense  of  his  own  offences, 
but  on  the  only  true  ground,  by  exalting  the 
mercies  of  God,  as  displayed  in  the  Christian 
dispensation. 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  there 
seems  to  be  something  sublime  in  the  motive  of 
liis  abdication,  as  far  as  related  to  himself.  Yet, 
miglit  he  not  far  better  have  made  his  peace 
with  heaven,  by  remaining  on  a  throne,  where 
he  would  have  retained  the  pow'er  of  making 
some  compensation  to  the  world,  for  the  wrongs 
which  he  had  done  it ;  and  of  holding  out  his 
protection  to  the  reformed  faith,  of  which  he 
had  been  so  unrelenting  an  enemy,  and  to 
which  his  dying  sentiments  are  suspected  to 
have  been  favourable  ? 

From  a  view  of  such  striking  examples,  one 
important  lesson  is  held  out  to  princes,  in  the 
bloom  of  life,  who  have  yet  their  path  to  choose 
in  the  world  that  lies  before  them.  It  is  this. — 
Though  it  is  good  to  repent  of  ambition  and  in¬ 
justice,  it  is  still  better  never  to  have  been  guilty 
of  either. 

If  we  were  to  estimate  the  true  greatness  of 
a  prince,  not  so  much  by  the  virtues  attached  to 
his  own  personal  character,  as  by  the  effects 
which  the  energy  of  that  character,  produced 
on  the  most  enormous  empire  in  the  w'orld, 
there  is,  perhaps,  no  monarch,  ancient  or  mo¬ 
dern,  who  could  produce  a  fairer  claim  to  the 
title  of  great,  than  Peter  the  first,  emperor  of 
Russia.  It  was  said  of  Augustus,  that  he  had 
found  Rome  built  of  brick,  and  had  left  it  of 
marble.  It  may  be  said,  with  more  truth  of 
Peter,  that  he  found  Muscovy  a  land  of  savages, 
and  left  it  a  land  of  men ;  of  beings  at  least 
rapidly  advancing,  in  consequence  of  his  exer¬ 
tions,  to  that  character. 

This  monarch  early  gave  many  of  those  sure 
indications,  of  a  great  capacity,  which  consist  in 
catching  from  the  most  trivial  circumstances 
liints  for  the  most  important  enterprises.  The 
casual  sight  of  a  Dutch  vessel  from  a  summer 
house  on  one  of  his  lakes,  suggested  at  once 
to  his  creative  mind  the  first  idea  of  the  navy 
of  Russia. — The  accidental  discourse  of  a  fo- 
•  eigner,  of  no  great  note,  in  w'hich  he  intimated 
iliat  there  were  countries  in  a  state  of  know- 
jedgo,  light,  and  cotnfort,  totally  dissimilar  to 
:3he  barbarism  and  misery  of  Russia,  kindled 
ia  the  czar  an  instantaneous  wish  to  sec  and 


judge  of  this  difference  for  himself;  not  merely 
as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  but  with  a  resolution 
to  bring  home  whatever  advantages  he  might 
find  abroad.  With  the  same  instinctive  great¬ 
ness,  his  natural  dread  of  the  sea,  which  was 
extreme,  was  made  at  once  to  give  way,  when 
voyages  ofimprovement  were  to  be  made  abroad, 
or  a  marine  established  at  home. 

Having  resolved  to  procure  for  his  country 
this  necessary  instrument  of  strength  and  de¬ 
fence,  a  navy  ;  fired  by  true  genius  and  genuine 
patriotism,  he  quitted  for  a  time  his  throne  and 
country,  not  like  Sesostris,  Alexander,  or  Caesar, 
to  despoil  other  nations,  but  to  acquire  the  best 
means  of  improving  his  own.  Not  like  Nero, 
to  fiddle  to  the  Athenians  ;  not  like  Dioclesian 
to  raise  coleworts  in  Dalmatia ;  nor  like  Charles 
V.  to  bury  himself  in  a  monastic  cell  in  Spain, 
torturing  his  body  for  the  sins  of  his  soul ;  not 
like  Christina,  to  discuss  at  Rome,  and  intrigue 
at  Versailles; — but  having  formed  the  grand 
design  of  giving  laws,  civilization,  and  com¬ 
merce  to  his  vast  unwieldy  territory ;  and  being 
aware  that  the  brutal  ignorance  of  his  barbar¬ 
ous  subjects  wanted  to  be  both  stimulated  and 
instructed  ;  he  quitted  his  throne  for  a  time  only 
that  he  might  return  more  worthy  to  fill  it.  He 
travelled  not  to  feast  his  eyes  with  pictures,  or 
his  ears  with  music,  nor  to  dissolve  his  mind  in 
pleasures,  but  to  study  laws,  politics,  and  arts. 
Not  only  to  scrutinize  men  and  manners  with 
the  eye  of  a  politician,  which  would  have  suf¬ 
ficed  for  a  monarch  of  a  polished  state  ;  but,  re¬ 
membering  that  he  reigned  over  a  people  rude, 
even  in  the  arts  of  ordinary  life,  he  magnani¬ 
mously  stooped,  not  only  to  study,  but  to  prac¬ 
tice  them  himself.  He  not  only  examined  docks 
and  arsenals  with  the  eye  of  an  engineer,  but 
laboured  in  them  with  the  hand  of  a  mechanic. 
He  was  a  carpenter  in  Holland,  a  shipwright  in 
Britain,  a  pilot  in  both.  His  pleasures  had  a 
relish  of  his  labours.  The  king  of  England, 
apprised  of  his  taste,  entertained  him,  not  with 
a  masquerade,  but  a  naval  combat.  Previous  to 
this,  he  had  entered  upon  his  military  career  in 
Russia,  where  he  set  out  by  taking  the  lowest 
situation  in  his  own  regiment,  and  would  accept 
no  rank,  but  as  he  obtained  it  by  deserving  it. 
Accordingly,  he  filled  successively  every  station 
in  the  army  from  the  drummer  to  the  general ; 
intending  hereby  to  give  his  proud  and  ignorant 
nobility  a  living  lesson,  that  desert  was  the  only 
true  road  to  military  distinctions. 

We  must  not  determine  on  the  greatness  of  a 
sovereign’s  character  entirely  by  the  degree  of 
civilization,  morals,  and  knowledge,  which  his 
people  may  be  found  to  have  reached  after  his 
death  :  but,  in  order  to  do  full  justice  to  his  cha¬ 
racter,  we  must  exactly  appreciate  the  state  in 
w’hieh  he  found,  as  well  as  that  in  which  he  left 
them.  For  though  they  may  be  still  far  behind 
the  subjects  of  neighbouring  states,  yet  that 
measure  of  progress  which  they  will  have  made, 
under  such  a  monarch  as  Peter,  will  reflect 
greater  honour  on  the  king,  than  will  be  due  to 
the  sovereign  of  a  much  more  improved  people, 
who  finds  them  already  settled  in  habits  of  de¬ 
cency  and  order,  and  in  an  advanced  state  of 
arts,  manners  and  knowledge. 

The  genius  of  Peter  was  not  a  visionary  ge 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


75 


nius,  indulging  romantic  ideas  of  cbiraerical 
perfection,  but  it  was  a  great  practical  under¬ 
standing,  realizing  by  its  energy  whatever  his 
genius  had  conceived.  Patient  under  difficul¬ 
ties,  cheerful  even  under  the  loss  of  battles,  from 
the  conviction  that  the  rough  implements,  with 
which  he  must  hereafter  work  his  way  to  vic¬ 
tory,  could  only  learn  to  conquer  by  being  first 
defeated,  he  considered  every  action  in  which 
he  was  worsted,  as  q  school  for  his  barbarians. 
It  was  this  perseverance  under  failures,  which 
paved  the  way  for  the  decisive  victory  at  Pulto- 
wa,  the  consummation  of  his  military  character. 
His  conduct  'to  the  Swedish  officers,  his  prison¬ 
ers,  was  such  as  would  have  done  honour  to  a 
general  of  the  most  polished  state. 

He  manifested  another  indisputable  proof  of 
greatness  in  his  constant  preference  of  utility  to 
splendor,  and  in  his  indifference  to  show  and  de¬ 
coration.  The  qualities  which  this  prince  threw 
away,  as  beneath  the  attention  of  a  great  mind, 
were  precisely  such  as  a  tinsel  hero  would  pick 
up,  on  which  to  build  the  reputation  of  greatness. 
The  shreds  and  parings  of  Peter  would  make  a 
Louis. 

With  this  truly  vigorous  and  original  mind, 
with  an  almost  unparalleled  activity  and  zeal, 
constantly  devoted  to  all  the  true  ends  which  a 
patriot  king  will  ever  keep  in  view — it  is  yet 
but  too  obvious,  why  the  emperor  Peter  failed 
of  completely  deserving  the  title  of  the  great. 
This  monarch  presents  a  fresh  exemplification 
of  the  doctrine  which  we  have  so  frequently 
brought  forward,  the  use  which  Providence 
makes  of  erring  men  to  accomplish  great  pur¬ 
poses.  He  affords  a  melancholy  instance  how 
far  a  prince  ‘  may  reform  a  people,  without  re¬ 
forming  himself.’  A  remark,  indeed,  which 
Peter  had  the  honesty  and  good  sense  to  make, 
but  without  having  the  magnanimity  to  profit  by 
his  own  observation.  Happy  for  society  that 
such  instruments  are  raised  up  !  Happy  were 
it  for  themselves,  if  a  still  higher  principle  di¬ 
rected  their  exertions  ;  and  if,  in  so  essentially 
serving  mankind,  they  afforded  a  reasonable 
ground  of  hope,  that  they  had  saved  themselves ! 

This  monarch,  who  like  Alexander,  perpetu¬ 
ated  his  name  by  a  superb  city  which  he  built : 
who  refined  barbarism  into  policy,  who  so  far 
tamed  the  rugged  genius  of  an  almost  polar 
clime,  as  not  only  to  pLnt  arts  and  manufac¬ 
tures,  but  colleges,  academies,  libraries,  and  ob¬ 
servatories,  in  that  frozen  soil,  which  had  hi¬ 
therto  scarcely  given  any  signs  of  intellectual 
life  !  who  improved,  not  only  the  condition  of 
the  people,  but  the  state  of  the  church,  and  con¬ 
siderably  raised  its  religion,  which  was  before 
scarcely  Christianity ; — this  founder,  this  patriot, 
this  reformer,  was  himself  intemperate  and  vio¬ 
lent,  sensual  and  cruel,  a  slave  to  passions  and 
appetites  as  gross  as  could  have  been  indulged 
by  the  rudest  of  his  Muscovites  before  he  had 
civilized  them  ! 

If  the  true  grandeur  of  a  prince  consists  not 
in  adding  to  his  territory  by  conquests  ;  not  in 
enriching  it  by. plunder;  not  in  adorning  it  by 
treasures  wrung  from  the  hard  hand  of  indus¬ 
try  ;  but  in  converting  a  neglected  waste  into  a 
cultivated  country  ;  in '  peopling  and  rendering 
fruitful  a  land  desolated  by  long  calamities  -•  in 


preserving  peace  in  his  small  state,  when  all  the 
great  states  of  Europe  were  ravaged  by  war ;  in 
restoring  plenty  to  a  famished  people,  and  raising 
a  depressed  nobility  to  affluence ;  in  paying  the 
debts  of  a  ruined  gentry,  and  giving  portions  to 
their  daughters  ;  in  promoting  virtue,  literature, 
and  science ;  in  making  it  the  whole  object  of 
his  reign  to  render  his  subjects  richer,  happier, 
and  better  than  he  found  them ;  in  declaring 
that  he  would  not  reign  a  moment  longer  than 
he  thought  he  could  be  doing  good  to  his  people, 
— then  was  Leopold,  sovereign  of  the  small 
dukedom  of  Lorrain,  more  justly  entitled  to  the 
appellation  of  the  great,  than  the  Alexanders, 
the  Caesars,  and  the  Louises,  who  filled  the  page 
of  history  with  praises,  and  the  world  witif 
tears.* 

If  Gustavus  Adolphus  put  in  his  undisputed 
claim  to  the  title  of  the  great,  it  is  not  merely  on 
the  ground  of  his  glorious  victories  at  the  battle 
of  Leipsic  and  Lutzen^  but  because  that  amidst 
the  din  of  arms,  and  the  tumult  of  those  battles, 
he  was  never  diverted  from  snatching  some  por¬ 
tion  of  every  day  for  prayer,  and  reading  the 
Scriptures.  It  is  because,  with  all  his  high  spi¬ 
rits,  he  was  so  far  from  thinking  that  it  dero¬ 
gated  from  the  dignity  of  a  gentleman,  or  the 
honour  of  an  officer,  to  refuse  a  challenge,  that 
he  punished  with  death  whoever  presumed  to 
decide  a  quarrel  with  the  sword ;  to  prevent  the 
necessity  of  which,  he  made  a  law  that  all  dis¬ 
putes  should  be  settled  by  a  court  of  honour.t 
He  deserved  the  appellation  of  great,  when  he 
wished  to  carry  commerce  to  the  West  Indies, 
that  he  might  carry  thither  also.by  those  means, 
the  pure  doctrines  of  the  reformation.  He  de¬ 
served  it,  when  he  invited  by  an  edict  all  the 
persecuted  protestants  from  every  part  of  Eu¬ 
rope,  to  an  asylum  in  Sweden,  offering  them  not 
only  an  immunity  from  taxes,  but  full  permission 
to  return  home  when  the  troubles  of  their  re¬ 
spective  countries  should  be  healed. 

When  such  was  the  union  of  piety  and  hero¬ 
ism  in  the  gallant  monarch  himself,  it  was  the 
less  wonderful  to  find  the  same  rare  combination 
in  the  associates  of  his  triumphs.  Hence  the 
pious  meditations  of  the  celebrated  leader  of  the 
Scotch  brigadet  in  the  service  of  Gustavus ! 
Compositions  of  which  would  be  scarcely  a  dis¬ 
credit  to  a  father  of  the  church,  and  which  ex¬ 
alts  his  character  as  highly  in  a  religious  and 
moral  view,  as  it  was  raised,  by  his  bravery  and 
skill  in  war,  in  the  annals  of  military  glory. 

If  Alexander  deserved  the  title  in  question  it 
was  when  he  declared  in  a  letter  to  his  immortal 
master,  that  he  thought  it  a  truer  glory  to  excel 
in  knowledge  than  in  power.  It  was  in  that 
equally  moral  and  poetical  reprehension  of  those 
flatterers  who  had  ascribed  divine  honours  to 
him,  when,  on  the  bleeding  of  his  wounds,  he 
said.  Look  !  this  is  my  blood !  This  is  not  that 

*  See  SiecIede  Louis  XIV.  for  a  fuller  account  of 
Leopold. 

t  The  kina;  of  France,  at  this  same  military  period, 
severely  prohibited  duelling;,  the  practice  of  which  he 
wa.s  so  far  from  considering  as  an  indication  of  courage, 
that  he  took  a  solemn  oath  to  bestow  rewards  on  such 
military  men  as  had  the  courage  to  refuse  a  challenge.  It 
was  an  indication  that  this  prince  understood  wherein 
true  magnanimity  consisted.  Bee  also  sir  bVancis  Ila- 
con’s  charge,  when  attorney  general  against  due'..-). 

1  Monro. 


76 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


divine  liquor  of  which  Homer  speaks,  which  ran 
from  the  hand  of  Venus  when  Diomedes  pierced 
it  I  Hia  generous  treatment  of  the  family  of 
the  conquered  Darius  was,  perhaps,  eclipsed  by 
the  equally  magnanimous,  and  more  disinterest¬ 
ed  moderation  of  our  own  heroic  Edward,  the 
black  prince,  to  the  eaptive  king  of  France.  The 
gallant  prince  seems  to  have  merited,  without 
obtaining  the  appellation  of  the  great. 

But,  if  splendid  parade,  and  costly  magnifi¬ 
cence  be  really  considered  as  unequivoeal  proofs 
•f  exalted  greatness,  then  must  the  Trajans,  the 
Gustavuses,  the  Alfreds,  the  Peters,  the  Willi¬ 
ams,  and  the  Elizabeths,  submit  their  claims  to 
this  appellation  to  those  of  Louis  XIV.  Louis 
himself  must,  without  contest,  yield  the  palm  of 
greatness  to  pope  Alexander  the  sixth,  and 
Caesar  Borgia;  and  they,  in  their  turn,  must 
hide  their  diminished  heads,  in  reverence  to  the 
living  exhibitor  of  the  late  surpassing  pomp  and 
unparalleled  pageantry  in  a  neighbouring  na¬ 
tion,  displayed  in  the  most  gorgeous  and  costly 
farce  that  was  ever  acted  before  the  astonished 
and  indignant  world ! 

If,  to  use  the  very  ^ords  of  the  historian  and 
panegyrist  of  Louis,  *  to  despoil,  disturb,  and 
humble  almost  all  the  states  of  Europe,’ — if  this 
appeared  in  the  eyes  of  that  panegyrist  a  proof 
of  greatness  ;  in  the  eye  of  reason  and  humanity, 
such  a  course  of  conduct  will  rather  appear  in¬ 
solence,  injustice,  and  oppression.  Yet,  as  such 
irreligious  authors  commonly  connect  the  idea 
of  glory  with  that  of  success,  they  themselves 
ought  not  to  vindicate  it  even  on  their  own  prin¬ 
ciple  of  expediency  ;  since  this  passion  for  false 
glory,  carried  to  the  last  excesss,  became,  at 
length,  the  means  of  stirring  up  the  other  Eu¬ 
ropean  powers  ;  the  result  of  whose  confederacy 
terminated  in  the  disgrace  of  Louis. 

If  ever  this  vain  glorious  prince  appeared 
truly  great,  it  was  in  his  dying  speech  to  his  in¬ 
fant  successor,  when,  taking  him  in  his  arms, 
he  magnanimously  intreated  him  not  to  follow 
his  example,  in  his  love  of  wars  and  his  taste  for 
expense ;  exhorting  him  to  follow  moderate 
counsels,  to  fear  God,  reduce  the  taxes,  spare 
his  subjects,  and  to  do  whatever  he  himself  had 
not  done  to  relieve  them. 

In  like  manner,  our  illustrious  Henry  V.  in 
the  midst  of  his  French  conquests,  conquests 
founded  on  injustice  (unpopular  as  is  the  asser¬ 
tion  to  an  English  ear)  never  so  truly  deserved 
to  be  called  the  great  as  in  that  beautiful  in- 
etance»of  his  reverence  for  the  laws,  when  he 
submitted,  as  prince  of  Wales,  to  the  magistrate 
who  put  him  under  confinement  for  some  irre¬ 
gularities  ;  as  when,  afterwards,  being  sovereign, 
he  not  only  pardoned,  but  commended  and  pro¬ 
moted  him. 

If  ever  Henry  IV.  of  France,  peculiarly  de¬ 
served  the  appellation  of  great,  it  was  after  the 
victory  at  Coutras,  for  that  noble  magnanimity 
in  the  very  moment  of  conquest,  which  compel¬ 
led  a  pious  divine,  then  present,  to  exclaim — 
‘Happy  and  highly  favoured  of  heaven  is  that 
prince,  who  sees  at  his  feet  his  enemies  humbled 
by  the  hand  of  God ;  his  table  surrounded  by 
his  prisoners,  his  room  hung  with  the  ensigns 
of  the  vanquished  without  the  slightest  emotion 
«f  vanity  or  insolence !  who  can  maintain  in  the 


midst  of  such  glorious  successes,  the  same  mo¬ 
deration  with  which  he  has  borne  the  severest 
adversity  !’ — He  deserved  it,  when  as  he  was 
besieging  Paris,  which  was  perishing  with  fa¬ 
mine,  he  commanded  the  besiegers  to  admit 
supplies  to  the  besieged. — He  deserved  it  at  the 
battle  of  Irvi,  not  when  he  gallantly  ordered  his 
soldiers  to  follow  his  white  plume,  which  would 
be  the  signal  of  victory,  nor  afterwards  when 
that  victory  was  complete;  but  it  was,  when 
just  before  the  engagement*,  he  made  a  solemn 
renunciation  of  his  own  might  and  his  own  wis¬ 
dom,  and  submitted  the  event  to  God  in  this  in- 
comparable  prayer. 

‘  O  Lord  God  of  Hosts,  who  hast  in  thy  hand 
ail  events  ;  if  thou  knowest  that  my  reign  will 
promote  thy  glory,  and  the  safety  of  thy  people  ; 
if  thou  knowest  that  I  have  no  other  ambition, 
but  to  advance  the  honour  of  thy  name,  and  the 
good  of  the  state,  favour  O  great  God,  the  justice 
of  my  arms.  But  if  thy  good  Providence  has 
decreed  otherwise  ;  if  thou  seest  that  I  should 
prove  one  of  those  kings  whom  thou  givest  in 
thine  anger  ;  take  from  me,  O  merciful  God,  my 
life  and  my  crown.  Make  mo  this  day  a  sacra- 
fice  to  thy  w’ill ;  let  my  death  end  the  calamities 
of  my  country,  and  let  my  blood  be  the  last  that 
shall  be  spilt  in  this  quarrel.’ — 

O  si  sic  omnia  I 


CHAP.  XXVIII. 

Books, 

Conversation,  says  the  sagacious  Verulam, 
*  makes  a  ready  man.’  It  is,  indeed,  one  of  the 
practical  ends  of  study.  It  draws  the  powers 
of  the  understanding  into  exercise,  and  brings 
into  circulation  the  treasures  which  the  memory 
has  been  amassing.  Conversation  will  be  always 
an  instrument  particularly  important  in  the  cul¬ 
tivation  of  those  talents  which  may  one  day  be 
brought  into  public  exercise.  And  as  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  start  profitable  topics  of  discourse 
between  the  pupil  and  those  around  her,  without 
inviting  some  little  previous  introduction,  it 
might  not  be  useless  to  suggest  a  simple  prepa¬ 
ration  for  the  occasional  discussion  of  topics, 
somewhat  above  the  ordinary  cast  of  familiar 
intercourse. 

To  burthen  the  memory  with  a  load  of  dry 
matter  would,  on  the  one  hand,  be  dull ;  and  with 
a  mass  of  poetry,  which  she  can  have  little  oc¬ 
casion  to  use,  would,  on  the  other,  be  superfluous. 
But,  as  the  understanding  opens,  and  years  ad- 
vance,  might  she  not  occasionally  commit  to 
memory,  frOm  the  best  authors  in  every  depart¬ 
ment,  one  select  passage,  one  weighty  sentence, 
one  striking  precept,  which  in  the  hours  devoted 
to  society  and  relaxation,  might  form  a  kind  of 
thesis  for  interesting  conversation?  For  in¬ 
stance,  a  short  specimen  of  eloquence  from 
South,  or  of  reasoning  from  Barrow ;  a  detached 
reflection  on  the  analogy  of  religion  to  the  con¬ 
stitution  of  nature  from  Butler  ;  a  political  cha¬ 
racter  from  Clarendon  ;  a  maxim  of  prudence 
from  the  proverbs ;  a  precept  of  government 
from  Bacon ;  a  moral  document  from  the  Ram- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


77 


bier;  a  passage  of  ancient  history  from  Plu¬ 
tarch  ;  a  sketch  of  national  manners  from  Gold¬ 
smith’s  Traveller,  or  of  individual  character 
■from  the  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes ;  an  apho¬ 
rism  on  the  contempt  of  riches  from  Seneca,  or 
a  paragraph  on  the  wealth  of  nations  from  Adam 
Smith  ;  a  rule  of  conduct  from  sir  Mathew  Hale, 
or  a  sentiment  of  benevolence  from  Mr.  Addi¬ 
son  ;  a  devout  contemplation  from  bishop  Hall, 
or  a  principle  of  taste  from  Quintilian ;  an  opi¬ 
nion  on  the  law  of  nations  from  Vattel,  or  on 
the  law  of  England  from  Blackstone. 

Might  not  any  one  of  the  topics  thus  suggest¬ 
ed  by  the  recitation  of  a  single  passage,  be  made 
the  ground  of  a  short  rational  conversation, 
without  the  formality  of  a  debate,  or  the  solemni¬ 
ty  of  an  academical  disputation  ?  Persons  na¬ 
turally  get  a  custom  of  reading  with  more  sedu¬ 
lous  attention,  when  they  expect  to  be  called  up¬ 
on  to  produce  the  substance  of  what  they  have 
read  ;  and  in  order  to  prevent  desultory  and  un¬ 
settled  habits,  it  would  be  well  on  these  occa¬ 
sions,  to  tie  the  mind  down  to  the  one  selected 
topic,  and  not  to  allow  it  to  wander  from  the 
point  under  consideration.  This  practice,  stea¬ 
dily  observed  would  strengthen  the  faculties  of 
thinking,  and  reasoning,  and  consequently  high¬ 
ly  improve  the  powers  of  conversation. 

Of  books,  a  considerable  number,  besides 
those  in  the  foregoing  passage,  has  already  been 
suggested.  But  though  we  have  ventured  to 
recommend  many  works  which  seemed  peculiar¬ 
ly  applicable  to  the  present  purpose,  we  do  not 
presume  to  point  out  any  thing  like  a  systematic 
course  of  reading.  This  will  be  arranged  by  far 
abler  judges,  especially  in  that  most  important 
instance,  the  choice  of  books  of  divinity.  In  a 
language  so  abounding  as  the  English  in  the 
treasures  of  theological  composition,  the  diffi¬ 
culty  will  consist,  not  in  finding  much  that  is 
excellent,  but  in  selecting  that  which  unites  the 
most  e.xcellences. 

Of  elementary  books  which  teach  the  first  ru¬ 
diments  of  Christianity,  there  is  no  doubt  but 
the  best  use  has  been  already  made.  In  aid  of 
these,  the  deepest  and  most  impressive  know¬ 
ledge  will  be  communicated  to  the  mind,  by  fa¬ 
miliar  colloquial  explanation  of  every  portion  of 
Scripture,  daily,  as  it  is  read.  Such  an  habitual, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  clear  and  simple  exposi¬ 
tion,  would  tend  to  do  away  the  most  material 
of  those  difficulties  and  obscurities,  with  which 
the  sacred  writings  are  charged,  and  which  are 
pleaded  as  a  reason  for  not  putting  them,  in  their 
genuine  form,  into  the  hands  of  youth.  There 
18  no  book  whatever  which  affords  more  matter 
for  interesting  and  animated  conversation,  and 
for  variety,  there  is  no  book  which  is  at  all  com¬ 
parable  to  it.  It  were  to  be  wished  that  the  sa¬ 
cred  volume  were  not  too  generally  made  to  give 
way  to  histories  and  expositions  of  the  Bible. 
These  last  are  excellent  subordinate  aids ;  but 
it  is  to  bo  feared  that  they  are  sometimes  almost 
exclusively  adopted,  to  the  neglect  of  the  Bible 
itself.  Thus  the  mere  facts  and  incidents  being 
retained,  separated  from  the  doctrines,  senti¬ 
ments,  and  precepts  which,  like  a  golden  thread, 
run  through  every  part  of  the  history,  and  are 
every  where  interwoven  with  its  texture  ;  and 
the  narrative  being  also  stripped  of  its  venerable 


phraseology  and  touching  style,  the  Bible  is 
robbed  of  its  principal  charm ;  and  the  devotionaf. 
and  historical  ideas  being  thus  separated,  the 
impression  both  on  the  memory  and  the  feelings 
becomes  much  weakened. — Our  remarks  on  the 
Scripture  itself  we  shall  reserve  for  a  future 
chapter. 

It  has  been  a  rule  observed  throughout  this 
work,  to  forbear  naming  living  authors,  except 
incidentally  in  one  or  two  instances.  This  rule, 
which  was  adopted  from  delicacy,  is  at  present 
Jbecome  inconvenient,  as  it  prevents  our  giving 
highly  merited  commendation  to  various  reli. 
gious  works,  of  almost  every  description ;  to 
critical  as  well  as  practical  elucidations  of  Scrip¬ 
ture  ; — to  treatises  on  the  internal  principles, 
and  on  the  duties  of  religion  ;  on  the  efficacy,  as 
well  as  the  evidences  of  Christianity  ; — works 
not  less  admirable  in  point  of  composition,  than 
estimable  for  their  substantial  worth  ;  and  which 
will  inevitably  be  adopted,  as  the  royal  educa¬ 
tion  advances. 

We  would  only  presume  to  offer  one  remark 
on  the  study  of  divines,  whether  ancient  or  mo¬ 
dern.  A  luminous  style,  and  a  perspicuous  ex- 
pression,  will  cast  a  lustre  on  the  brightest 
truths,  and  render  grave  and  serious  subjects 
more  engaging  and  impressive.  To  the  young, 
these  attractions  are  particularly  necessary.  Yet, 
in  the  discourses  to  be  perused,  one  principle  of 
selection  should  be  observed.  The  graces  of  lan¬ 
guage  should  never  be  considered  as  an  equiva¬ 
lent  for  a  sound  principle.  Dissertations  or  ser¬ 
mons,  should  not  be  preferred  for  having  more 
smoothness  than  energy,  for  being  more  alluring 
than  awakening,  nor  because  they  are  calculated 
to  make  the  reader  satisfied  rather  than  safe. 
The  distinguishing  characters  of  Christianity, 
both  in  doctrine  and  practice,  should  always  be 
considered  as  the  most  indispensable  requisite. — 
For  the  absence  of  the  great  fundamental  truths 
of  our  religion,  no  ingenuity  of  thought,  no  ele¬ 
gance  of  style,  no  popularity  of  the  author  can 
atone.  A  splendid  diction  is  a  pleasing  orna¬ 
ment,  but  it  should  never  be  used  as  an  instru¬ 
ment  for  lowering  the  standard  of  religious 
truth.  Happily  we  are  not  wanting  in  divines, 
living  and  dead,  who  unite  all  the  required  ex¬ 
cellences. 

Of  moral  writers  we  shall  speak  hereafter. 
Next  to  history,  biography  must  be  considered 
as  useful.  Those  who  have  properly  selected, 
and  judiciously  written  the  lives  of  eminent  per¬ 
sons,  have  performed  the  office  of  instruction, 
without  assuming  the  dignity  of  instructors-, 
Well-chosen,  and  well- written  lives  would  form 
a  valuable  substitute  for  no  small  portion  of  those 
works  of  imagination,  which  steal  away  the 
hearts  and  time  of  our  youth.  Novels,  were 
there  no  other  objection  to  them,  however  inge¬ 
niously  they  may  be  written,  as  they  exhibit 
only  fictitious  characters,  acting  in  fictitious 
scenes,  on  fictitious  occasions,  and  bf^ng  some¬ 
times  the  work  of  writers,  who  rather  guess 
what  the  world  is  than  describe  it  from  their 
own  knowledge,  can  never  give  so  just  or  vivid 
a  picture  of  life  and  manners,  as  is  to  be  found 
in  the  memoirs  of  men  who  were  actual  per¬ 
formers  on  the  great  stage  of  the  world.  Wo 
may  apply  to  many  of  these  fabricators  of  ad 


78 


THE  WORKS  or  HANNAH  MORE. 


ventures  what  lord  Bacon  says,  when  he  regrets 
that  philosophers,  ignorant  of  real  business, 
cliose  to  write  about  legislation,  instead  of  states¬ 
men,  whose  proper  office  it  was. — ‘  They  make,’ 
says  he,  ‘  imaginary  laws  for  imaginary  com¬ 
monwealths.’ 

Of  this  engaging  species  of  literature,  biogra- 
phy,  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  we  do  not  possess 
more  lives  of  distinguished  men,  written  with  a 
view  to  moral  instruction,  in  the  manner  of  those 
of  bishop  Burnet,  and  Isaac  Walton.  The  lives 
of  the  bishop  are  seriously  instructive,  as  welj 
as  highly  interesting.  Of  Walton’s  it  is  diffi¬ 
cult  to  say,  whether  they  are  more  amusing  or 
informing. 

Voyages  and  travels  will  also  form  a  very  ne¬ 
cessary  class  of  books  ;  but  some  of  the  more 
recent  works  of  this  kind  are  so  interlarded  with 
infidelity,  and  under  the  mask  of  ridiculing  po¬ 
pery,  aim  such  mischievous  side-strokes  at 
Christianity  itself;  and  many,  especially  of  the 
modern  French  travels,  are  exceptionable,  not 
only  for  their  impiety,  but  also  on  so  many  other 
accounts,  that  they  will  require  to  be  selected 
with  the  nicest  discrimination.  Our  own  lan¬ 
guage,  however,  can  boast  many  valuable  works 
of  this  kind,  which  are  clear  of  these  offences. 
Voyages  of  discovery,  though  perhaps  less  in¬ 
teresting  to  ordinary  readers  will  be  peculiarly 
suited  to  the  royal  pupil ;  especially  those  which 
have  been  undertaken,  greatly  to  his  honour,  by 
command  of  his  present  majesty,  and  which 
contain  the  discoveries  actually  made  in  the 
hitherto  unexplored  parts  of  the  southern  hemis¬ 
phere. 

Telemackus. 

Among  worKS  of  imagination,  there  are  some 
peculiarly  suited  to  the  royal  pupil.  She  should 
never,  it  is  presumed,  peruse  any  authors  below 
those  who  have  always  been  considered,  as 
standards  in  their  respective  departments.  With 
the  talents  whicli  she  is  said  to  possess,  she  will 
soon  be  competent  to  understand  great  part  of 
a  work,  which,  though  it  ranks  in  the  very  first 
class  of  this  species  of  composition,  has,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  fallen  into  unjust  disregard  from  its 
having  been  injudiciously  employed  by  teachers 
as  the  first  book  in  acquiring  the  French  lan¬ 
guage.  The  fine  sentiments  which  it  contains 
have  been  overlooked,  while  only  the  facility  of 
the  style  has  been  considered. — Telemachus  is 
a  noble  political  romance,  delightful  to  every 
•cader,  but  specifically  adapted  to  what  indeed 
(vas  its  original  object,  the  formation  of  a  cha- 
•acter  of  a  prince.  It  is  free  from  the  moral 
defects  of  tlie  classic  poets,  whose  very  deities 
are  commonly  exhibited  with  a  grossness  dan¬ 
gerous  to  the  modesty  of  youth.  Fenelon,  while 
with  a  true  taste,  he  never  puts  any  thing  into 
their  mouths  incompatible  with  the  Grecian  fa¬ 
ble,  never  fails  to  give  the  imperfect  pagan  mo¬ 
ral  a  tincture  of  Christian  purity.  The  finest 
precepts  are  illustrated  by  the  most  instructive 
examples ;  and  every  royal  duty  is,  as  it  were, 
personified.  His  morality  is  every  where  found¬ 
ed  on  the  eternal  principles  of  truth  and  justice. 
He  refers  all  goodness  to  God,  as  its  origin  and 
end.  He  exhibits  a  uniform  lesson  of  the  duty 
of  sacrificing  private  interest  to  public  good,  and 


of  forgetting  ourselves  in  the  love  of  our  coun¬ 
try.  He  reconciles  the  soundest  policy  with  the 
most  undeviating  integrity,  and  puts  to  shame 
those  otherwise  admirable  writers  of  our  own 
time,  who  have  laboured  to  establish  the  danger 
ous  doctrine  of  expediency  at  the  expense  of  im¬ 
mutable  justice  and  everlasting  truth.  From  Tele¬ 
machus  she  will  learn,  that  the  true  glory  of  a 
king  is  to  make  his  people  good  and  happy ;  tliat 
his  authority  is  never  so  secure  as  when  it  is 
founded  on  the  love  of  his  subjects ;  and  that  the 
same  principles  which  promote  private  virtue, 
advance  public  happiness.  He  teaches  carefully 
to  distinguish  between  good  and  bad  govern¬ 
ments  ;  delivers  precepts  for  the  philosophical, 
the  warlike,  the  pacific,  and  the  legislative  king ; 
and  shows  the  comparative  value  of  agriculture, 
of  commerce,  of  education,  and  of  arts;  of  pri¬ 
vate  justice,  and  of  civil  polity.  His  descrip¬ 
tions,  comparisons,  and  narratives,  instead  of  be¬ 
ing  merely  amusing,  are  always  made  to  an¬ 
swer  some  beneficial  purpose.  And,  as  there 
is  no  part  of  public  duty,  so  there  is  scarcely 
any  circumstance  of  private  conduct,  w’hich  has 
been  overlooked.  The  dangers  of  self-confidence; 
the  contempt  of  virtuous  counsels ;  the  perils  of 
favouritism  ;  the  unworthiness  of  ignoble  pur¬ 
suits  ;  the  mischiefs  of  disproportionate  con¬ 
nexions  j  the  duty  of  inviolable  fidelity  to  en¬ 
gagements,  of  moderation  under  the  most  pros¬ 
perous,  and  of  firmness  under  the  most  adverse 
circumstances ;  of  patience  and  forbearance,  of 
kindness  and  gratitude ;  all  these  are  not  so 
much  animadverted  on,  as  exemplified  in  the 
most  impressive  instances. 

Children  love  fiction.  It  is  often  a  misleading 
taste.  Of  this  taste  Fenelon  has  availed  him¬ 
self,  to  convey,  under  the  elegant  shelter  of  the 
Greek  mythology,  sentiments  and  opinions 
which  might  not  otherwise  so  readily  have  made 
their  way  to  the  heart.  The  strict  maxims  of 
government,  and  high  standard  of  public  virtue, 
exhibited  in  Telemachus,  excited  in  the  jealous 
mind  of  the  reigning  king  of  France,  a  dread 
that  if  those  notions  should  become  popular, 
that  work  would  hereafter  be  considered  as  a 
satire  on  his  own  conduct  and  government,  on 
his  fondness  for  grandeur,  for  pleasure,  for  glory, 
and  for  war :  so  that  it  has  been  supposed  pro¬ 
bable,  that  Fenelon’s  theological  works,  for 
which  he  was  disgraced,  were  only  made  the 
pretext  for  punishing  him  for  his  political  writ 
ings. 

The  Cyropffldia  of  Xenophon  it  may  be 
thought  out  of  date  to  recommend ;  but  genius 
and  virtue  are  never  antiquated.  This  work 
may  be  read  with  advantage,  not  as  an  entirely 
authentic  history,  which  is  a  more  than  doubt¬ 
ful  point,  but  as  a  valuable  moral  work,  exhi¬ 
biting  a  lively  image  of  royal  virtue  and  show¬ 
ing,  in  almost  all  respects,  what  a  sovereign 
onglit  to  be. — The  princes  of  Xenophon  and  of 
Fenelon  are  models.  The  ‘  Prince’  of  Machi- 
ave!  is  a  being  elaborately  trained  in  every  art 
of  political  and  moral  corruption.  The  lives 
of  the  pupils  are  the  best  comments  on  the 
works  of  the  respective  authors.  Fenelon  pro¬ 
duced  ‘Telomaque’  and  the  duke  of  Bur¬ 
gundy. — Machiavel,  ‘  II  Principe’  and  Ccesar 
Borgia ! 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


79 


CHAP.  XXIX. 

Of  periodical  essay  writers,  particularly  Addi¬ 
son  and  Johnson, 

To  hardly  any  species  of  composition  has  the 
British  public  been  more  signally  indebted  than 
to  the  periodical  Essay ;  and,  perhaps,  it  was 
only  from  the  British  press,  that  such  a  publi¬ 
cation  could  have  fssued.  ^he  attempt  to  ex¬ 
cite  mental  appetite,  by  fhrnishing,  from  day 
to  day,  intellectual  aliment  of  such  peculiar 
freshness,'must  have  been  fatally  obstructed  by 
any  jealousy  of  superiniendance,  or  formality 
of  licensing.  The  abuse  of  the  press  is  to  be 
deplored  as  a  calamity,  and  punished  as  a  crime. 
But  let  neither  prince  nor  people  forget  the  pro¬ 
vidential  blessings  which  have  been  derived  to 
both  from  its  constitutional  liberty.  As  this 
was  one  of  the  invaluable  effects  of  the  revolu¬ 
tion  in  1 688,  so  perhaps  no  other  means  more 
contributed  to  carry  the  blessings  of  that  period 
to  their  consummate  establishment,  in  the  ac¬ 
cession  of  the  house  of  Brunswick. 

The  two  writers  who  have  most'  eminently 
distinguished  themselves  in  this  path  of  litera¬ 
ture,  are  Addison  and  Johnson.  At  a  period 
when  religion  was  hpld  in  more  than  usual  con¬ 
tempt,  from  its  having  been  recently  abused  to 
the  worst  purposes  ;  and  when  the  higher  walks 
of  life  still  exhibited  that  dissoluteness  which 
the  profligate  reign  of  the  second  Charles  had 
made  so  deplorably  fashionable,  Addison  seems 
to  have  been  raised  by  Providence  for  the  double 
purpose  of  improving  the  public  taste,  and  cor¬ 
recting  the  public  morals.  As  the  powers  of 
the  imagination  had,  in  the  preceding  period, 
been  peculiarly  abused  to  the  purposes  of  vice, 
it  was  Addison’s  great  object  to  show  that  wit 
and  impurity  had  no  necessary  connexion.  He 
not  only  evinced  this  by  his  reasonings,  but  he 
so  exemplified  it  in  his  own  compositions,  as  to 
become  in  a  short  time  more  generally  useful, 
by  becoming  more  popular  than  any  English 
writer  who  had  yet  appeared.  This  well-earned 
celebrity  he  endeavoured  to  turn  to  the  best  of 
all  purposes ;  and  his  success  was  such  as  to 
prove,  that  genius  is  never  so  advantageously 
employed  as  in  the  service  of  virtue,  nor  in¬ 
fluence  so  well  directed  as  in  rendering  piety 
fashionable.  At  this  distance,  when  almost 
all  authors  have  written  the  better,  because  Ad¬ 
dison  wrote  first,  and  when  the  public  taste 
which  he  refined  has  become  competent  through 
that  refinement,  to  criticise  its  benefactor,  it  is 
not  easy  fully  to  appreciate  the  value  of  Addi¬ 
son.  To  do  this,  we  must  attend  to  the  pro¬ 
gress  of  English  literature,  and  make  a  com¬ 
parison  between  him  and  his  predecessors. 

But  noble  as  the  views  of  Addison  were,  and 
happily  as  he  has,  in  general,  accomplished 
what  he  intended  ;  the  praise  which  justly  be¬ 
longs  to  him  must  be  qualified  by  the  avowal, 
that  it  does  not  extend  to  every  passage  he  has 
written.  From  the  pernicious  influence  of 
those  very  manners  which  it  was  his  object  to 
correct,  some  degree  of  taint  has  occasionally 
affected  his  own  pages,  which  will  make  it 
necessary  to  guard  the  royal  pupil  from  a  wholly 


promiscuous  perusal.  It  is  however,  but  justice 
to  add,  that  the  few  instances  referred  to,  how¬ 
ever  exceptionable,  are  of  sueh  a  kind  as  to  ex¬ 
pose  him  to  the  charge  rather  of  inadvertence, 
or  momentary  levity,  than  of  any  unfixedness 
of  principle,  much  less  of  any  depravity  of  heart. 

Of  all  the  periodical  works,  those  of  Johnson, 
in  point  of  strict  and  undeviating  moral  purity, 
unquestionably  stand  highest.  Every  page  is 
invariably  delicate.  It  is,  therefore,  the  rare 
praise  of  this  author,  that  the  most  vigilant  pre¬ 
ceptor  may  commit  his  voluminous  works  into 
the  hands  of  even  his  female  pupil,  without 
caution,  limitation,  or  reserve  :  secure  that  she 
cannot  stumble  on  a  pernicious  sentiment,  or 
rise  from  the  perusal  with  the  slightest  taint  of 
immorality.  Even  in  his  dictionary,  moral  rec¬ 
titude  has  not  only  been  scrupulously  main¬ 
tained,  but,  as  far  as  Jhe  nature  of  the  work 
would  admit,  it  has  been  assiduously  inculcated. 
In  the  authorities  which  he  had  adduced,  he  has 
collected,  with  a  discrimination  which  can 
never  be  enough  admired,  a  countless  multitude 
of  the  most  noble  sentences  which  English  lite¬ 
rature  afforded';  yet  he  has  frequently  content¬ 
ed  himself  with  instances  borrowed  from  in¬ 
ferior  writers,  when  he  found  some  passage, 
which  at  once  served  his  purpose,  and  that  of 
religion  and  morality ;  and  also,  as  he  declared 
himself,  lest  he  should  risk  contaminating  the 
mind  of  the  student,  by  referring  him  to  authors 
of  more  celebrity,  but  less  purity.  When  we 
reflect  how  fatally  the  unsuspected  title  of 
Dictionary  has  been  made  the  vehicle  for  pol¬ 
luting  principle,  we  shall  feel  the  value  of  this 
extreme  conscientiousness  of  Johnson. 

Still,  however,  while  we  ascribe  to  this  ex¬ 
cellent  author  all  that  is  safe,  and  all  that  is 
just,  it  is  less  from  Johnson  than  from  Addison, 
that  we  derive  the  interesting  lessons  of  life 
and  manners  ;  that  we  learn  to  trace  the  exact 
.delineations  of  character,  and  to  catch  the  vivid 
hues,  and  varied  tints  of  nature.  It  is  true, 
that  every  sentence  of  the  more  recent  moralist 
is  an  aphorism,  every  paragraph  a  chain  of 
maxims  for  guiding  the  understanding  and 
guarding  the  heart.  But  when  Johnson  de¬ 
scribes  characters,  he  rather  exhibits  vice  and 
virtue  in  the  abstract,  the  real  existing  human, 
being  :  while  Addison  presents  you  with  actual 
men  and  women ;  real  life  figures,  compounded 
of  the  faults  and  the  excellencies,  the  wisdom 
and  the  weaknesses,  the  follies  and  the  virtues 
of  humanity. — By  the  Avarus,  the  Ebulus,  the 
Miscllus,  the  Sophron,  the  Zosima,  and  the 
Viator  of  Johnson,  we  are  instructed  in  the 
soundest  truths,  but  we  are  not  struek  by  any 
vivid  exemplification.  We  merely  hear  thein, 
and  we  hear  them  with  profit,  but  we  do  not 
know  them.  Whereas  with  the  members  of  the 
Spectator’s  club  we  are  acquainted.  Johnson’s 
personages  are  elaborately  carved  figures  that 
fill  the  niches  of  the  saloon  ;  Addison’s  are  the 
iving  company  which  animate  it:  Johnson’s 
have  more  drapery ;  Addison’s  more  counte¬ 
nance,  Johnson’s  gentlemen  and  ladies,  scholars 
and  chambermaids,  philosophers  and  coquets, 
all  argue  syllogisticallyt  all  converse  in  tho 
same  academic  language ;  divide  all  their  sen¬ 
tences  into  the  same  triple  members,  turn  every 


80 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


phrase  with  the  same  measured  solemnity,  and 
round  every  period  with  the  same  polished 
smoothness.  Addison’s  talk  learnedly  or  light¬ 
ly,  think  deeply,  or  prate  flippantly,  in  exact 
accordance  with  their  character,  station,  and 
habits  of  life. 

What  reader,  when  he  meets  with  the  descrip¬ 
tion  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  or  Will  Wimble, 
or  of  the  Tory  fox-hunter  in  the  Freeholder 
does  not  frame  in  his  own  mind  a  living  image 
in  each,  to  which  ever  after  he  naturally  recurs, 
and  on  which  his  recollection,  if  we  may  so 
speak,  rather  than  his  imagination,  fastens,  as 
on  an  old  intimate  ?  The  lapse  of  a  century, 
indeed,  has  induced  a  considerable  change  in 
inodes  of  expression  and  forms  of  behaviour. 
But  though  manners  are  mutable,  human  na¬ 
ture  is  permanent.  And  it  can  no  more  be 
brought  as  a  charge  against  the  truth  of  Ad¬ 
dison’s  characters  that  the  manners  are  changed, 
than  it  can  be  produced  against  the  portraits  of 
sir  Peter  Lely  and  Vandyck,  that  the  fashions 
of  dress  are  altered.  The  human  character,  like 
the  human  figure,  is  the  same  in  all  ages ;  it  is 
only  the  exterior  and  the  costume  which  vary. 
Grace  of  attitude,  exquisite  proportion,  and 
striking  resemblance,  do  not  diminish  of  their 
first  charm,  because  ruffs,  perukes,  satin  dou¬ 
blets,  and  slashed  sleeves  are  passed  away. 
Addison’s  characters  may  be  likened  to  that 
expressive  style  of  drawing,  which  gives  the 
exact  contour  by  a  few  careless  strokes  of  the 
pencil.  They  are  rendered  amusing,  by  being 
in  some  slight  degree  carricature^ ;  yet,  all  is 
accurate  resemblance,  nothing  is  wanton  ag¬ 
gravation.  They  have,  in  short,  that  undis- 
cribable  grace  which  will  always  captivate  the 
reader  in  proportion  tb  the  delicacy  of  his  own 
perceptions. 

Among  the  benefits  which  have  resulted  from 
the  writings  of  Addison,  the  attention  first 
drawn  to  Paradise  Lost  by  his  criticisms  was 
not  one  of  the  least.  His  examination  of  that 
immortal  work,  the  boast  of  our  island,  and  of 
human  nature,  had  the  merit  of  subduing  the 
violence  of  party-prejudice,  and  of  raising  its 
great  author  to  an  eminence  in  the  minds  of 
his  countrymen,  corresponding  to  that  which 
he  actually  held,  and  will  hold,  on  the  scale  of 
genius,  till  time  shall  be  no  more.* 

If  the  critical  writings  of  Addison  do  not 
possess  the  acuteness  of  Dryden,  or  the  vigour 
of  Johnson,  they  are  familiar  and  elegant,  and 

*  Milton  lias  dropt  his  mantle  on  a  poet,  inferior  in¬ 
deed  to  himself,  in  the  loftiness  of  his  conceptions,  the 
variety  of  his  learning,  and  the  structure  of  his  verse  ; 
hut  the  felicity  of  whose  genius  is  only  surprassed  by  the 
elevation  of  his  piety :  whose  devout  effusions  are  more 
penetrating,  and  almost  equally  sublime;  and  who,  in 
his  moral  and  pathetic  strokes,  familiar  illusions,  and 
touching  incidents,  comes  more  home  to  the  bosom  than 
even  his  immortal  master.  When  we  observe  of  this 
fine  spirit  that  he  felt  the  beauties  of  nature  with  a 
lover’s  heart,  beheld  them  with  a  poet’s  eye,  ami  deli¬ 
neated  them  with  a  painter’s  liaml;— that  the  minute 
accuracy  of  his  lesser  figures,  and  the  exquisite  finish¬ 
ing  of  his  rural  groups,  delight  the  fancy,  as  much  as  the 
sublimity  of  his  nobler  images  exalt  the  mind  that  in 
spite  of  faults  and  negligencios,  and  a  few  instances  of 
ungraceful  asperity,  he  gratifies  the  judgment  as  much 
as  he  enchants  the  imagination;  that  he  directs  the 
feelings  to  virtue,  and  the  lieart  to  heaven.  Need  we 
designate  the  sketch  by  affixing  to  it  the  name  of  Cow- 
per. 


serve  to  prepare  the  mind  for  more  elaborate 
investigation.  If  it  be  objected,  that  he  deals 
too  much  in  gratuitous  praise  and  vague  admi¬ 
ration,  it  may  be  answered,  that  the  effect  pro¬ 
duced  by  poetry  on  the  mind  cannot  always 
be  philosophically  accounted  for  ;  and  Addison 
was  too  fair,  and,  in  this  instance,  too  cordial 
a  critic  to  withhold  expressions  of  delight, 
merely  because  he  could  not  analyse  the  causes 
which  produced  it. — At  any  rate,  it  must  be 
allowed,  that  he  who  wrote  those  exquisite  Es¬ 
says  on  the  Pleasures  of  the  Imagination,  could 
not  be  superficial  through  penury.  It  is  allow¬ 
ed,  that  the  criticisms  of  Johnson  arc,  in  gene¬ 
ral,  much  more  systematic ;  they  possess  more 
depth,  as  well  as  more  discrimination  ;  but  they 
are  less  pleasing,  because  they  are  not  equally 
good  natured.  They  are  more  tinctured  with 
party  spirit,  and  breathe  less  generous  and  vo¬ 
luntary  admiration.  But  no  critic  has  been 
more  successful  in  laying  open  the  internal 
structure  of  the  poet ; — though  he  now  and  then 
handles  the  knife  so  roughly  as  to  disfigure 
what  he  means  to  dissect.  His  learning  was  evi¬ 
dently  much  deeper,  as  well  as  better  digested, 
than  that  of  Addison,  and  the  energy  of  his  un 
derstanding  was  almost  unrivalled.  He  there¬ 
fore,  discovers  a  rare  ability  in  appreciating, 
with  the  soundest  and  most  sagacious  scrutiny, 
the  poetry  of  reason  and  good  sense ;  in  the 
composition  of  which  he  also  excels. — But  to 
the  less  bounded  excursions  of  high  imagina¬ 
tion,  to  the  bolder  achievements  of  pure  inven¬ 
tion  he  is  less  just,  because  less  sensible.  He 
appears  little  alive  to  that  species  of  writing, 
whose  felicities  consist  in  ease  and  grace,  to  the 
floating  forms  of  ideal  beauty,  to  the  sublimer 
flights  of  the  lyric  muse,  or  to  finer  touches  of 
dramatic  excellence.  He  would  consequently 
be  cold  in  his  approbation,  not  to  say  perverse  in 
his  discussion  of  some  of  these  species  of  beauty, 
of  which,  in  fact,  his  feelings  were  less  suscep¬ 
tible. 

He  had,  however,  that  higher  perfection 
which  has  been  too  rarely  associated  with  those 
faculties,  the  most  discerning  taste  and  the 
liveliest  relish,  for  the  truest  as  well  as  the 
noblest  species  of  the  sublime  and  beautiful.  I 
mean  that  which  belongs  to  moral  excellence. 
Where  this  was  obvious,  it  not  only  conquered 
his  aversion,  but  attracted  his  warm  affection. 
It  was  this  which  made  him  the  ardent  eulogist 
of  Watts,  in  spite  of  his  non-conformity,  and  even 
the  advocate  of  Blackmore,  whom  it  must  have 
been  natural  for  him  to  despise  as  a  bad  poet, 
and  to  hate  as  a  whig.  It  is  this  best  of  tastes 
which  he  also  most  displays  in  that  beautiful 
eulogium  of  Addison,  to  which  in  the  present 
comparison,  it  would  be  injustice  to  both,  not  to 
refer  the  reader. 

His  Tour  to  the  Hebrides  exhibits  a  delight¬ 
ful  specimen  of  an  intellectual  traveller,  who  ex¬ 
tracts  beauty  from  barrenness,  and  builds  up  a 
solid  mass  of  instruction  with  the  most  slender 
materials.  He  leaves  to  the  writer  of  natural 
history,  whose  proper  province  it  is,  to  run  over 
the  world  in  quest  of  mosses  and  grasses,  of  mi¬ 
nerals  and  fossils.  Nor  does  he  swell  his  book 
with  catalogues  of  pictures  which  have  neither 
novelty  nor  relevancy  ;  nor  does  he  copy,  from 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


SI 


preceding  authors,  the  ancient  history  of  a  coun¬ 
try  of  which  we  only  want  to  know  the  existing 
state ;  nor  does  he  convert  the  grand  scenes 
which  display  the  wonder  of  the  Creator’s  power 
into  doubts  of  his  existence,  or  disbelief  of  his 
government:  but  fulfilling  the  office  of  an  in- 
,  'quisitive  and  moral  traveller,  he  presents  a  live¬ 
ly  and  interesting  view  of  men  and  things ;  of 
the  country  which  he  visited,  and  of  the  persons 
with  whom  he  conversed.  And  though  his  in¬ 
veterate  Scottish  prejudices  now  and  then  break 
out,  his  spleen  seems  rather  to  have  been  exer¬ 
cised  against  trees  than  men.  Towards  the  lat¬ 
ter,  his  seeming  illiberality  has  in  reality  more 
of  merriment  than  malice.  In  his  heart  he  re¬ 
spected  that  brave  and  learned  nation. —  When 
he  is  unfair,  his  unfairness  is  often  mitigated 
hy  some  stroke  of  humour,  perhaps  of  good  hu¬ 
mour,  which  effaces  the  impression  of  his  se¬ 
verity.  Whatever  faults  may  be  found  in  the 
Tour  to  the  Hebrides,  it  is  no  small  thing,  at 
this  period,  to  possess  a  book  of  travels  entirely 
pure  from  the  lightest  touch  of  vanity  or  impu¬ 
rity,  of  levity  or  impiety. 

His  Rasselas  is  a  work  peculiarly  adapted  to 
the  royal  pupil;  and  though  it  paints  human 
life  in  too  dark  shades,  and  dwells  despondingly 
on  the  unattainablencss  of  human  happiness, 
these  defects  will  afford  excellent  occasions  for 
the  sagacious  preceptor  to  unfold,  through  what 
pursuits  life  may  be  made  happy  by  being  made 
useful ;  by  what  superinduced  strength  the  bur¬ 
thens  of  this  mortal  state  may  be  cheerfully 
borne,  and  by  what  a  glorious  perspective  its 
termination  may  be  brightened. 

The  praise  which  has  been  given  to  Addison 
as  an  essayist  can  rarely  be  extended  to  maqy 
of  his  coadjutors.  Talent  more  or  less  we  every 
where  meet  with,  and  very  ingenious  sketches 
of  character  ;  but  moral  delicacy  is  so  often,  and 
sometimes  so  shamefully  violated,  that  (whatever 
may  havp  been  the  practice,)  the  Spectator  ought 
to  be  accounted  an  unfit  book  for  the  indiscrimi¬ 
nate  perusal  of  youth.* 

However  the  collection  of  periodical  papers, 
entitled  The  Freeholder,  may  be  passed  over  by 
common  readers,  it  would  be  unpardonable  not 
to  direct  to  them  the  attention  of  a  royal  pupil. 
The  object  at  which  they  aim,  the  strengthening 
of  the  Hanoverian  cause  against  the  combined 
efforts  of  the  house  of  Stuart  and  the  French 
court,  makes  them  interesting ;  and  they  exhi¬ 
bit  an  exquisite  specimen  of  political  zeal  with¬ 
out  political  acrimony.  They  abound  in  strokes 
of  wit;  and  the  Tory  Fox  hunter  is  perhaps 
next  to  the  Rural  Knight  in  the  Spectator,  one 
of  the  most  entertaining  descriptions  of  charac¬ 
ter  in  our  language.  Of  these,  as  well  as  of  his 
other  essays,  it  may  be  said,  that  in  them  the 
follies,  the  affectations,  and  the  absurdities  of 
life  are  pourtrayed  with  the  lightest  touches  of 
the  most  delicate  pencil ;  that  never  was  ridi¬ 
cule  more  nicely  pointed,  nor  satire  more  play¬ 
fully  inoffensive. 

In  the  Guardian  there  is  hardly  any  thing 
that  is  seriously  exceptionable ;  and  this  work 
is  enriched  with  some  essays  that  are  not  to  be 
.placed  beneath  even  those  of  Addison.  It  will 

•  Happily  all  Addison’s  papers  have  been  selected  by 
Ticfcell,  in  his  edition  of  Addison’s  works. 

VoL.  II.  F 


be  obvious,  that  we  allude  to  the  papers  ascribed 
to  bishop  Berkeley.  These  essays  bear  the 
marks  of  a  mind  at  once  vigorous  and  correct, 
deep  in  reflection,  and  opulent  in  imagery. 
They  are  chiefly  directed  against  the  free-think¬ 
ers,  a  name  by  which  the  infidels  of  that  age 
chose  to  call  themselves.  And  never,  perhaps, 
has  that  wretched  character  been  more  admira¬ 
bly  illustrated  than  in  the  simile  of  the  fly  on 
St.  Paul’s  cathedral. 

Another  difference  between  Addison  and  John¬ 
son  is,  that  the  periodical  writings  of  the  former 
are  those  in  which  the  powers  of  his  mind  ap¬ 
pear  to  most  advantage.  Not  so  in  the  case  of 
Johnson.  Solidly  valuable  as  the  Rambler  must 
be  accounted  in  the  point  of  celebrity,  it  proba¬ 
bly  owes  much  more  to  its  author  than  it  has 
conferred  on  him.  A  forbidding  stateliness,  a 
rigid  and  yet  inflated  style,  an  almost  total  ab¬ 
sence  of  ease  and  cheerfulness,  would  too  proba¬ 
bly  bring  neglect  on  the  great  and  various  ex¬ 
cellencies  of  these  volumes,  if  they  had  been  the 
single  work  of  their  author.  But  his  other 
writings,  and,  above  all,  that  inexhaustible  fund 
of  pleasure  and  profit,  the  Lives  of  the  Poets, 
will  secure  perpetuated  attention  to  every  work 
which  bears  the  name  of  Johnson.  On  the 
ground  of  distinct  attractiveness,  the  Idler  is  the 
most  engaging  of  Johnson’s  perodical  works: 
the  manner  being  less  severe,  and  the  matter 
more  amusing. 

The  Adventurer,  perhaps,  on  account  of  its 
interesting  tales,  and  affecting  narratives,  is,  of 
all  others  of  its  class,  the  most  strictly  suitable 
to  youth.  It  also  contains  much  general  Iftiow- 
ledge,  elegant  criticism,  and  various  kinds  of 
pleasing  information.  In  almost  all  these  works, 
the  Eastern  Tales,  Allegories,  and  Visions,  are 
interesting  in  the  narrative,  elevated  in  the  sen¬ 
timent  ;  pure  in  the  descriptions,  and  sublime 
in  the  moral ;  they  convej’  lessons  peculiarly 
appropriated  to  the  great,  most  of  the  fictitious 
personages  who  are  made  the  vehicles  of  inat.ruc- 
tion,  being  either  princes  or  statesmen. 

If  we  advert  to  religion,  the  praise  of  Addison 
in  this  infinitely  important  instance  must  not  be 
omitted.  Johnson  never  Uses  sight  of  religion  ; 
but  on  very  few  occasions  does  he  particularly 
dwell  upon  it.  In  one  or  two  passages*  only 
has  he  given  vent  to  his  religious  feelings  ;  and 
his  sentiments  are  so  soundly,  indeed  so  sub¬ 
limely  excellent,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  re¬ 
gret  the  scantiness  with  which  he  has  afforded 
them.  But  Addison  seems  to  delight  in  the  sub¬ 
ject,  and,  what  is  remarkable,  his  devout  feel- 
ings  seem  to  have  much  transcended  his  theolo¬ 
gical  accuracy.  To  the  latter,  exception  might 
justly  be  taken  in  one  or  two  instances  ;t  to  the 
former,  never.  If  it  were  to  be  asked,  where 
are  the  elevating,  ennobling,  felicitating  effects 
of  religion  on  the  human  mind  as  safely  staled, 
and  as  happily  expressed,  as  in  any  English  au¬ 
thor  ?  perhaps  a  juster  answer  could  scarcely 
be  given  than — in  the  devotional  papers  of  Ad¬ 
dison. 

•  \umber  VII.  in  tlie  Rambler;  paper  on  affliction 
in  the  Idler;  and  the  noble  passage  in  the  account  of 
Iona. 

1  See  particularly  that  very  exceptionable  paper  in  the 
Spectator,  No.  459. — Also  another  on  Superstition  and 
Enthusiasm. 


82 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


CHAP.  XXX. 

Books  of  Amusement. 

As  the  royal  person  will  hereafter  require 
books  of  amusement,  as  well  as  instruction,  it 
will  be  a  task  of  no  small  delicacy  to  select  such 
as  may  be  perused  with  as  much  profit,  and  as 
little  injury,  as  is  to  be  expected  from  works  of 
mere  entertainment.  Perhaps  there  are  few 
books  which  possess  the  power  of  delighting  the 
fancy,  without  conveying  any  dangerous  lesson 
to  the  heart,  equally  with  Don  Quixote. 

It  does  not  belong  to  our  subject  to  animad¬ 
vert  on  its  leading  excellence  ;  that  incompara¬ 
ble  delicacy  of  satire,  those  unrivalled  powers 
of  ridicule,  which  had  sufficient  force  to  reelaim 
the  corrupted  taste,  and  sober  the  distempered 
imagination  of  a  whole  people.  This,  which  on 
its  first  appearance  was  justly  considered  as  its 
predominant  merit,  is  now  become  less  interest¬ 
ing  ;  because  the  evil  which  it  assailed  no  longer 
existing,  the  medicine  which  cured  the  mad  is 
grown  less  valuable  to  the  same  ;  yet  Don  Quix¬ 
ote  will  be  entitled  to  admiration  on  imperisha¬ 
ble  grounds. 

Though  Cervantes  wrote  between  two  and 
three  hundred  years  ago,  and  for  a  people  of  a 
national  turn  of  thinking  dissimilar  to  ours  ;  yet 
that  right  good  sense,  which  is  of  all  ages,  and 
all  countries,  and  which  pervades  this  work 
more  almost  than  even  its  exquisite  wit  and  hu¬ 
mour  ;  those  masterly  portraits  of  character ; 
thosCj, sound  maxims  of  conduct;  those  lively 
touches  of  nature  ;  those  admirably  serious  les¬ 
sons,  though  given  on  ridiculous  occasions ; 
those  penetrating  strokes  of  feeling  ;  those  so¬ 
lemnly  sententious  phrases,  tinctured  with  the 
characteristic  absurdity  of  the  speaker,  without 
any  injury  to  the  truth  of  the  sentiment ;  that 
.nixture  of  the  wise  and  the  ludicrous,  of  action 
always  pitiably  extravagant,  and  of  judgment 
often  exemplarily  sober.  In  all  these  excellences 
Don  Quixote  is  without  a  parallel. 

How  admirable  (to  produce  only  one  instance 
out  of  a  thousand)  is  that  touch  of  human  na¬ 
ture,  where  the  knight  of  La  Mancha  having 
bestowed  the  most  excessive  and  high-flown 
compliments  on  a  gentleman  whom  he  encouii- 
tered  when  the  delirium  of  chivalry  raged  most 
strongly  in  his  imagination  ! — The  gentleman, 
who  is  represented  as  a  person  of  admirable 
sense,  is  led  by  the  effect  which  these  compli¬ 
ments  produced  on  his  own  mind,  to  aeknow- 
ledge  the  weakness  of  the  heart  of  man,  in  the 
foolish  pleasure  it  derives  from  flattery.  ‘  So 
bewitching  is  praise,’  says  he,  ‘  that  even  I  have 
the  weakness  to  be  pleased  with  it,  though  at 
the  same  time,  I  know  the  flatterer  to  be  a  mad¬ 
man.’ 

Wit,  it  has  been  said,  is  gay,  but  humour  is 
grave.  It  is  a  striking  illustration  of  this  opi¬ 
nion,  that  the  most  serious  and  solemn  nation 
in  the  world  has  produced  the  work  of  the  most 
genuine  humour.  Nor  is  it  easy  to  express  how 
admirably  the  pomp  and  stateliness  of  the  Spa¬ 
nish  language  are  suited  tc  the  genius  of  this 
work.  It  is  not  unfavourable  to  the  true  heroic, 
but  much  more  especially  it  is  adapted  to  the 
mock  dignity  of  the  sorrowful  knight.  It  is  ac¬ 


commodated  to  the  elevation  of  the  fantastic  he¬ 
ro’s  tiptoe  march,  when  he  is  sober,  and  still 
more  to  his  stilts,  when  he  is  raving. 

The  two  very  ingenious  French  and  English 
novelists,  who  followed  Cervantes,  though  with 
unequal  steps  even  as  to  talent,  are  still  farther 
below  their  great  master  both  in  mental  and 
moral  delicacy.  Though  the  scenes,  descrip¬ 
tions,  and  expressions  of  Le  Sage,  are  far  less 
culpable,  in  point  of  decency,  than  those  of  his 
English  competitor;  yet  both  concur  in  the  same 
inexpiable  fault,  each  labouring  to  excite  an  in¬ 
terest  for  a  vicious  character,  each  making  the 
hero  of  his  tale  an  unprincipled  profligate. 

If  novels  are  read  at  all  in  early  youth,  a  prac¬ 
tice  which  we  should  think,  ‘  more  honoured  in 
the  breach  than  the  observance,’  we  should  be 
tempted  to  give  the  preference  to  those  works 
of  pure  and  genuine  fancy,  which  exercise  and 
fill  the  imagination,  in  preference  to  those  which, 
by  exhibiting  passion  and  intrigue  in  bewitch¬ 
ing  colours,  lay  hold  too  intensely  on  the  feel¬ 
ings.  We  should  even  venture  to  pronounce 
those  stories  to  be  most  safe,  which,  by  least  as- 
similating  with  our  own  habits  and  manners, 
are  less  likejy  to  infect  and  soften  the  heart,  by 
those  amatory  pictures,  descriptions,  and  situa¬ 
tions,  which  loo  much  abound,  even  in  some  of 
the  chastest  compositions  of  this  nature.  The 
young  female  is  pleasantly  interested  for  the  fate 
of  Oriental  queens,  for  Zobeidc,  or  the  heroine 
of  Alamoran  and  Hamet ;  but  she  does  not  put 
herself  in  their  place ;  she  is  not  absorbed  in 
their  pains  or  their  pleasures  ;  she  does  not  iden¬ 
tify  her  feelings  with  theirs,  as  she  too  probably 
does  in  the  ease  of  Sophia  Western  and  the  prin¬ 
cess  of  Cleves. — Books  of  the  former  description 
innocently  invigorate  the  fancy,  those  of  the 
latter  convey  a  contagious  sickliness  to  the  mind. 
The  one  raises  harmless  wonder  or  inoffensive 
merriment :  the  other  awaken  ideas,  at  best  un¬ 
profitable.  From  the  flights  of  the  one,  we  are 
willing  to  descend  to  the  rationality  of  common 
life ;  from  the  seduction  of  the  other,  we  are  dis¬ 
gusted  at  returning  to  its  insipidity. 

There  is  always  some  useful  instruction  in 
those  great  original  works  of  invention,  whether 
poetry  or  romance,  which  transmit  a  faithful 
living  picture  of  the  manners  of  age  and  country 
in  which  the  scene  is  laid.  It  is  this  which,  in¬ 
dependently  of  its  other  merits,  diffuses  that  in¬ 
expressible  charm  over  the  Odyssey  :  a  species 
of  enchantment  which  is  not  afforded  by  any 
other  poem  in  the  world.  This,  in  a  less  degree, 
is  also  one  of  the  striking  merits  of  Don  Quixote. 
And  this  after  having  soared  so  high,  if  we  may 
descend  so  low,  is  the  principal  recommendation 
of  the  Arabian  Tales.  These  Tales  also,  though 
faulty  in  some  respects,  possess  another  merit 
which  we  should  be  glad  to  see  transferred  to 
some  of  the  novels  of  a  country  nearer  home. 
We  learn  from  these  Arabian  stories,  and  indeed 
from  most  of  the  works  of  imagination  of  the 
Mahometan  authors,  what  was  the  specific  reli¬ 
gion  of  the  people  about  whom  they  write  :  how- 
much  they  made  religion  enter  into  the  ordinary 
concerns  of  life ;  and  how  observant  persons 
professing  religion  were  of  its  peculiarities  and 
its  worship. 

It  is  but  justice  to  observe,  how  far  more  deep- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


83 


iy  mischievous  the  French  novel  writers  are, 
than  those  of  our  own  country ;  they  not  only 
seduce  the  heart  through  the  senses,  and  corrupt 
it  through  the  medium  of  the  imagination,  but 
fatally  strike  at  the  very  root  and  being  of 
all  virtue,  by  annihilating  all  belief  in  that  reli¬ 
gion,  which  is  its  only  vital  spurce  and  seminal 
principle.  ' 

Shakspeare. 

But  lessons  of  a  nobler  kind  may  be  extracted 
from  some  works  which  promise  nothing  better 
than  mere  entertainment ;  and  which  will  not, 
to  ordinary  readers,  appear  susceptible  of  any 
nigher  purpose.  In  the  hands  of  a  judicious 
preceptor,  many  of  Shakspeare’s  tragedies,  espe¬ 
cially  of  his  historical  pieces,  and  still  more  such 
as  are  rendered  peculiarly  interesting  by  local 
circumstances,  by  British  manners,  and  by  the 
introduction  of  royal  characters  who  once  filled 
the  English  throne,  will  furnish  themes  on  which 
to  ground  much  appropriate  and  instructive  con¬ 
versation. 

Those  mixed  characters  especially,  which  he 
has  drawn  with  such  a  happy  intuition  into  the 
human  mind,  in  which  some  of  the  worst  ac¬ 
tions  are  committed  by  persons  not  destitute  bf 
good  dispositions  and  amiable  qualities,  but  over¬ 
whelmed  by  the  storm  of  unresisted  passion, 
sinking  under  strong  temptation,  or  yielding  to 
powerful  flattery,  are  far  more  instructive  in  the 
perusal  than  the  ‘  faultless  monsters,’  or  the  he¬ 
roes  of  unmixed  perfection  of  less  skilful  dra¬ 
matists. — The  agitations,  for  instance  of  the 
timorous  Thane,  a  man  not  destitute  of  generous 
sentiments ;  but  of  a  high  and  aspiring  mind, 
stimulated  by  vain  credulity,  tempting  opportu¬ 
nity,  and  an  ambitious  wife. — Goaded  by  the 
woman  he  loved  to  the  crime  he  hated, — grasp¬ 
ing  at  the  crown,  but  abhorring  the  sin  which 
was  to  procure  it ; — the  agonies  of  guilt  com¬ 
bating  with  the  sense  of  honour— .-agonies  not 
merely  excited  by  the  vulgar  dread  of  detection 
and  of  punishment  which  would  have  engrossed 
an  ordinary  mind,  but  sharpened  by  unappeasa¬ 
ble  remorse :  which  remorse,  however,  proves 
no  hindrance  to  the  commission  of  fresh  crimes, 
— crimes  which  succeed  each  other  as  nume¬ 
rously,  and  as  rapidly,  as  the  visionary  progeny 
of  Banquo. — At  first. 

What  he  would  highly,  he  would  holily : 

But  a  familiarity  with  horrors  soon  cured  this 
delicacy  ;  and  in  his  subsequent  and  multiplied 
murders,  necessity  became  apology.  The  whole 
presents  an  awful  lesson  on  the  terrible  conse¬ 
quences  of  listening  to  the  first  slight  sugges¬ 
tion  of  sin,  and  strikingly  exemplifies  that  from 
harbouring  criminal  thoughts,  to  the  forming 
black  designs,  and  perpetrating  the  most  atro¬ 
cious  deeds,  the  mind  is  led  by  a  natural  pro¬ 
gress,  and  an  unresisted  rapidity. 

The  conflicting  passions  of  the  capricious 
Lear  !  tender  and  affectionate  in  the  extreme, 
but  whose  irregular  affections  were  neither  con- 
trouled  by  nature,  reason,  or  justice  ;  a  charac- 
icr  weak  and  vehement,  fond  and  cruel ;  whose 
kindness  was  determined  by  no  principle,  whose 
mind  was  governed  by  no  fixed  sense  of  right, 


but  vibrating  with  the  accident  of  the  momcn^ 
and  the  caprice  of  the  predominant  humour 
sacrificing  the  virtuous  child,  whose  sincerity 
should  have  secured  his  affection,  to  the  prepos¬ 
terous  flattery  of  her  unnatural  sisters — These 
highly  wrought  scenes  do  not  merely  excite  in 
the  reader  a  barren  sympathy  for  the  pangs  of 
self-reproach,  of  destitute  age,  and  suffering 
royalty,  but  inculcate  a  salutary  abhorrence  of 
adulation  and  falsehood;  a  useful  caution  against 
partial  and  unjust  judgment ;  a  sound  admoni¬ 
tion  against  paternal  injustice  and  filial  ingra¬ 
titude. 

The  beautiful  and  touching  reflection  of 
Henry  IV.  in  those  last  soul-searching  moments, 
when  the  possession  of  a  crown  became  nothing, 
and  the  unjust  ambition  by  which  he  had  ob¬ 
tained  it  every  thing — Yet,  exhibiting  a  prince 
still  so  far  retaining  to  the  last  the  cautious  po¬ 
licy  of  his  character,  as  to  mix  his  concern  for 
the  state,  and  his  affection  for  his  son,  with  the 
natural  dissimulation  of  his  own  temper ;  and 
blending  the  finest  sentiment  on  the  uncertainty 
of  human  applause  and  earthly  prosperity,  with 
a  watchful  attention  to  confine  the  knowledge 
of  the  unfair  means  by  which  he  had  obtained 
the  crown  to  the  heir  who  was  to  possess  it ; — 
the  wily  politician  predominating  to  the  last 
moment,  and  manifesting  rather  regret  than  re¬ 
pentance  : — disclosing  that  the  assumed  sanctity 
with  which  he  had  been  preparing  for  a  crusade, 
was  only  a  project  to  check  those  inquiries  into 
his  title  to  the  crown  to  which  peace  and  rest 
might  lead ;  and  exhorting  the  prince,  with  a 
foreseeing  subtlety  v^hidl  little  became  a  dyihg 
monarch,  to  keep  up  quarrels  with  foreign  pow¬ 
ers,  in  order  to  wear  out  the  memory  of  domes¬ 
tic  usurpation  ; — all  this  presents  a  striking  ex¬ 
hibition  of  a  superior  mind,  so  long  habituated 
to  the  devious  paths  of  worldly  wisdom,  and 
crooked  policy,  as  to  be  unable  to  desert  them, 
even  in  the  pangs  of  dissolution. 

The  pathetic  soliloquies  of  the  repentant  Wol- 
sey  falleti  from  the  pinnacle  of  wealth  and 
power,  to  a  salutary  degradation  !  A  disgrace 
which  restored  him  to  reason,  and  raised  him  to 
religion  ;  which  destroyed  his  fortune  but  res¬ 
cued  his  soul : — his  counsels  to  the  rising  states¬ 
man  Cromwell,  on  the  perils  of  ambition,  and 
the  precariousness  of  royal  favour ;  the  vanity 
of  all  attachment  which  has  not  religion  for  its 
basis ;  the  weakness  of  all  fidelity  which  has 
not  the  fear  of  God  for  its  principle ;  and  the 
perilous  end  of  that  favour  of  the  courtier,  which 
is  enjoyed  at  the  dear  price  of  his  ‘  integrity  to 
Heaven !’ — 

The  pernicious  power  of  flattery  on  a  female 
mind,  so  skilfully  exemplified  in  that  memorable 
scene  in  which  the  bloody  Richard  conquers  the 
aversion  of  the  princess  Anne  to  the  murderer 
of  her  husband,  and  of  all  his  royal  race !  The 
deplorable  error  of  the  feeble-minded  princess, 
in  so  far  forgetting  his  crimes  in  his  compli¬ 
ments,  as  to  consent  to  the  monstrous  union 
with  the  murderer  !  Can  there  be  a  more  strik¬ 
ing  exemplification  of  a  position  we  have  ven¬ 
tured  so  frequently  to  establish,  of  the  dangers 
to  which  vanity  is  liable,  and  of  the  miseries  to 
which  flattery  loads? 

The  reflections  of  Henry  VI.  and  of  Richard 


84 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


H.  on  the  cares  and  duties,  the  unsatisfactori¬ 
ness  and  disappointment  attending  great  situa¬ 
tions,  the  vanity  of  human  grandeur  while  en- 

i'oyed,  and  the  uncertain  tenure  by  which  it  is 
leW  !  These  fine  soliloquies  preach  powerfully 
to  the  hearts  of  all  in  high  stations,  but  most 
powerfully  to  those  in  the  highest. 

7’he  terribly  instructive  death-bed  of  cardinal 
Beaufort,  whose  silence,  like  the  veil  in  the  cele¬ 
brated  picture  of  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  by 
Timanthes,  thrown  over  the  father’s  face,  pene¬ 
trates  the  soul  more  by  what  it  conceals,  than 
could  have  been  effected  by  any  thing  that  its 
removal  might  have  discovered. 

These,  and  a  thousand  other  instances,  too 
various  to  be  enumerated,  too  obvious  to  require 
specifying,  and  too  beautiful  to  stand  in  need  of 
comment,  may,  when  properlj'  selected,  and  ju¬ 
diciously  animadverted  on,  not  only  delight  the 
imagination,  and  gratify  the  feelings,  but  carry 
instruction  to  the  heart. 

The  royal  pupil  may  discern  in  Shakspeare 
an  originality  v\diich  has  no  parallel.  He  exhi¬ 
bits  humour  the  most  genuine,  and,  what  is  far 
more  extraordinary,  propriety  of  sentiment,  and 
delicacies  of  conduct,  where,  from  his  low  op¬ 
portunities,  failure  had  been  pardonable.  A 
fidelity  to  character  so  minute,  that  it  seems  ra¬ 
ther  the  accuracy  of  individual  history,  marking 
the  incidental  deviations,  and  delineating  the 
casual  humours  of  actual  life,  than  the  invention 
of  the  poet.  Shakspeare  has  seized  every  turn 
and  flexure  of  the  ever-varying  mind  of  man  in 
alHts  fluctuating  forms;  touched  it  in  all  its 
changeful  shades;  anclmaarked  it  in  all  its  nicer 
gradations,  as  well  as  its  more  abrupt  varieties. 
He  exhibits  the  whole  internal  structure  of  man ; 
uniting  the  correctness  of  anatomy  with  the  ex¬ 
actness  of  delineation,  the  graces  of  proportion, 
and  often  the  highest  beauty  of  colouring. 

But  with  these  excellences,  the  works  of  this 
most  unequal  of  all  poets  contain  so  much  that 
is  vulgar,  so  much  that  is  absurd,  and  so  much 
that  is  impure;  so  much  indecent  levity,  false 
wit,  and  gross  description,  that  he  should  only 
be  read  in  parcels,  and  with  the  nicest  selection. 
His  more  exceptionable  pieces  should  not  be 
read  at  all ;  and  even  of  the  best  much  mav  be 
omitted.  But  the  qualified  perusal  here  suggest¬ 
ed,  may  on  account  of  his  wonderful  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  the  human  heart,  be  attended  with 
peculiar  advantages  to  readers  of  the  class  in 
question,  one  of  whose  chief  studies  should  he 
that  of  mankind,  and  who  from  the  circum¬ 
stance  of  station  and  sex,  have  few  direct  and 
safe  means  of  acquiring  a  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  an  acquaintance  with  the  various 
characters  which  compose  it. 

To  the  three  celebrated  Greek  tragedians  we 
have  already  adverted,  as  unitihg  with  the  lofti¬ 
est  powers  of  genius,  a  general  prevalence  of 
virtuous,  and  often  even  of  pious  sentiments. 
The  scenes  with  which  they  abound,  of  merito¬ 
rious,  of  suffering,  of  imprudent,  of  criminal,  of 
rash,  and  of  penitent  princes ;  of  royalty  under 
every  vicissitude  of  passion,  of  character,  and 
circumstance,  wilt  furnish  an  interesting  and 
not  unj^Vofitable  entertainment.  And  Mr.  Potter 
has  pufthe  English  reader  in  possession  of  these 
ancient  bards,  of  Eschylus  especially,  in  a 


manner  highly  honourable  to  his  own  taste  and 
learning. 

Most  of  the  tragedies  of  Racine  are  admira- 
bly  written,  and  are  unexceptionable  in  almost 
all  respects.  They  possess,  though  conveyed  in 
the  poor  vehicle  of  French  versification,*'  all  the 
dramatic  requisites,  and  to  their  author  we  can 
safely  ascribe  one  merit,  superior  even  to  that 
of  the  critical  exactness  with  which  he  has  re¬ 
gulated  the  urfities  of  his  plays  by  Aristotle’s 
clock ;  we  mean  his  constant  care  not  to  offend 
against  modesty  or  religion.  His  Athalie  exhi¬ 
bits  at  once,  a  chief  d’cEuvre  of  the  dramatic  art, 
a  proof  of  what  exquisite  poetic  beauties  the  Bible 
histories  are  susceptible  ;  a  salutary  warning  to 
princes  on  the  miseries  attendant  upon  treache¬ 
ry,  impiety,  and  ambition  ;  and  a  lively  instance 
of  not  only  the  private  value  but  the  great  po¬ 
litical  importance  of  eminently  able  and  pious 
ministers  of  religion. 

If  the  Italian  language  should  form  a  part  of 
the  royal  education,  we  might  name  Metastatio 
as  quite  inoffensive  in  a  moral  view,  though  ne¬ 
cessarily  mixing  something  of  the  flimsy  tex¬ 
ture  of  the  opera  with  the  severer  graces  of 
Melpomene. — His  muse  possesses  an  equable 
and  steady  pinion  :  if  she  seldom  soars  into  sub¬ 
limity,  she  never  sinks  to  meanness  ;  she  is  ra¬ 
ther  elegant  and  pleasing,  than  vigorous  or  lofty. 
His  sacred  dramas  are  particularly  excellent, 
and  are  scarcely  less  interesting  to  the  reader 
of  taste  than  of  piety.  They  also  exempt  from 
a  certain  monotony,  which  makes  his  other 
pieces  too  much  to  resemble  each  other. 

It  is  with  no  small  regret  that,  persuaded  as 
we  are  that  England  is  the  rich  native  soil  of 
dramatic  genius,  we  are  driven  to  the  painful 
necessity  of  recommending  exotics  in  prefer¬ 
ence  to  the  indigenous  productions  of  our  own 
fruitful  clime.  The  truth  is,  that  though  we 
possess  incur  language  admirable  single  pieces, 
yet  our  tragic  poets  have  afforded  scarce  any 
instances,  except  Milton  in  his  exquisite  Comus 
and  Samson  Agonistes,  and  Mason  in  his  chaste 
and  classic  dramas,  in  which  we  can  conscien¬ 
tiously  recommend  their  entire  unweeded  vo¬ 
lumes,  as  never  deviating  from  that  correctness 
and  purity  which  should  be  the  inseparable  at¬ 
tendant  on  the  tragic  muse.f 

We  shall,  indeed,  find  not  only  that  virtuous 
scenes,  and  even  pious  sentiments,  are  scattered 
throughout  most  of  our  popular  tragedies,  but 
that  the  general  moral  also  is  frequently  strik¬ 
ing  and  impressive.  Its  end,  however  is  often 
defeated  by  the  means  employed  to  accomplish 
it.  In  how  many,  for  instance,  of  the  favourite 
tragedies  of  Rowe  and  Otway,  which  are  most 
frequently  acted,  do  we  find  passages,  and  even 

*  It  is  a  curious rsircumstance  in  tliehistory  of  French 
dramatic  poetry.  th»t  the  measure  used  by  their  best 
poets  in  their  snblimest  tragedies  is  the  anapsstic. 
which,  in  our  language,  is  not  only  the  lightest  and  moat 
undignified  of  all  the  poetic  measures,  but  is  still  more 
degraded  by  being  chiefly  applied  to  burlesque  subjects. 
It  is  amusing  to  an  English  ear,  to  hear  the  Brutus  of 
Racine,  the  Cid  of  Corneille,  and  the  Orosmane  and 
Orestes  of  Voltaire,  declaim,  philosophize,  sigh,  and  rave 
in  the  precise  measure  of 

A  cobler  there  was,  and  he  liv’d  in  a  stall 

f  Thompson’s  tragedies  furnish  the  l>est  exception  to 
this  remark  of  any  with  which  the  author  is  acquainted 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


85 


whole  scenes  of  a  directly  contrary  tendency ; 
passages  calculated  to  awaken  those  very  pas¬ 
sions  which  it  was  the  professed  object  of  the 
author  to  counteract  ? 

First  raising  a  combustion  of  desire, 

With  some  cold  moral  they  would  quench  the  lire. 

When  we  contrast  the  purity,  and  I  had  almost 
said,  the  piety  of  the  works  of  the  tragic  poets 
of  pagan  Greece,  and  even  the  more  select  ones 
of  popish  France,  with  some  of  the  pieces  of 
the  most  shining  bards  of  protestant  Britain,  do 
they  not  all  appear  to  have  been  in  an  inverse 
ratio  with  the  advantages  which  their  authors 
enjoyed  ? 

It  may  be  objected,  that  in  speaking  of  poetic 
composition,  we  have  dwelt  so  long,  and  almost 
so  exclusively  on  the  drama.  It  would,  indeed, 
have  been  far  more  pleasant  to  range  at  large 
through  the  whole  flowery  fields  of  the  muses, 
where  we  could  have  gathered  much  that  is 
dweet,  and  much  that  is  sslutary.  But  we 
must  not  indulge  in  excursions  which  are 
merely  pleasurable.  We  have  on  all  occasions 
made  it  a  point  not  to  recommend  books  be¬ 
cause  they  are  pleasant  or  even  good,  but  be¬ 
cause  they  are  appropriate.  And  as  it  is  noto¬ 
rious 

- that  gorgeous  tragedy 

With  sceptred  palls  comes  sweeping  by 

Presenting  Thebes’  or  Pelops’  line ; 

that  she  prefers  the  splendid  scenes  of  royal 
courts  to  the  retired  courts  of  private  life  ;  that 
she  delights  to  exemplify  virtue,  to  designate 
vice,  or  dignify  calamity,  by  choosing  her  per¬ 
sonages  among  kings  and  princes,  we  therefore 
thought  it  might  not  be  altogether  unuseful,  in 
touching  on  this  topic,  to  distinguish  between 
such  authors  as  are  safe,  and  such  as  are  dan¬ 
gerous;  by  mentioning  those  of  the  one  class 
with  deserved  commendation,  and  by  generally 
passing  over  the  names  of  the  others  in  silence. 


CHAP.  XXXI. 

Bocks  of  instruction,  S^c.  Lord  Bacon,  ^c. 

In  the  ‘  prophet  of  unborn  science,’  who 
brought  into  use  a  logic  almost  entirely  new, 
and  who  rejected  the  study  of  words  for  that  of 
things,  the  royal  pupil  may  see  the  way,  rarely 
used  before  his  time,  of  arguing  by  induction  ; 
a  logic  grounded  upon  observation,  fact,  and  ex¬ 
periment.  To  estimate  the  true  value  of  Lord 
Bacon,  we  should  recollect  what  was  the  state 
of  learning  when  he  appeared  ;  wo  should  re¬ 
member  with  what  a  mighty  hand  he  overthrew 
the  despbtism  of  that  absurd  system  which  had 
kept  true  knowledge  in  shackles,  arrested  the 
progress  of  sound  philosophy,  and  blighted  the 
growth  of  the  human  intellect. 

His  first  aim  was  to  clear  the  ground,  b^ 
rooting  out  the  preconceived  errors,  and  obsti¬ 
nate  projudices,  which  long  prescription  had 
establisjied ;  and  then  to  substitute  what  was 
useful,  in  place  of  that  idle  and  fruitless  specu¬ 
lation  which  had  so  long  nrevailed. — He  was 


almost  the  first  rational  investigator  of  the  laws 
of  nature,  who  made  genuine  truth  and  sound 
knowledge,  and  not  a  barren  curiosity  and  an 
unprofitable  ingenuity  the  object  of  his  pursuit. 
His  instances  are  all  said  to  be  collected  with 
as  much  judgment,  as  they  are  recorded  with 
simplicity.  He  teaches  the  important  art  of 
viewing  a  question  on  all  sides,  and  of  eliciting 
truth  from  the  result ;  and  he  always  makes  rea¬ 
soning  and  experiment  go  hand  in  hand,  mu¬ 
tually  illustrating  each  other. 

One  principal  use  of  being  somewhat  ac¬ 
quainted  with  this  great  author  is,  to  learn  that 
admirable  method  and  order  which  he  uniformly 
observes.  So  excellent  is  the  disposition  he 
makes,  that  ihe  reader  is  not  lost,  even  in  that 
mighty  mass  of  matter  in  which  he  arranges 
the  arts  of  history,  poetry,  and  philosophy, 
under  their  three  great  corresponding  faculties, 
of  memory,  imagination,  and  understanding. 
This  perspicuous  clearness  of  distribution  ;  this 
breaking  up  his  subject  into  parts,  without 
losing  sight  of  that  whole  to  which  each  portion 
preserves  its  exact  subordination,  enables  the 
reader  to  follow  him  without  perplexity,  in  the 
wide  stretch  and  compass  of  his  intellectual  re¬ 
searches. 

With  the  same  admirable  method  he  has 
also  made  a  distribution  of  the  several  branches 
of  history.  He  separates  it  into  three  divisions 
— chronicles,  or  annals,  lives,  and  relations  * 
assigning  in  his  luminous  way,  to  each  its  re¬ 
spective  properties.  Lives  of  individuals,  he  is 
of  opinion,  exhibit  more  faithful  and  lively  nar¬ 
ratives  of  things ;  and  he  pronounces  them  ca¬ 
pable  of  being  more  safely  and  advantageously 
transferred  into  example,  than  general  history. 
He  assigns  a  great  degree  of  usefulness  to 
special  relation  of  actions,  such  as  Cataline’s 
conspiracy,  and  the  expedition  of  Cyrus  ;  con¬ 
ceiving  them  to  be  more  pleasant  by  presenting 
a  subject  more  manageable,  because  more 
limited.  And  as  a  more  exact  knowledge  and 
full  information  may  be  obtained  of  these  indi¬ 
vidual  relations,  the  author,  he  observes,  is  not 
driven  like  the  writer  of  general  history,  to  fill 
up  chasms  and  blank  spaces,  out  of  his  own  im  • 
agination.* 

*  There  is  one  instance  in  which  even  this  great  au¬ 
thor  has  poorly  executed  his  own  ideas.  After  so  ably 
laying  down  the  outline  of  history,  he  has  shown  little 
skill,  in  an  individual  instance,  in  filling  it  up.  Few 
writers  have  more  remarkably  failed,  than  Lord  Bacon 
in  his  history  of  Henry  VII.  It  is  defective  in  almost 
all  the  ingredients  of  historic  composition  ;  neither  pos- 
sessing  majesty  nor  dignity  on  the  one  hand,  nor  ease 
and  perspicuity  on  the  other.  There  is  a  constant  aim 
at  wit  and  pleasantry,  with  a  constant  failure  in  both. 
The  choice  of  matter  is  injudicious ;  great  circumstances 
are  often  slightly  touched,  while  he  enlarges  upon 
trifles.  The  history  is  feeble  narrative  ;  the  style  is 
alfected  declamation  ;  loaded,  as  if  in  defiance  of  Quin¬ 
tilian’s  precept,  with  those  double  epithets,  which,  as 
that  noblest  of  cri  tics  observes,  when  each  does  not  fur¬ 
nish  a  fresh  idea,  is  as  if  every  common  sol  lier  in  an 
army  should  carry  a  footman,  increasing  the  incum¬ 
brance  without  adding  to  the  strength.  The  history  of 
Henry  VII.  wants  perspicuity,  simplicity,  and  almost 
every  grace  required  of  the  historic  muse.  And  what  is 
more  strangti,  we  neither  discover  in  this  work  the  deep 
politician,  the  man  of  business,  the  man  of  genius,  or 
the  man  of  the  world.  It  abounds  with  those  colloquial 
familiarities,  we  had  almost  said  vulgarisms,  with 
which  the  works  of  that  reign  are  generally  infected, 
but  which  we  do  not  exiK>ct  in  this  groat  author  Bud 


86 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Politics  he  arranges  with  the  same  methodi- 
-d!  order,  dividing  them  into  three  several  parts, 
—the  preservation  of  a  state,  its  prosperity,  and 
s  enlargement.  Of  the  two  former  branches, 
allows  that  preceding  authors  had  already 
created,  but  intimates  that  he  himself  was  the 
first  who  had  discussed  the  latter.  As  political 
economy  will  hereafter  form  an  important  branch 
of  study  for  the  royal  pupil,  we  are,  haj/pily,  not 
wanting  in  very  able  modern  authors,  who, 
living  in  our  time,  are  likely  to  be  more  exten¬ 
sively  useful,  from  their  intimate  acquaintance 
with  existing  circumstances,  and  with  the  revo¬ 
lutions  which  have  led  to  them. 

Nothing  seems  to  have  been  too  great,  or  too 
small,  for  the  universal  mind  of  Bacon ;  nothing 
too  high  for  his  strong  and  soaring  wing;  no¬ 
thing  too  vast  for  his  extensive  grasp ;  nothing 
too  deep  for  his  profound  spirit  of  investigation ; 
nothing  too  minute  for  his  microscopic  discern¬ 
ment.  Whoever  dives  into  the  depths  of  learn¬ 
ing,  or  examines  the  intricacies  of  politics,  or 
explores  the  arcana  of  nature,  or  looks  into 
the  mysteries  of’  art,  or  the  doctrines  of  re¬ 
ligion,  or  the  scheme  of  morals,  or  the  laws 
of  jurisprudence,  or  the  decorums  of  court,  or 
the  duties  of  public  conduct,  or  the  habits  of 
domestic  life;  whoever  wariders  among  the 
thorns  of  metaphysics,  or  gathers  the  flowers 
of  rhetoric,  or  plucks  the  fruits  of  philosophy, 
will  find  that  this  noble  author  has  been  his  pre¬ 
cursor  ;  and  that  he  himself  can  scarcely  deviate 
into  any  path  which  Bacon  has  not  previously 
explored. 

Nor  did  the  hand  which  so  ably  treats  on  the 
formation  of  states,  disdain  to  arrange  the  plants 
of  the  field,  or  the  flowers  of  the  parterre  ;  nor 
was  the  statesman,  who  discoursed  so  largely 
and  so  eloquently  on  the  methods  of  improving 
kingdoms,  or  the  philosopher,  who  descanted 
on  the  means  of  augmenting  science,  above 
teaching  the  pleasing  art  to  select  the  sheltered 
spot  for  the  tender  exotic,  to  give  minute  instruc¬ 
tions  for  polishing  ‘  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green,’ 
for  raising  a  strawberry,  or  cultivating  a  rose. 

His  moral  essays  are  fraught  with  familiar 
wisdom,  and  practical  virtue.  With  this  in¬ 
tellectual  and  moral  treasure  the  royal  pupil 
cannot  be  too  intimately  conversant.  His  other 
writings  are  too  voluminous,  as  well  as  too 
various  and  too  scientific,  to  be  read  at  large; 
and  it  is  become  the  less  necessary,  the  works 
of  Bacon  having  been  the  grand  seed-plot,  out 
of  which  all  the  modern  gardens  of  philosophy, 
science,  and  letters,  have  been  either  sown  or 
planted. 

It  is  with  deep  regret  we  add,  that  after  ad¬ 
miring  in  the  works  of  this  wonderful  man  to 
what  a  pitch  the  human  mind  can  soar,  we  may 
see,  from  a  few  unhappy  instances  in  his  con¬ 
duct,  to  what  debasement  it  can  stoop.  While 
his  writings  store  the  mind  with  wisdom,  and 
the  heart  with  virtue,  we  may,  from  his  prac¬ 
tice,  take  a  melanclioly  lesson  on  the  imperfoc- 

gell  has  published  in  the  Guardian,  a  collection  of 
numberless  passages  from  this  history,  exeni|)lifying 
almost  every  kind  of  literary  defect ;  not  with  an  invi¬ 
dious  design  to  injure  so  great  a  name,  but  lest  the  au¬ 
thority  of  that  name  should  sanction  bad  writing.  The 
present  criticism  is  ottered,  lest  it  should  sanction  bad 
taste. 


tion  of  human  excellence,  by  the  mortifying 
consideration  of  his  ingratitude  as  a  friend,  his 
adulation  as  a  courtier,  and  his  venality  as  a 
chancellor. 

Of  the  profound  and  various  works  of  Locke, 
the  most  accurate  thinker,  and  justest  reasoner, 
which  this  or  perhaps  any  other  country  has 
produced,  we  would  particularly  recommend  the 
short  but  very  valuable  treatise  on  the  Con¬ 
duct  of  the  Understanding.  It  contains  a  fa¬ 
miliar  and  popular  illustration  of  some  impor¬ 
tant  discoveries  in  his  most  distinguished  work, 
the  Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding,  par¬ 
ticularly  that  great  and  universal  law  of  nature, 
‘  the  support  of  so  many  mental  powers  (that  of 
memory  under  all  its  modifications)  and  which 
produces  equally  remarkable  effects  in  the  in¬ 
tellectual,  as  that  of  gravitation  does  in  the 
material  world,  the  association  of  ideas.' — A 
work  of  which  even  the  sceptical  rhapsodist, 
lord  Shaftsbury,  who  himself  possessed  much 
rhetoric  and  little  logic,  pronounced,  that  ‘it 
may  qualify  men  as  well  for  business  and  the 
world,  as  for  the  sciences  and  the  university.’ 

There  are  few  books  with  which  a  royal  per¬ 
son  ought  to  be  more  thoroughly  acquainted, 
than  with  the  famous  work  of  Grotius  on  the 
Rights  of  War  and  Peace.  In  this  work  the 
great  principles  of  justice  are  applied  to  the  high¬ 
est  political  purposes ;  and  the  soundest  reason 
is  employed  in  the  cause  of  the  purest  humanity. 
This  valuable  treatise  owed  its  birth  to  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  of  the  author,  a  statesman  and  am¬ 
bassador,  having,  as  he  himself  observes,  per 
sonally  witnessed  in  all  parts  of  the  Christiar. 
world,  ‘  such  an  unbridled  licentiousness  witl. 
regard  to  war,  as  the  most  barbarous  nations 
might  blush  at.’  ‘  They  fly  to  arm's,’  says  he 
‘  on  frivolous  pretences ;  and  when  once  they 
have  them  in  their  hands,  they  trample  on  all 
laws,  human  and  divine,  as  if  from  the  time  of 
their  assumption  of  arms  they  were  authorized 
so  to  do.’ 

In  the  course  of  the  work  he  inquires,  with 
a  very  vigorous  penetration,  into  the  origin  of 
the  rights  of  war,  its  different  kinds,  and  the 
extent  of  the  power  of  the  sovereign.  He 
clearly  explains  the  nature  and  extent  of  those 
rights,  the  violation  of  which  authorizes  the 
taking  up  arms.  And  finally,  after  having  ably 
descanted  on  all  that  relates  to  war  in  its  begin¬ 
ning,  and  its  progress,  he  as  ably  enlarges  on 
the  nature  of  those  negociations  zmd  treaties  of 
peace  which  terminate  it.* 

With  an  intrepidity  worthy  of  his  genius,  he 
was  not  afraid  of  dedicating  a  book  containing 
such  bold  and  honest  doctrines  to  a  king  of 
France.  This  admirable  treatise  was  found  in. 
the  tent  of  the  great  Gnstavus  after  his  death. 
It  had  been  one  of  the  principal  objects  of  his 

*  The  censure  frequently  expressed  in  these  volumes, 
against  princes  who  inconsiderately  engage  in  war,  can 
never  apply  to  that  in  which  we  are  involved  A  war, 
which,  on  the  part  of  the  enemy,  has  levelled  the  just 
fences  which  separated  nations,'and  destroyed  the  gooil 
faith  which  united  them.  A  war,  which  on  our  part 
was  entered  upon,  not  fir  conquest  but  existence  ;  not 
from  ambition  but  neces.-sity ;  not  for  revenge  but  jus 
tice;  not  to  plunder  other  nations  but  to  preserve  our 
own.  And  not  exclusively,  even  to  save  ourselves,  but 
for  the  restoration  of  desolated  nations,  and  tlte  fina/ 
safety  and  repose  of  the  whole  civilized  world. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


87 


^dy.  The  Swedish  mouarch  knew  how  to 
&oose  his  books  and  his  ministers.  He  studied 
Cirotius,  and  he  employed  Oxenstiern. 

If  the  royal  person  would  peruse  a  work, 
■  *^hich  to  the  rhetoric  of  ancient  Greece,  and  the 
patriot  spirit  of  ancient  Rome,  unites  the  warmth 
of  cotemporary  interest  and  the  dearness  of 
domestic  feeling  ;  in  which  to  the  vigour  of  a 
tapid  and  indignant  eloquence,  is  superadded 
Ihe  widest  extent  of  general  knowledge,  and  the 
deepest  political  sagacity  : — a  work 

Where  old  experience  doth  attain, 

To  some  tiling  like  prophetic  strain : 

a  work  which  first  unlocked  the  hidden  springs 
of  revolutionary  principles;  dived  into  the  com¬ 
plicated  and  almost  unfathomable  depths  of  po- 
litieal,  literary,  and  moral  mischief ;  penetrated 
the  dens  and  labyrinths,  where  Anarchy  who 
long  had  been  mysteriously  brooding,  at  length 
hatched  her  baleful  progeny  ; — laid  bare  to  view 
the  dark  recesses,  where  sacrilege,  murder,  trea¬ 
son,  regicide,  and  atheism  were  engendered. — 
If  she  would  hear  the  warning  voice  which  first 
sounded  the  alarm  in  the  ears  of  Britain,  and 
•which,  by  rousing  to  a  sense  of  danger,  kindled 
the  spirit  to  repel  it,  which,  in  Englishmen,  is 
always  but  one  and  the  same  act,  she  should 
peruse  Mr,  Burke's  Reflections  on  the  French 
Revolution. 

It  was  the  peculiax  felicity  of  this  great,  but 
often -misguided  man,  to  light  at  last  upon  a  sub¬ 
ject,  not  only  singularly  congenial  to  the  turn 
of  his  genius,  but  of  .his  temper  also.  The  ac¬ 
complished  scholar,  the  wit  of  vivid  imagination, 
the  powerful  orator  rich  in  imagery,  and  abound¬ 
ing  in  classic  allusion,  had  been  previously  dis¬ 
played  to  equal  advantage  in  his  other  works, 
but  with  considerable  abatements,  from  preju¬ 
dices  which  sometimes  blinded  his  judgment, 
from  a  vehemence  which  often  clouded  his  bright¬ 
ness.  He  had  never  wanted  genius  :  it  would 
bo  hard  to  say  he  had  ever  wanted  integrity  ; — 
but  he  had  often  wanted  that  , consistency  which 
is  so  necessary  to  make  the  parts  of  a  great  cha¬ 
racter  cohere  to  each  other.  A  patriot,  yet  not 
unfrequently  seeming  to  act  against  J.he  interests 
of  his  country  ;  a  senator,  never  heard  without 
admiration,  but  sometimes  without  effect ;  a 
statesman,  often  embarrassing  his  adversaries, 
without  always  serving  his  friends,  or  advancing 
his  cause.  But  in  this  concentration  of  his 
powers,  this  union  of  his  faculties  and  feelings, 
the  Reflection  on  the  French  Revolution,  his  im¬ 
petuosity  found  objects  which  rendered  its  exer- 
cise  not  only  pardonable  but  laudable.  That 
violence,  which  had  sometimes  exhausted  itself. 
Unworthily  in  party,  or  unkindly  on  individuals, 
tow  found  full  scope  for  its  exercise,  in  the  un¬ 
restrained  atrocities  of  a  nation,  hostile  not  only 
Jo  Britain  but  to  human  nature  itself.  A  nation 
mot  offending  from  the  ordinary  impulse  of  the 
j)assions,  which  might  have  been  repelled  by  the 
mrdinary  means  of  resistance,  but  ‘  committing 
he  oldest  crimes  the  newest  kind  of  way,’  and 
uniting  the  bloody  inventions  of  the  most  selfish 
ambition,  and  the  headlong  appetites  of  the  most 
unbridled  vices,  with  all  the  exquisite  contri- 
Tances  of  gratuitous  wickedness.  And  happily 
for  his  fame,  all  the  successive  actors  in  the  re¬ 


volutionary  drama  took  care  to  sin  up  to  any  in¬ 
temperance  of  language  which  even  Mr.  Burke 
could  supply. 


CHAP.  XXXII. 

The  Holy  Scriptures. —  The  Old  Testameid. 

In  speaking  of  the  nature  and  evidences  ot 
revealed  religion,  it  was  impossible  to  avoid  an 
ticipating  the  subject  of  this  chapter,  as  it  is  from 
the  Holy  Scriptures  alone  that  the  nature  of  our 
divine  religion  can  be  adequately  ascertained  , 
and  as  it  is  only  in  that  sacred  volume  that  we 
can  discover  those  striking  congruities  between 
Christianity,  and  all  the  moral  exigencies  of 
man,  which  form  so  irresistible  an  evidence  of 
its  coming  from  that  God,  ‘  who  is  above  all,  and 
through  all,  and  in  us  all.’ 

There  are,  however,  some  additional  points  of 
view  in  which  the  Holy  Scripture  ought  to  be 
considered.  It  is  doubtless  most  deeply  inte- 
resting,  as  it  contains  in  it  that  revelation  from 
heaven  which  was  ‘  to  give  light  to  them  that 
sat  in  darkness  and  the  shadow  of  death,  and  to 
guide  our  feet  into  the  way  of  peace.  But  while 
we  joyfully  follow  this  collected  radiance,  we 
tiiay  humbly  endeavour  to  examine  the  appara¬ 
tus  itself  by  which  those  beams  of  heaven  are 
thrown  on  our  path.  Let  us  then  consider  the 
divine  volume  somewhat  more  in  detail,  endea¬ 
vouring  at  the  same  time  not  to  overlook  those 
features  which  it  presents  to  the  critic,  or  philo¬ 
logist.  We  do  not  mean  to  him  who,  while  he 
reads,  affects  to  forget,  that  he  has  in  his  hands 
the  hook  of  God,  and  therefore  indulges  his  per¬ 
verse  or  profligate  fancy,  as  if  he  were  perusing 
the  poems  \of  Homer  or  Hafez.  But  we  mean 
the  Christian  critic,  and  the  Christian  philolo¬ 
gist  ;  characters,  it  is  true,  not  very  common, 
y^t  through  the  mercy  of  God  so  exemplified  in 
a  few  nobler  instances,  even  in  our  own  days,  as 
to  convince  us,  that  in  the  formation  of  these  vo¬ 
lumes  of  eternal  life,  no  faculty,  no  taste,  no  im¬ 
pressible  point  in  the  mind  of  man,  has  been  left 
unprovided  for.  They  show  us,  too,  what  an 
e.xtensive  field  the  sacred  Scriptures  furnish  for 
those  classical  labours,  of  which  they  possibly 
were  deemed  scarcely  susceptible  before  the  ad¬ 
mirable  Lowth  gave  his  invaluable  Prelections. 

-  The  first  circumstance  which  presents  itself, 
is  the  variety  of  composition  which  is  crowded 
into  these  narrow  limits.  Historical  records 
extending  through  thousands  of  years ; — poetry 
of  almost  every  species  ; — biographic  memoirs 
of  that  very  kind  which  the  modern  world  agrees 
to  deem  most  interesting ;  epistolary  corres¬ 
pondence  which  even  for  excellence  of  manner 
might  challenge  a  comparison  with  any  compo¬ 
sition  of  that  nature  in  the  world ;  and  lastly, 
that  singular  kind  of  writing,  peculiar  to  this 
sacred  book,  in  which  the  veil  that  hides  futurity 
from  man  is  penetrated,  remote  occurrences  so 
anticipated,  ds  to  imply  a  demonstration  that 
God  alone  could  have  communicated  such  know¬ 
ledge  to  man. 

In  the  historic  parts,  wo  cannot  but  be  struck 
with  a  certain  peculiar  consciousness  of  accurate 


88 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


knowledge,  evincing  itself  by  its  two  grand  cha¬ 
racteristics,  precision  and  simplicity.  They  are 
not  the  annals  of  a  nation  which  are  before  us, 
so  much  as  the  records  of  a  family.  Truth  is 
obviously  held  in  supreme  value,  since,  even 
where  it  is  discreditable,  there  is  not  the  slight¬ 
est  attempt  to  disguise  it.  The  affections  are 
cordially  at  work  ;  but  they  are  more  filial  than 
patriotic,  and  more  devout  than  filial.  To  these 
writers  the  God  of  their  fathers  is  of  more  im¬ 
portance  than  their  fathers  themselves.  They 
therefore  preserve,  with  the  greatest  care,  those 
transactions  of  their  ancestors,  which  were  con¬ 
nected  with  the  most  signal  interferences,  of 
heaven ;  and  no  circumstance  is  omitted,  by 
which  additional  motives  might  be  afforded  for 
that  habitual  reverence,  supreme  love  and  un¬ 
shaken  confidence,  towards  the  Eternal  Father, 
which  constituted  the  pure  and  sublime  religion 
of  this  singly  enlightened  people.  What  Moses 
magnificentiy  expresses  in  the  exordium  of  that 
noble  ode,  the  90th  psalm,  contains  the  central 
principle  which  all  their  history  was  intended  to 
impress.  ‘  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling- 
place  from  one  generation  to  another  ;  before  the 
mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst 
made  the  earth  and  the  world  ;  even  from  ever¬ 
lasting  to  everlasting.  Thou  art  God.’ 

Other  nations  have  doubtless  made  their  his¬ 
tory  subservient  to  their  mythology  ;  or  rather, 
being  ignorant  of  the  facts  ;  they  have  at  once 
gratified  their  national  vanity,  and  indulged 
their  moral  depravity  in  imagining  offensive  and 
monstrous  chimeras.  But  do  these  humiliating 
infatuations  of  human  kind,  universal  as  they 
have  been,  bear  any  shadow  of  analogy  to  the 
divinely  philosophic  grandeur  of  Hebrew  piety  ? 
All  other  mythologic  histories  degrade  our  na¬ 
ture.  This  alone  restores  its  primeval  dignity. 
The  pious  Jews  were  doubtless  the  greatest 
zealots  on  earth.  But  for  whom  ?  ‘  For  no  grisly 
terror,’  ‘  nor  execrable  shape,’  like  all  other  Ori¬ 
entalists,  ancient  and  modern ;  no  brute  like  the 
Egyptians,  nor  deified  monster  worse  than  brute, 
like  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  But  it  was  fbr 
Him,  whom  philosophers  in  all  ages  have  in  vain 
laboured  to  discover  ;  of  whose  character,  never¬ 
theless,  they  have  occasionally  caught  some  faint 
idea  from  those  very  Jews,  whom  they  have  de¬ 
spised,  and  who,  in  the  description  even  of  the 
heathen  Tacitus,  awes  our  minds,  and  claims  the 
natural  homage  of  our  hearts. — ‘  The  Egyptians,’ 
says  that  unbribed  evidence,  in  the  midst  even 
of  an  odious  representation  of  the  Jewish  nation, 
‘venerate  various  animals,  as  well  as  likenesses 
of  monsters.  The  Jews  acknowledge,  and  that 
with  the  mind  only,  a  single  Deity.  They  ac¬ 
count  those  to  be  profane,  who  form  images  of 
God  of  perishable  materials,  in  the  likeness  of 
men.  There  is  the  one  supreme  eternal  God, 
unchangeable,  immortal.  They  therefore  suffer 
no  statues  in  their  cities,  and  still  less  in  their 
temples.  They  have  never  shown  this  mark  of 
flattery  to  their  kings.  They  have  never  done 
this  honour  to  the  Cmsars.’* 

What  then  was  zeal  for  such  worship  as  this, 
but  the  purest  reason,  and  the  highest  magnani¬ 
mity  ?  And  how  wise  as  well  as  heroic  do  they 

Tacitus  Hist.  Lib.  v.  2.  I 


appear  who  made  no  account  of  life  in  such  & 
cause  ?  ‘  O  king,’  say  they,  ‘we  are  not  careful 
to  answer  thee  in  this  matter.  Our  God  whom 
we  serve  is  able  to  deliver  us,  and  he  will  deliver 
us  out  of  thine  hand  !  But  if  not,  be  it  known 
unto  thee,  that  we  will  not  serve  thy  gods,  nor 
worship  the  golden  imagewhich  thouhast  set  up.* 

Of  such  a  religion  as  this,  what  can  be  more 
interesting  than  the  simple,  the  affectionate  his¬ 
tory  ?  it  is  not  men  whom  it  celebrates;  it  is 
‘  Him  who  only  hath  immortality,  who  dwelleth 
in  the  light  which  no  man  can  approach  unto.’ 
And  how  does  it  represent  him  ?  That  single 
expression  of  the  patriarch  Abraham  will  fully 
inform  us:  ‘Wilt  thou  also  destroy  the  righte¬ 
ous  with  the  wicked  ?  That  be  far  from  thee  I 
Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right.’  A 
sentiment,  short  and  simple  as  it  is,  which  car¬ 
ries  more  light  to  the- mind,  and  more  consola¬ 
tion  to  the  heart,  than  all  the  volumes  of  all  the 
philosophers. 

But  what  was  the  moral  efficacy  of  this  reli¬ 
gion?  Let  the  youthful  Joseph  tell  us.  Let 
him,  at  the  moment  of  his  victory  over  all  that 
has  most  effectually  subdued  human  nature,  dis¬ 
cover  to  us  where  his  strength  lay.  ‘How,’ 
says  he,  ‘  shall  I  do  this  great  wickedness,  and 
sin  against  God.’ 

Of  the  lesser  excellences  of  these  historic  re¬ 
cords,  little  on  the  present  occasion  can,  andj, 
happily,  little  needs  be  said.  If  the  matter  is 
unmixed  truth,  the  manner  is  unmixed  rfature. 
Were  the  researches  of  Sir  William  Jones,  and 
those  who  have  followed  him  in  the  same  Irack, 
valuable  on  no  other  account,  they  would  be  in¬ 
estimable  in  this  respect,  that  through  what  they 
have  discovered  and  translated,  we  are  enabled 
to  compare  other  eastern  compositions  with  the 
sacred  books  of  the  Hebrew's;  the  result  of 
which  comparison,  supposing  only  taste  and 
judgment  to  decide,  must  ever  be  this,  that  in 
many  instances,  nothing  can  recede  farther  from 
the  simplicity  of  truth  and  nature  than  the  one, 
nor  more  constantly  exhibit  both  than  the  other. 
This  assertion  may  be  applied  with  peculiar 
justness  to  the  poetic  parts  of  the  Old  Testament. 
The  character  of  the  eastern  poetry,  in  general, 
would  seem  to  be  that  of  floridness  and  exube¬ 
rance,  with  little  of  the  true  sublime,  and  a  con¬ 
stant  endeavour  to  outdo  rather  than  to  imitate 
nature.  The  Jewish  poetry  seems  to  have  been 
cast  in  the  most  perfect  mould.  The  expressions 
are  strictly  subordinate  to  the  sense ;  and  while 
nothing  is  more  energetic,  nothing  is  more  sim¬ 
ple  and  natural.  If  the  language  be  strong,  it 
is  the  strength  of  sentiment  dlied  with  the 
strength  of  genius,  which  atone  produces  it.  For 
this  striking  dissimilarity  the  difference  of  sub¬ 
ject  will  account.  There  is  one  God. —  This  is 
perfect  simplicity.  He  is  omniscient,  omnipo¬ 
tent,  infinite,  and  eternal. — This  is  sublimity 
beyond  which  nothing  can  rise.  What  evinces 
this  to  be  the  real  source  of  excellence  in  He¬ 
brew  poetry  is,  that  no  instance  of  the  sublime, 
in  the  whole  compass  of  human  composition,  will 
bear  a  comparison  with  what  the  Hebrew  poets 
say  of  the  Almighty.  For  example:  what  in 
all  the  poetry,  even  of  Homer,  is  to  be  compared 
with  this  passage  of  David — ‘  Whither  shall  I 
go  from  thy  Spirit,  or  whither  shall  I  flee  froia 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


89 


thy  presence  ?  if  I  climb  up  into  heaven  thou 
art  there ;  if  I  make  my  bed  in  hell  thou'  art 
there ;  if  I  take  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and 
dwell  in  the  utmost  part  of  the  sea,  even  there 
shall  thy  hand  lead  me,  and  thy  right  hand  shall 
hold  me.’ 

It  is  a  peculiarity  of  Hebrew  poetry,  that  it 
alone,  of  all  the  poetry  we  know  of  in  the  world, 
retains  its  poetic  structure  in  the  most  literal 
translation ;  nay,  indeed,  the  more  literal  the 
translation,  the  less  the  poetry  is  injured.  The 
reason  is,  that  the  sacred  poetry  of  the  Hebrews 
does  not  appear  to  depend  on  cadence  or  rhythm, 
or  any  thing  merely  verbal,  which  literal  trans- 
lation  into  another  language  necessarily  destroys ; 
but  on  a  method  of  giving  to  each  distinct  idea 
a  two-fold  expression,  so  that  when  the  poetry 
of  the  Old  Testament  is  perfect,  and  not  injured 
by  erroneous  translation,  it  exhibits  a  series  of 
couplets,  in  which  the  second  member  of  each 
couplet  repeats  the  same,  or  very  nearly  the 
same  sense,  in  a  varied  manner — As  in  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  the  95th  psalm  : 

O  come  let  us  sing  unto  the  Lord, 

Let  us  heartily  rejoice  in  the  strength  of  our  salvation  ; 
Let  us  come  before  his  presence  with  thanksgiving, 

And  show  ourselves  glad  in  him  with  psalms  : 

For  the  Lord  is  a  great  God, 

And  a  great  king  above  all  gods : 

In  his  hands  are  the  deep  places  of  the  earth, 

And  the  strength  of  the  hills  is  his  also. 

The  motive  for  adopting  such  a  structure  we 
easily  conceive  to  have  been,  that  the  composi¬ 
tion  might  be  adapted  to  responsive  singing. 
But,  can  we  avoid  acknowledging  a  much  deeper 
purpose  of  infinite  wisdom,  that  that  poetry  which 
was  to  be  translated  into  all  languages,  should 
be  of  such  a  kind  as  literal  translation  could  not 
decompose  ? 

On  the  subject  of  Hebrew  poetry,  however,  it 
is  only  necessary  to  refer  the  reader  to  bishop 
Lowth’s  work  already  mentioned,  and  to  that 
shorter,  but  most  luminous  discourse  on  this 
subject,  prefixed  to  the  same  excellent,  author’s 
translation  of  Isaiah. 

Moral  philosophy  in  its  truest  and  noblest 
sense,  is  to  be  found  in  every  part  of  the  Scrip¬ 
tures.  Revealed  religion  being,  in  fact,  that  ‘  day 
spring  from  on  high,’  of  whose  happy  effects  the 
Pagan  philosophers  had  no  knowledge,  and  the 
want  of  which  they  were  always  endeavouring 
to  supply  by  artificial  but  most  delusive  contri- 
vanees.  But  the  portion  of  the  sacred  volume 
which  is  most  distinctly  appropriated  to  this  sub¬ 
ject  are  the  books  of  Ecclesiastes  and  Proverbs. 
In  the  former  of  these,  amid  some  difficult  pas¬ 
sages,  obscured  to  us  by  our  ignorance  of  an¬ 
cient  nations  and  manners,  there  are  some  of  the 
deepest  reflections  on  the  vanity  of  all  th'ngs 
earthly,  and  on  the  indispensable  necessity  of 
sincere  religion,  in  order  to  our  ease  and  happi¬ 
ness,  that  ever  came  from  the  pen  of  man.  It 
asserts  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  of  which 
some  have  supposed  the  Jews  ignorant,  in  terms 
the  most  unequivocal.  ‘  Then  shall  the  dust  re¬ 
turn  to  the  earth  as  it  was,  and  the  spirit  shall 
return  to  God  who  gave  it'  And  it  ends  with  a 
corollary  to  which  every  human  he^rt  ought  to 
respond,  because  all  just  reflections  lead  to  it. — 
‘Let  us  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  whole  mat- 
VOL.  II. 


ter  ;  foar  God,  and  keep  his  commandments,  for 
this, is  the  whole  of  man. — For  God  will  bring 
every  work  into  judgment,  with  every  secret 
thing,  whether  it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil.’ 

The  Proverbs  are  an  invaluable  summary  of 
every  species  of  practical  wisdom.  The  first 
nine  chapters  being  a  discourse  on  true  wisdom, 
that  is,  sincere  religion,  as  a  principle,  and  the 
remainder  a  sort  of  magazine  of  all  its  varied 
parts,  civil,  social,  domestic,  and  personal,  in 
this  world ;  together  with  clear  and  beautiful 
intimations  of  happiness  in  a  life  to  come.  As 
for  example ; — ‘  The  path  of  the  just  is  as  a 
shining  light  which  shineth  more  and  more  unto 
the  perfect  day.’  Here,  one  of  the  most  delight¬ 
ful  objects  in  nature,  the  advancing  dawn  of  the 
morning,  is  educed  as  an  emblem  of  that  grow¬ 
ing  comfort  and  cheerfulness  which  inseparably 
attend  a  life  of  piety.  What  then,  by  inevitable 
analogy,  is  that  perfect  day  in  which  it  is  made 
to  terminate,  but  the  eternal  happiness  of  heaven? 
Both  these  books,  with  the  greater  part  of  the 
Psalms,  have  this  suitable  peculiarity  to  the  pre¬ 
sent  occasion,  that  they  issued  from  a  royal  pen^ 
They  contain  a  wisdom,  truly,  which  belongs  te 
all ;  but  they  also  have  much  in  them  which 
peculiarly  concerns  those,  who,  by  providential 
destination,  are  shepherds  of  the  people.  The 
101st  psalm,  in  particular,  may  be  considered  as 
a  kind  of  abridged  manual  for  princes,  especiallv 
in  the  choice  of  their  company. 


CHAP.  XXIII. 

The  Holy  Scriptures. —  The  New  Testament 

The  biographic  part  of  the  New  Testament 
is  above  all  human  estimation,  because  it  con¬ 
tains  the  portraiture  of  ‘  him  in  whom  dwells 
the  fulness  of  the  Godhead  bodily  .| — If  it  wero, 
therefore,  our  hard  lot  to  say  what  individual 
part  of  the  Scriptures  we  should  wish  to  rescue 
from  an  otherwise  irreparable  destruction,  ought 
it  not  to  be  that  part  which  describes  to  us  the 
conduct  and  preserves  to  us  the  instructions  off 
God  manifest  in  the  flesh?  Worldly  Christians' 
have  affected  sometimes  to  prefer  the  Gospel  to 
the  rest  of  the  New  Testament,  on  the  intimated 
ground  that  our  Saviour  was  a  less  severe  pre¬ 
ceptor,  and  more  of  a  mere  moralist  than  his  in¬ 
spired  followers,  whose  writings  make  up  the 
sequel  of  the  New  Testament.  But  never  sure¬ 
ly  was  there  a  grosser  delusion.  If  the  object 
be  to  probe  the  heart  of  man  to  the  centre  ;  to 
place  before  him  the  terrors  of  that  God,  who  to 
the  wicked  ‘  is  a  consuming  fire  ;’  to  convince, 
him  of  that  radical  change  which  must  take 
place  in  his  whole  nature,  of  that  total  conquest 
which  he  must  gain  over  the  world  and  him¬ 
self,  before  he  can  be  a  true  subject  of  the  Mes¬ 
siah’s  spiritual  kingdom  ;  and  of  the  desperate 
disappointment  which  must  finally  await  all. 
who  rest  in  the  mere  profession,  or  even  the 
plausible  outside  of  Christianity ;  it  is  from  our. 
Lord’s  discourses  that  we  shall  find  the  most  re¬ 
sistless  means  of  accomplishing  each  of  these 
awfully  important  purposes. 

To  the  willing  disciple  our  Saviour  is  in. 


90 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


deed  the  gentlest  of  instructors  ;  to  the  contrite 
penitent  he  is  the  most  cheering  of  comforters ; 
to  weakness  he  is  most  encouraging.;  to  infirmi¬ 
ty,  unspeakably  indulgent ;  to  grief  or  distress 
of  whatever  sort,  he  is  a  pattern  of  tenderness. 
But  in  all  he  says  or  does,  he  has  one  invariable 
object  in  view,  to  which  all  the  rest  is  but  sub¬ 
servient.  He  lived  and  taught,  he  died  and  rose 
again,  for  this  one  end,  that  he  might  ‘  redeem 
us  from  all  iniquity,  and  purify  unto  himself  a 
peculiar  people  zealous  of  good  works'  His  uni¬ 
form  declarations  therefore,  are — ‘  Ye  cannot 
serve  God  and  Mammon. — Where  your  treasure 
is,  there  will  your  heart  be  also.’ — ‘  If  thy  right 
eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out,  and  cast  it  from 
thee.’  ‘  Except  a  man  deny  himself,  and  take 
up  his  cross  daily  and  follow  me,  he  cannot  be 
my  disciple.’ 

To  corrupt  human  nature  these  lessons  can 
never  be  made  engaging.  Their  object  is  to 
conquer,  and  finally  to  eradicate  that  corrup¬ 
tion.  To  indulge  it,  therefore,  in  any  instance, 
is  wholly  to  reject  them ;  since  it  is  not  with 
particular  vices  that  Christ  contends,  nor  will 
he  be  satisfied  with  particular  virtues.  But  he 
calls  us,  indispensably  to  a  state  of  mind,  which 
contains,  as  in  a  root  or  principle,  all  possible 
virtue,  and  which  avoids,  with  equally  sincere 
detestation,  every  species  of  evil.  But  to  human 
nature  itself,  as  distinct  from  its  depravity,  to 
native  taste,  sound  discriminating  sense,  just 
and  delicate  feeling,  comprehensive  judgment, 
profound  humility,  and  genuine  magnanimity 
of  mind,  no  teacher  upon  this  earth  ever  so 
adapted  himself.  In  his  inexhaustible  imagery, 
his  appropriate  use  of  all  the  common  occur¬ 
rences  of  life,  his  embodying  the  deepest  wisdom 
in  the  plainest  allegories,  and  making  familiar 
occurrences  the  vehicle  of  most  momentous  in¬ 
struction,  in  the  dignified  ease,  with  which  he 
utters  the  profoundest  truths,  the  majestic  se¬ 
verity  which  he  manifests  where  hollow  hypo¬ 
crisy,  narrow  bigotry,  unfeeling  selfishness,  or 
any  clearly  deliberate  vice  called  forth  his  holy 
indignation ;  in  these  characters  we  recognise 
the  purest,  and  yet  most  popular,  the  most  awful, 
and  yet  the  most  amiable  of  all  instructors.  And 
when  we  read  the  Gospels  with  rightly  prepared 
hearts,  we  see  him  with  our  mind’s  eye,  as  he 
actually  was  in  this  world,  scarce  less  effectu¬ 
ally  than  those  who  lived  and  conversed  with 
him.  We  too,  ‘  behold  his  glory,  the  glory  as 
of  the  only  begotten  of  the  Father  full  of  grace 
and  truth.’ 

The  acts  of  the  Apostles  belong  in  some  de¬ 
gree  to  the  biographic  class.  Where  the  matter 
of  a  work  is  of  the  deepest  moment  the  more 
agreeableness  of  its  manner  is  of  less  impor¬ 
tance.  But  where  a  striking  provision  has  been 
made  for  pleasure,  as  well  as  benefit,  it  would 
be  ingratitude  as  well  as  insensibility  not  to  no¬ 
tice  it.  It  is  indeed  impossible  for  a  reader  of 
taste,  not  to  be  delighted  with  the  combination 
of  excellences,  which  this  short  but  most  event¬ 
ful  narrative  exhibits-  Nothing  but  clearness 
and  accuracy  appear  to  be  aimed  at,  yet  every 
thing  which  can  give  interest  to  such  a  work  is 
attained.  Neither  Xenophon  nor  Cresar  could 
stand  a  comparison  with  it.  St.  Luke  in  this 
piece  has  seen  every  thing  so  clearly  has  un 


derstood  it  so  fully,  and  has  expressed  it  so  ap¬ 
positely,  as  to  need  only  a  simple  rendering  of 
his  own  exact  words  in  order  to  his  having,  in 
every  language,  the  air  of  an  original. 

The  epistolary  part  of  the  New  Testament  is, 
perhaps,  that  with  which  the  generality  of  read¬ 
ers  are  least  acquainted.  Some  profess  to  be 
discouraged  by  the  intricacy  of  the  sense,  parti¬ 
cularly  in- the  writings  of  St.  Paul;  and  others 
fairly  acknowledge  that  they  conceive  this  part 
of  the  Scripture  to  be  of  less  moment,  as  being 
chiefly  occupied  in  obsolete  controversies  pecu¬ 
liar  to  the  time  in  which  they  were  written, 
consequently  uninteresting  to  us.  Though  our 
limits  do  not  admit  of  a  particular  reply  to  those 
unfounded  prejudices,  yet  we  cannot  forbear  re¬ 
gretting,  what  appears  to  be  a  lamentable  igno¬ 
rance  of  the  nature  and  design  of  Christianity, 
which  distinguishes  our  times,  and  which  has 
given  rise  to  both  these  suppositions.  They,  for 
example,  who  regard  religion  but  as  a  more  sub¬ 
limated  system  of  morality,  and  look  for  nothing 
in  the  Scripture  but  rules  of  moral  conduct,  must 
necessarily  feel  themselves  at  a  stand,  when 
something  infinitely  deeper  seems  to  present  it¬ 
self  before  them.  But  if  it  were  first  fully  known, 
what  the  Christianity  of  the  Apostles  actually 
was,  their  sentiments  would  soon  become  intel¬ 
ligible.  They  treat  of  Christianity  as  an  inward 
principle  still  more  than  as  a  rule  of  conduct. 
They  by  no  means  neglect  the  latter  ;  but  the 
former  is  their  leading  object.  In  strict  ob¬ 
servance  of  that  maxim,  so  variously  given  by 
their  divine  master — ‘  Make  the  tree  good  and 
its  fruit  will  be  good.’ — They  accordingly  de¬ 
scribe  a  process,  which,  in  order  to  real  good¬ 
ness,  must  take  place  in  the  depths  of  the  heart. 
They  detect  a  root  of  evil  which  disqualifies 
man  for  all  real  virtue,  and  deprives  him  of  all 
real  happiness.  "And  they  describe  an  influence 
proceeding  from  God  himself,  through. a. divine 
Mediator,  ready  to  be  communicated  to  all  who 
seek  it,  by  which  this  evil  nature  is  overcome, 
and  a  holy  and  heavenly  nature  formed  in  its 
room.  They  describe  this  change  as  taking 
place  by  means  of  the  truths  and  facts  revealed 
in  the  Gospel,  impressing  themselves  by  the 
power  of  God’s  holy  Spirit  upon  the  mind  and 
heart ;  in  consequence  of  which  new  desires, 
new  tastes,  new  powers,  and  new  pursuits  suc¬ 
ceed.  Things  temporal  sink  down  into  com¬ 
plete  subordination,  to  things  eternal ;  and  su¬ 
preme  love  to  God  and  unfeigned  charity  to 
man,  become  the  master  passions  of  the  soul. 
These  are  the  subjects  which  are  chiefly  dwelt 
on  in  the  Epistles,  and  they  will  always  in  a 
measure  be  unintelligible  to  those  who  do  not 
‘  receive  the  truth  in  the  love  of  it.’  Even  in 
many  human  pursuits,  actual  practice  is  indis¬ 
pensable  to  a  clear  understanding  of  the  prin 
ciples. 

If  this  be  a  fair  state  of  the  case,  ought  we  noi. 
to  study  these  portions  of  Scripture  with  an  at 
tention  suitable  to  their  acknowledged  depth, 
instead  of  attempting  to  force  a  meaning  upon 
them,  at  the  expense  of  common  sense,  in  order 
to  make  them  seem  to  correspond  with  our  su 
perficial  religion  ?  Should  we  not  rather  endea¬ 
vour  to  bring  our  religion  to  a  conformity  with 
their  nlain  and  literal  import  ?  Such  attempts. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


91 


sincere.y  made,  would  soon  give  clearness  to  the 
understanding ;  and  a  more  than  philosophic 
consistency,  as  well  as  a  more  than  human  ener¬ 
gy,  would  be  found  there,  where  all  before  had 
seemed  perplexed  and  obscure. — We  do  not, 
however,  deny,  that  the  Epistles  contain  more 
reference  than  the  Gospels  to  Jewish  customs, 
and  to  a  variety  of  local  and  temporary  circum- 
stances  not  well  understood  by  us.  Yet,  though 
written  to  individual  men,  and  to  particular 
churches ;  not  only  general  inferences,  applica¬ 
ble  to  us  may  be  drawn  from  particular  instruc¬ 
tions,  but  by  means  of  them,  the  most  important 
doctrines  are  often  pointedly  exhibited. 

Where  this  truly  Christian  discernment  is 
exercised,  it  will  be  evident  how  much  it  softens 
and  enlarges  the  heart !  how  it  extends  and  il- 
uminates  the  mental  view !  how  it  quickens  and 
invigorates  the  feeling  !  how  it  fits  the  mind  for 
at  once  attending  to  the  minutest,  and  compre¬ 
hending  the  vastest  things !  In  short,  how  pure, 
how  wise,  how  disinterested,  how  heavenly, — we 
had  almost  said  how  morally  omnipotent  itmakes 
its  complete  votary  I 

On  this  head  we  will  add  but  one  remark 
more.  Even  through  the  medium  of  a  transla¬ 
tion,  we  observe  a  remarkable  difference  of  man¬ 
ner  in  the  apostolic  writers. — There  is  indeed  a 
very  close  resemblance  between  the  views  and 
topics  of  St.  Paul  and  St.  Peter,  though  with 
much  difference  of  style.  But  St.  James  and 
St.  John  differ  from  both  these,  and  from  each 
other,  as  much  as  any  writers  could,  who  agree 
cordially  in  one  general  end.  The  Christian 
philosopher  will  be  able  to  account  for  this  dif¬ 
ference  by  its  obvious  correspondence  with  what 
he  sees  daily  in  natural  tempers.  In  St.  John 
he  will  discover  the  cast  and  turn  of  a  sublimely 
contemplative  mind,  penetrating  the  inmost 
springs  of  moral  action,  and  viewing  the  heart 
as  alone  secured  and  perfected  by  an  habitual 
filial  reverence  to,  and,  as  he  expresses  it,  ‘  com¬ 
munion  with  the  Father  of  spirits.’  In  St.  James 
he  will  see  the  remarks  of  a  plain  and  more 
practical  mind,  vigilantly  guarding  against  the 
deceits  and  dangers  of  the  world,  and  somewhat 
jealous  lest  speculation  should,  in  any  instance, 
be  made  a  pretext  for  negligence  in  practice. 
And  lastly,  he  will  perhaps  recognise  in  St. 
Paul,  that  powerful  character  of  mind,  which, 
being  under  the  influence  of  no  particular  tem¬ 
per,  but  possessing  each  in  its  full  strength,  and 
all  in  due  temperament,  gives  no  colouring  to 
any  object  but  what  it  actually  possesses,  pur¬ 
sues  each  valuable  end  in  strict  proportion  to 
its  worth,  and  varies  its  self-directed  course,  in 
compliance  with  no  attraction,  but  that  of  truth, 
of  fitness,  and  of  utility.  In  such  a  variety, 
then,  he  will  find  a  new  evidence  to  the  truth  of 
Christianity,  which  is  thus  alike  attested  by  wit¬ 
nesses  the  most  diversified ;  and  he  will,  with 
humble  gratitude,  adore  that  condescending  wis¬ 
dom  and  goodness,  which  has  thus,  within  the 
sacred  volume  itself,  recognised,  and  even  pro¬ 
vided  for,  those  distinctions  of  the  human  mind, 
for  which  weak  mortals  are  so  unwilling  to  make 
allowance  in  each  other. 

The  prophetic  part  is  mentioned  last,  because 
it  peculiarly  extends  itself  through  the  whole  of 
the  divine  volume.  It  commences  with  tlio  first 


encouraging  promise  which  was  given  to  maa 
after  the  primeval  transgression,  and  it  occupies 
the  last  portion  of  the  New  Testament.  It  might 
naturally  have  been  expected,  that  in  a  revela¬ 
tion  from  the  sovereign  of  all  events,  the  future 
designs  of  Providence  should  be  so  far  intimated, 
as  clearly  to  evince  a  more  than  human  fore¬ 
sight,  and  by  consequence  a  divine  origin.  It 
might  also  have  been  thought  probable,  that 
those  prophecies  should  embrace  so  extended  a 
series  of  future  occurrences,  a^  to  provide  for 
successive  confirmations  of  the  revelation,  by 
successive  fulfilments  of  the  predictions.  And 
lastly,  it  might  be  thought  reasonable,  that  while 
such  intimations  should  be  sufficiently  clear  to 
be  explained  by  the  actual  event,  they  should 
not  be  so  explicit  as  to  gratify  curiosity  respect¬ 
ing  future  contingencies  ;  such  an  anticipation 
of  events  being  clearly  unsuitable  to  that  kind 
of  moral  government  under  which  the  author  of 
our  nature  has  placed  us. 

It  is  conceived  that  such  precisely  are  the  cha¬ 
racters  of  those  predictions  which  are  so  nume¬ 
rous  in  the  Scripture.  They  point  to  a  continued 
succession  of  great  occurrences  ;  but,  in  gene¬ 
ral,  with  such  scattered  rays  of  light,  as  to  fur¬ 
nish  few  materials  for  premature  speculation. 
Even  to  the  prophet  himself  the  prospect  is  pro¬ 
bably  enveloped  in  a  deep  mist,  which  while  he 
looks  intently,  seems  for  a  short  space  to  open, 
and  to  present  before  him  certain  grand  objects, 
whose  fleeting  appearances  he  imperfectly  catch¬ 
es,  but  whose  connexion  with,  or  remoteness 
from,  each  other  he  has  not  sufficient  light  to 
distinguish. 

These  remarks,  however,  apply  most  strictly 
to'prophecies  of  remote  events. — When  nearer 
occurrences  are  foretold,  whether  relating  to  the 
Jewish  nation,  or  to  the  countries  in  its  neigh¬ 
bourhood,  there  is  often  a  surprising  clearness, 
as  if  in  these  cases,  the  intention  was  to  direct 
conduct  for  the  present)  as  well  as  confirm  faith 
by  the  result.  And  in  a  few  important  instances, 
even  distant  futurity  is  so  distinctly  contem¬ 
plated,  as  to  make  such  predictions  a  permanent, 
and  to  every  candid  reader,  an  irrefragable  evi¬ 
dence,  that  a  volume  so  undeniably  ancient,  and 
yet  so  unequivocally  predictive,  can  be  no  other 
than  divine. 

Of  this  last  class  of  prophecies,  as  most  di¬ 
rectly  interesting,  it  may  not  be  useless  to  point 
out  the  following  striking  examples. — The  de¬ 
nunciation  by  Moses  of  what  should  be  the  final 
fate  of  the  Jews,  in  case  of  obstinate  disobedi¬ 
ence.* — Isaiah’s  astonishing  picture  of  the  suf¬ 
ferings,  death,  and  subsequent  triumph  of  the 
Redeemer  ;t  a  prediction  upon  which  every  kind 
of  sophistry  has  been  tried  in  vain.  The  dream 
of  Nebuchadnezzar,  with  Daniel’s  interpreta¬ 
tion  ;t  a  prophecy  which  contains  in  it  an  abso¬ 
lute  demonstration  of  revealed  religion.  Daniel’s 
own  vision  of  the  four  empires,  and  of  that  divine 
one  which  should  succeed  them.§  His  amazing 
prophecy  of  the  seventy  weeks,l|  which,  however 
involved  in  obscurity  as  to  niceties  of  chronolo 
gy,  is  in  clearness  of  prediction  a  standing  mi 
racle ;  its  fulfilment  in  the  death  of  the  Messiah 
and  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  being  as  self 

*  Deut.  xxviii.  t  Isaiah,  liii.  t  Dauiel,  ii. 

§  Daaiel,  vii.  ll  Daniel,  ix. 


9S 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


evident  as  that  Caesar  meant  to  record  his  own 
actions  in  his  Commentaries.  To  these  I  would 
add,  lastly,  that  wonderful  representation  of  the 
papal  tyranny  in  the  Apocalypse,*  which,  how¬ 
ever,  involving  some  obscure  circumstances,  is 
nevertheless  so  luminous  an  instance  as  to  pre¬ 
clude  the  possibility  of  evasion.  The  extreme  ' 
justness  of  the  statement  respecting  papal  Rome 
must  force  itself  on  every  mind  at  all  acquainted 
with  the  usual  language  of  the  Old  Testament 
prophets,  and  with  the  authentic  facts  of  eccle¬ 
siastical  history. 

Among  circumstantial  prophecies  of  near 
events  may  be  reckoned  Jeremiah’s  prediction 
of  the  taking  of  Babylon,!  by  the  king  of  the 
Medes,  on  which  the  history  of  the  event,  as 
given  by  Xenophon  in  the  Cyropedia,  is  the  best 
possible  comment.  The  prophecy  of  the  fall  of 
Tyre  in  Ezekiel,!  in  which  there  is  the  most  re¬ 
markable  detail  of  the  matter  of  ancient  com¬ 
merce  that  is  perhaps  to  be  any  where  found. 
But  of  all  such  prophecies,  that  of  our  Saviour, 
respecting  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem,  as  given 
in  repeated  parables  and  express  denunciations, 
is  most  deeply  worthy  the  attention  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  reader. 

A  question  has  been  started  among  scholars 
respecting  the  double  sense  of  prophecy  ;  but  it 
seems  astonishing  to  any  plain  reader  of  the  Bi¬ 
ble  how  it  could  ever  become  a  matter  of  doubt. 
— What  can  be  more  likely,  for  instance,  than 
that  some  present  event  in  which  David  was  in¬ 
terested,  perhaps  his  inauguration,  suggested  to 
him  the  subject  of  the  second  psalm  ?  Yet  what 
can  be  more  evident  than  that  he  describes  a 
dominion  infinitely  beyond  what  can  be  attri¬ 
buted  to  any  earthly  potentate  ?  The  fact  seems 
to  be,  that  the  Jewish  dispensation  being,  in  its 
most  leading  parts,  a  prefiguration  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  dispensation  and  the  most  celebrated  per¬ 
sons,  as  well  as  events,  being  typical  of  what 
was  to  come,  the  prophetic  spirit  could  not  easily 
contemplate  the  type  without  being  carried  for¬ 
ward  to  its  completion.  And,  therefore,  in  al¬ 
most  every  case  of  the  kind  the  more  remote  ob¬ 
ject  draws  the  attention  of  the  prophet  as  if  in¬ 
sensibly,  from  the  nearer, — the  greatness  of  the 
one  naturally  eclipsing  the  comparative  little¬ 
ness  of  the  other.  This  occurs  in  such  a  num¬ 
ber  of  instances  as  to  form  one  of  the  most  pro¬ 
minent  characters  of  prophecy. 

We  shall  conclude  the  subject  with  observing 
on  that  over-ruling  Providence  which  took  care 
that  the  Scriptures  of  the  Old  Testament  should 
be  translated  into  the  Greek  language,  before 
the  original  dialect  became  obscure,  by  which 
means,  not  only  a  most  important  preparation 
was  made  for  the  fuller  manifestation  which 
was  to  follow  ;-hut  the  sense  of  the  Scriptures, 
in  all  important  instances,  was  so  unequivocally 
fixed,  as  to  furnish  both  a  guide  for  the  learned 
Christian  in  after-times,  and  a  means  of  con¬ 
fronting  Jewish  misrepresentations  with  the  in¬ 
disputable  acknowledgments  of  earlier  Jews, 
better  used  to  the  language,  and  uninfluenced 
by  any  prejudice.  And,  may  we  add,  that  the 
choice  of  the  Greek  for  the  original  language 
of  the  New  Testament,  is  not  less  worthy  of  at- 

•  Chap.  jvii.  t  Jeremiah  1.  and  li. 

}  Ezekiel  xzvi.  and  zzvii. 


tention  ?  By  that  wise  and  gracious  arrange¬ 
ment  every  lineament  and  every  point  of  our 
divine  religion  has  acquired  an  imperishable 
character  ;  since  the  learned  have  agreed,  that 
no  language  is  so  capable  of  expressing  every 
minute  distinction  and  shade  of  thought  and 
feeling,  or  is  so  incapable  of  ever  becoming  equi¬ 
vocal  :  the  works  which  have  been  composed  in 
it,  ensuring  its  being  studied  to  the  end  of  the 
world. 


•  CHAP.  XXXIV. 

On  the  abuse  of  terms. — Enthusiasm. — SupersH 

tion. — Zeal  for  religious  opinions  no  proof  of 

religion. 

To  guard  the  mind  from  prejudice  is  no  unim¬ 
portant  part  of  a  royal  education.  Names  govern 
the  world.  They  carry  away  opinion,  decide  one 
character,  and  determine  practice.  Names, 
therefore,  are  of  more  importance  than  we  are 
aware.  We  are  apt  to  bring  the  quality  down 
to  the  standard  which  the  name  establishes,  and 
our  practice  rarely  rises  higher  than  the  current 
term  which  we  use  when  we  speak  of  it. 

The  abuse  of  terms  has  at  all  times  been  an 
evil.  To  enumerate  only  a  few  instances.  We 
do  not  presume  to  decide  on  the  measure  which 
gave  birth  to  the  clamour,  when  we  assert,  that 
in  the  progress  of  that  clamour,  greater  violence 
has  seldom  been  offered  to  language  than  in  the 
forced  union  of  the  two  terms.  Liberty  and  Pro¬ 
perty.*  A  conjunction  of  words,  by  men  who 
were,  at  the  same  time  labouring  to  disjoin  the 
things.  If  liberty,  in  their  sense,  had  been  esta¬ 
blished,  property  would  have  had  an  end,  or  ra¬ 
ther  would  have  been  transferred  to  those,  who, 
in  securing  what  they  termed  their  liberty, 
would  have  made  over  to  themselves  that  pro¬ 
perty,  in  the  pretended  defence  of  which  the  out¬ 
cry  was  made.  At  a  more  recent  period,  the 
term  equality  has  been  substituted  for  that  of 
property.  The  word  was  altered,  but  the  prin¬ 
ciple  retained.  And,  as  the  preceding  clamour 
for  liberty  was  only  a  plausible  cover  for  making 
property  change  hands,  so  it  has  of  late  been 
tacked  to  equality,  with  a  view  to  ma\(e  power 
change  hands.  Thus,  terms  the  most  popular 
and  imposing,  have  been  uniformly  used  as  the 
watch-words  of  tumult,  plunder,  and  sedition. 

But  the  abuse  of  terms,  and  especially  their 
unnecessary  adoption,  is  not  always  limited  to 
the  vulgar  and  the  mischievous.  It  were  to  be 
wished  that  those  persons  of  a  better  cast,  who 
are  strenuous  in  counteracting  the  evils  them¬ 
selves,  would  never  naturalize  any  terms  which 
convey  revolutionary  ideas.  In  England,  at  least, 
let  us  have  no  civic  honours,  no  organization  of 
plans. 

There  are  perhaps  few  words  which  the  reign¬ 
ing  practice  has  more  warped  from  its  legiti¬ 
mate  meaning  and  ancient  usage  than  the  term 
proud.  Let  us  try  whether  Johnson’s  definition 
sanctions  the  adopted  use. — ‘  Proud,’  says  that 
accurate  philologist,  ‘  means,  elated — haughty — 
daring — presumptuous — ostentatious'  &c.  dtc. 
1  *  By  Wilkes,  and  his  faction; 


r 


THE  WORKS  OF 

Yet  do  we  not  continually  hear,  not  merely  the 
journalist  and  the  pamphleteer,  but  the  legisla¬ 
tor  and  the  orator,  sages  who  give  law,  not  to 
the  land  only,  but  to  the  language,  using  the 
term  exclusively,  in  an  honourable  sense. — 
‘  They  are  proud  to  acknowledge,  ‘  proud  to  con¬ 
fess.’  Instead  of  the  heart-felt  language  of 
gratitude  for  a  deliverance  or  a  victory,  we  hear 
of  ‘  a  proud  day,’  ‘  a  proud  circumstance,’ — ‘  a 
proud  event,’  thus  raising  to  fire  dignity  of  vir¬ 
tue,  a  term  to  which  lexicographers  and  moral¬ 
ists  have  annexed  an  odious,  and  divines  an  un¬ 
christian  sense.  If  pride  be  thus  enrolled  in 
the  list  of  virtues,  must  not  humility  by  a  natu¬ 
ral  consequence  be  turned  over  to  the  catalogue 
of  vices  ?  If  pride  was  made  for  man,  has  not 
the  Bible  asserted  a  falsehood  ? 

In  the  age  which  succeeded  to  the  reforma¬ 
tion,  ‘  holiness’  and  ‘  practical  piety’  were  the 
terms  employed  by  divines  when  they  would  in¬ 
culcate  that  conduct  which  is  suitable  to  Chris¬ 
tians.  The  very  words  conveyed  a  solemnity  to 
the  mind,  calculated  to  assist  in  raising  it  to  the 
prescribed  standard.  But  those  very  terms  be¬ 
ing  unhappily  used,  during  the  usurpation,  as 
masks  to  cover  the  worst  purposes,  became,  un¬ 
der  Charles,  epithets  of  ridicule  and  reproach ; 
and  were  supposed  to  imply  hypocrisy  and  false 
pretence.  And  when,  in  a  subsequent  period, 
decency  resumed  her  reign,  and  virtue  was 
countenanced,  and  religion  respected  :  yet  mere 
decorum  was  too  often  substituted  for  religious 
energy,  nor  was  there  such  a  general  superiority 
to  the  dread  of  censure,  as  was  suflScient  to  re¬ 
store  the  use  of  terms,  which  hypocrisy  had 
abused,  and  licentiousness  derided.* 

Inditference  in  some  assumed  the  name  of 
moderation,  and  zeal  in  others  grew  cool,  or  was 
ashamed  to  appear  warm.  The  standard  of  lan¬ 
guage  was  either  let  down  to  accommodate  it¬ 
self  to  the  standard  of  practice,  or  piety  itself 
was  taken  ^ome  notes  lower,  to  adapt  it  to  the 
established  phraseology.  Thus,  morality,  for 
instance,  which  heretofore,  had  only  been  used 
(and  very  properly)  asone  name  amongst  many, 
to  express  right  conduct,  now  began  to  be  erect¬ 
ed  into  the  exclusive  term.  The  term  itself  is 
most  unexceptionable.  Would  that  all  who  adopt 
it,  acted  up  to  the  rectitude  which  it  implies  ! 
but,  partly  from  its  having  been  antecedently 
used  to  express  the  pagan  virtues ;  partly  from 
its  having  been  set  up  by  modern  philosophers, 
as  opposed  to  the  peculiar  graces  of  Christianity, 
and  consequently  converted  by  them  into  an  in¬ 
strument  for  decrying  religion  ;  and  partly  be¬ 
cause  many  who  profess  to  write  theories  of 

*  It  is  however  to  be  observed,  that  at  no  period,  per¬ 
haps,  in  English  history,  was  there  a  more  strict  atten¬ 
tion  to  public  morals,  or  a  more  open  avowal  of  religion, 
than  during  the  short  reign  of  queen  Mary.  Nothing 
was  with  that  excellent  princess,  so  momentous  an  ob¬ 
ject,  as  that  religion  might  attain  its  just  credit,  and  dif¬ 
fuse  its  effectual  influences  through  society.  Upon  this 
lipr  deepest  thoughts  were  fixed  ;  to  this  her  most  assi¬ 
duous  endeavours  were  directed.  And  it  was  not  wholly 
in  vain.  A  spirit  of  pious  activity  spread  itself  both 
through  clergy  and  laity.  Religious  men  took  fresh 
courage  to  avow  themselves,  and  merciful  men  laboured 
in  the  cause  of  humanity  with  increased  zeal  and  suc¬ 
cess.  It  seems  to  have  been  under  this  brief,  but  auspi¬ 
cious  government,  that  the  dissolute  habits  of  the  two 
former  reigns  received  their  first  effectual  chock. 


HANNAH  MORE.*  93 

morality,  have  founded  them  on  a  mere  worldly 
principle,  we  commonly  see  it  employed,  Rot  in 
its  own  distinct  and  limited  meaning,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  as  a  substitute  for  that  compre¬ 
hensive  principle  of  elevated,  yet  rational  piety, 
which  forms  at  once  the  vital  spring  and  essen¬ 
tial  characteristic  of  Christian  conduct. 

It  is  necessary  also  to  apprise  those  whose 
minds  we  are  forming,  that  when  they  wish  to 
inquire  into  the  characters  of  men,  it  is  of  im 
portance  to  ascertain  the  principles  of  him  who 
gives  the  character,  in  order  to  obtain  a  fair 
knowledge  of  him  of  whom  the  character  is 
given.  To  exemplify  this  remark  by  the  term 
enthusiasm.  While  the  wise  and  temperate 
Christian  deprecates  enthusiasm  as  highly  per¬ 
nicious,  even  when  he  hopes  it  may  be  honest — 
justly  ascribing  it  to  a  perturbed  and  unsound, 
or  at  least,  an  over  eager  and  weak  mind — the 
irreligious  man,  who  hates  piety,  when  he  fan¬ 
cies  he  only  hates  fanaticism,  applies  the  term 
enthusiast  to  every  religious  person,  however 
sober  his  piety,  or  however  correct  his  conduct. 

But  even  he  who  is  far  from  remarkable  for 
pious  ardors,  may  incur  the  stigma  of  enthu¬ 
siasm,  when  he  happens  to  come  under  the  cen¬ 
sure  of  one  who  piques  himself  on  still  greater 
latitude  of  sentiment.  Thus,  he  who  professes 
to  believe  in  ‘  the  only  begotten  Son  of  God  as 
in  glory  equal  with  the  Father,’  will  be  deemed 
an  enthusiast  by  him  who  embraces  the  chilling 
doctrines  of  Socinus.  And  we  have  heard,  as 
if  it  were  no  uncommon  thing,  of  a  French  phi¬ 
losopher  of  the  highest  class,  accounting  his 
friend  un  peu  fanatique,  merely  because  the  lat¬ 
ter  had  some  suspicion  that  there  was  a  God. 
In  fact  we  may  apply  to  enthusiasm,  what  has 
been  said  on  another  occasion  ; 

Ask  where’s  the  North — At  York  ’tison  the  Tweed, 

In  Scotland  at  the  Orcades  ;  and  there, 

At  Greenland,  Zembla - 

But  it  may  be  asked,  has  religious  enthusiasm, 
after  all,  no  definite  meaning  ?  or  are  religion 
and  frenzy  really  so  nearly  allied,  that  no  clearly 
distinctive  line  can  be  drawn  between  them? 
One  of  our  most  eminent  writers  has  told  us, 
that  ‘  enthusiasrh  is  a  kind  of  excess  in  devotion, 
and  that  superstition  is  the  excess,  not  only  of 
devotion,  but  of  religion  in  general.’  A  strange 
definition  !  For  what  is  devotion ;  and  what  is 
religion,  if  we  cannot  be  m  earnest  in  them 
without  hazarding  our  rationality,  which,  how¬ 
ever,  must  be  the  case,  if  this  definition  were 
accurate  ?  For  if  the  excess  of  devotion  were 
enthusiasm,  and  the  excuse  of  religion  were  su¬ 
perstition,  it  would  follow,  that  to  advance  in 
either  would  be  to  approximate  to  fanaticism. 
Of  course,  he  who  wished  to  retain  his  mental 
sanity,  must  li-iten  with  caution  to  tlie  apostolic 
precept,  of  growing  in  grace. 

But,  with  all  due  respect  to  Mr.  Addison,  may 
we  not  justly  question  whether  there  can  be  such 
a  thing  as  an  excess  of  either  devotion  or  reli- 
gion,  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  terms?  We 
never  seriously  suppose  that  any  one  can  be  too 
wise,  too  pure,  or  too  benevolent.  If  at  any  time 
we  use  a  larnguage  of  this  apparent  import,  we 
always  conceive  the  idea  of  some  spurious  inter¬ 
mixture,  or  injudicious  mode  of  exercise.  Bu* 


94 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


when  we  confine  our  thoughts  to  the  principle 
itself,  we  do  not  apprehend  that  we  can  become 
too  predominant, — to  be  too  virtuous,  being  just 
as  inconceivable  as  to  be  too  happy. 

Now  if  this  be  true  of  any  single  virtue,  must 
it  not  hold  equally  good  respecting  tiie  parent 
principle  of  all  virtue  ? — What  is  religion,  or 
devotion  (for  when  we  speak  of  either,  as  a 
principle,  it  is,  in  fact,  a  synonyme  of  the  other) 
but  the  ‘  so  loving  what  God  has  commanded, 
and  desiring  what  he  has  promised,  as  that, 
among  the  sundry  and  manifbld  changes  of  the 
world,  our  hearts  may  surely  there  he  fixed, 
where  true  joys  are  to  be  found  V  Now  can 
there  be  excess  in  this?  We  may  doubtless 
misunderstand  God’s  commands,  and  miscon¬ 
strue  his  promises,  and,  in  either  way,  instead 
of  attaining  that  holy  and  happy  fixedness  of 
heart,  become  the  victims  of  restless  perturba¬ 
tion.  But  if  there  be  no  error  in  our  apprehen¬ 
sion,  can  there  be  any  excess  in  our  love  ?  What 
does  God  command  ?  Every  thing  that  tends  to 
jur  personal,  social,  political,  as  well  as  eternal 
well-being.  Can  we  then  feel  too  deep  love  for 
the  sum  of  all  moral  excellence  ?  But  what  does 
God  promise!  Guidance,  protection,  all  neces¬ 
sary  aids  and  influences  here ;  and  hereafter, 
‘  fulness  of  joy  and  pleasures  at  his  right  hand 
for  evermore.’  Can  such  blessings  as  these  be 
too  cordially  desired  ?  Amid 

The  heartachs  and  the  thousand  natural  shocks 

Which  flesh  is  heir  to, 

can  our  hopes  of  future  happiness  be  too  cheer¬ 
ing,  or  our  power  of  rising  above  the  calamities 
of  mortality  be  too  habitual,  or  too  eflTectual  ? 
Such  are  the  questions  obviously  suggested  by 
the  supposition  of  such  a  thing  as  excess  in  re¬ 
ligion.  And  doubtless  the  answer  of  every 
serious  and  reflecting  mind  must  be,  that  in 
‘  pure  and  undefiled  religion,’  in  ‘  loving  the 
Lord  our  God  with  all  our  heart,  with  all  our 
mind,  with  all  our  soul,  and  with  all  our  strength, 
and  our  neighbour  as  ourselves,’  the  idea  of 
excess  is  as  incongruous  and  inadmissible,  as 
that  of  a  happy  life  being  too  long,  or  of  the 
joys  of  heaven  being  less  desirable  because  they 
are  eternal. 

But  if,  instead  of  cultivating  and  advancing 
in  this  love  of  God  and  man, — instead  of  loving 
what  God  has  really  commanded,  and  desiring 
what  he  has  clearly  promised  in  his  holy  word, 
— this  word  be  neglected,  and  the  suggestions 
of  an  ardent,  or  of  a  gloomy  fancy  be  substituted 
in  its  room,  then  the  person  becomes  in  the 
strictest  and  true.st  sense,  a  fanatic ;  and  as  his 
natural  temperament  may  happen  to  be  san¬ 
guine  or  saturnine,  he  rises  into  imaginary  rap¬ 
tures  or  sinks  down  into  torturing  apprehen¬ 
sions,  and  slavish  self-inflictions. 

Here  then,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  we  may 
discover  the  real  nature  of  both  enthusiasm  and 
superstition.  It  is  not  excess  of  devotion  which 
constitutes  the  one,  nor  excess  of  religion  in 
general  which  leads  to  the  other.  But  Iwth  are 
the  consequence  of  a  radical  misconception  of 
■eligion.  Each  alike  implies  a  compound  of 
.^norance  and  passion ;  and  as  the  person  is 
dis}>08ed  to  hope  or  fear,  he  becomes  enthusias- 
tical  on  the  one  hand,  or  superstitious  on  the 


other.  He  in  whom  fear  predominates,  most 
naturally  mistakes  what  God  commands,  and 
instead  of  taking  that  law  for  his  rule,  ‘  whose 
seat  is  the  bosom  of  God,  and  whose  voice  the 
harmony  of  the  world,’*  in  a  most  unhappy 
manner,  becomes  a  law  unto  himself,  multiply¬ 
ing  observances,  which  have  nothing  to  recom¬ 
mend  them,  but  their  irksomeness  or  uncouth¬ 
ness  ;  and  acting,  as  if  the  way  to  propitiate  his 
Maker  were  by  tormenting  himself.  He,%n  the 
contrary,  in  whom  the  hopeful  passions  are  pre¬ 
valent,  no  less  naturally  misconceives  what 
God  has  promised  and  pleases  himself  with  the 
prospect,  or  persuades  himself  into  the  imagi¬ 
nary  possession,  of  extraordinary  influences 
and  supernatural  communications.  Both,  it  is 
evident,  mean  to  pursue  religion,  but  neither 
has  sufficient  judgment  to  ascertain  its  real 
nature.  Perhaps,  in  general,  some  mental  mor¬ 
bidness  is  at  the  bottom,  which,  when  of  the 
depressive  kind,  disposes  to  the  superstitious 
view  of  religion,  and  when,  of  the  elevating 
kind,  to  the  enthusiastical. 

Religion,  the  religion  of  the  Scriptures,  is 
itself  an  exquisite  temperament,  in  which  all 
the  virtues,  of  which  man  is  capable,  are  har¬ 
moniously  blended.  He,  therefore,  who  studies 
the  Scriptures,  and  draws  thence  his  ideas  and 
sentiments  of  religion,  takes  the  best  method  to 
escape  both  enthusiasm  and  superstition.  Even 
infidelity  is  no  security  against  either.  But  it 
is  absolutely  impossible  for  an  intelligent  vo¬ 
tary  of  scriptural  Christianity  to  be  in  any  re¬ 
spect  fanatical.  True  fanatics,  therefore,  are 
apt  to  neglect  the  Scriptures,  except  so  far  as 
they  can  turn  them  to  their  own  particular  pur¬ 
pose.  The  Romish  church,  for  example,  be¬ 
came  negligent  of  the  Scriptures,  riearly  in  pro¬ 
portion  as  it  became  superstitious.  And  everjr 
striking  instance  of  enthusiasm,  if  inquired  into, 
will  be  found  to  exemplify  the  same  dereliction. 
In  a  word,  Christianity  is  eternal  ^ruth,  and 
they  who  soar  above  truth,  as  well  as  they  who 
sink  below  it,  equally  overlook  the  standard  by 
which  rational  action  is  to  be  regulated  :  where¬ 
as  to  adhere  steadily  to  this,  is  to  avoid  all  ex¬ 
tremes,  and  escape,  not  only  the  tendency  to¬ 
ward  pernicious  excess,  but  any  danger  of  fall¬ 
ing  into  it. 

Did  we  accustom  ourselves  to  exact  defini¬ 
tions,  we  should  not  only  call  the  disorderly 
religionist  an  enthusiast ;  we  should  also  feel, 
that  if  irrational  confidence,  unfounded  expec¬ 
tations,  and  assumptions  without  a  basis,  be 
enthusiasm,  then  is  the  term  most  justly  appli¬ 
cable  to  the  mere  worldly  moralist.  For  does 
not  he  wildly  assume  efects  to  be  produced 
without  their  proper  means,  who  looks  for  vir¬ 
tue  without  piety,  for  happiness  without  holi¬ 
ness  ;  for  reformation  without  repentance ;  for 
repentance  without  divine  assistance  ;  for  divine 
assistance  without  prayer ;  and  for  acceptance 
with  God  without  regard  to  that  Mediator,  whom 
God  has  ordained  to  be  our  great  high  priest  ? 

But,  while  accuracy  of  definition  is  thus  re¬ 
commended,  let  it  not  be  forgotten,  that  there 
is  need  on  all  sides  of  exercising  a  candid  judg¬ 
ment.  Let  not  the  conscientious  Christian  sus- 

*  Hooker’s  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  conclusion  of  tlw 
first  book. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


95 


pect,  that  the  advocate  for  morality  intends  by 
the  term  to  depreciate  religion,  unless  it  appear 
that  he  makes  morality  the  root  as  well  as  the 
produce  of  goodness. — Nor  let  the  moralist, 
whose  affections  are  less  lively,  and  whose  views 
are  less  elevated,  deem  the  religious  man  a 
fanatic,  because  he  sometimes  adopts  the  lan¬ 
guage  of  Scripture  tor  express  feelings  to  which 
human  terms  are  not  always  adequate.  We 
mean  not  to  justify,  but  to  condemn,  as  a  gross 
defect  of  good  sense,  as  well  as  of  taste  and 
elegance,  that  ill-conditioned  phraseology,  which, 
by  disfiguring  the  comeliness  of  piety,  lessens  its 
dignity,  and  injures  its  interests.  Doubtless, 
a  good  understanding  cannot  be  more  usefully 
exercised,  nor  can  the  effects  of  mental  cultiva¬ 
tion  be  better  shown,  than  in  bringing  every 
aid  of  a  sound  judgment,  and'  every  grace  of  a 
correct  style  into  the  service  of  that  divine  re¬ 
ligion,  which  does  not  more  contain  all  that  is 
just  and  pure,  than  it  coalesces  with  all  that  is 
‘  lovely,  and  of  good  report.’ 

The  too  frequent  abuse  of  such  terms  as  mo¬ 
deration,  candour,  toleration,  S^e.  should  be 
pointed  out  to  those  whose  high  station  pre¬ 
vents  their  communication  with  the  world  at 
large.  It  should  be  explained,  that  moderation, 
in  the  new  dictionary,  means  the  abandonment 
of  some  of  the  most  essential  doctrines  of  Chris¬ 
tianity. — That  candour  in  the  same  scliool  of 
philology,  denotes  a  latitudinarian  indifference, 
as  to  the  comparative  merits  of  all  religious 
systems. — That  toleration  signifies  such  a  low 
idea  of  the  value  of  revealed  truth,  and  perhaps 
such  a  doubt  even  of  its  existence,  as  makes  a 
man  careless,  whether  it  be  maintained  or 
trampled  on,  vindicated  or  calumniated. — A 
toleration  of  every  creed  generally  ends  in  an 
indifference  to  all,  if  it  does  not  originally 
spring  from  a  disbelief  of  all.  Even  the  noble 
term  rational,  which  so  peculiarly  belongs  to 
true  religion,  is  frequently  used  to  strip  Chris¬ 
tianity  of  her  highest  attributes  and  her  sub- 
limest  energies,  as  if  in  order  to  be  rational, 
divine  influences  must  be  excluded.  Or,  as  if 
it  were  either  suitable  to  our  necessities,  or 
worthy  of  God,  that  when  he  was  giving  ‘  his 
word  to  be  a  light  to  our  paths,’  he  should  make 
that  light  a  kind  of  moral  moonshine,  instead  of 
accompanying  it  with  such  a  vital  warmth,  as 
might  invigorate  our  hearts,  as  well  as  direct 
our  footsteps. 

Though  it  would  be  absurd  for  a  prince  to 
become  a  wrangling  polemic  like  Henry  VIII. 
or  ‘  a  royal  doctor,’  like  the  first  James  ;  yet  he 
should  possess  so  much  information,  as  to  be 
enabled  to  form  a  reasonable  judgment  between 
contending  parties,  and  to  know  the  existing 
state  of  religion.  And,  that  he  may  learn  to  de¬ 
tect  the  artifices  of  men  of  loose  principles,  he 
should  bo  apprised,  that  the  profane  and  the 
pious  do  not  engage  on  equal  terms.  That  the 
carelessness  of  the  irreligious  gives  him  an  ap¬ 
parent  air  of  good  humour,  and  his  levity  the 
semblance  of  wit  and  gayety  ;  while  his  Chris¬ 
tian  adversary  ventures  not  to  risk  his  soul  for 
a  bon-mot,  nor  dares  to  be  witty  on  topics  which 
concern  his  eternal  interests. 

It  will  be  important,  on  the  other  hand,  to 
show  that  it  is  very  possible  to  be  zealous  for 


religious  opinions,  without  possessing  any  re¬ 
ligion  ;  nay,  that  a  fiery  religious  zeal  has  been 
even  found  compitable  with  the  most  flagitious 
morals.  The  church  of  Rome  so  late  as  the 
sixteenth  century,  presented  numberless  ex¬ 
amples  of  men,  whose  lives  were  a  tissue  of 
vices,  which  cannot  so  much  as  be  named,  who 
yet,  at  the  risk  of  life,  would  fight  in  defence  of 
a  ceremony,  for  the  preservation  of  a  conse 
crated  vase,  or  a  gift  devoted  to  a  monastery. 

To  show  that  it  is  possible  to  be  zealous  for 
religious  opinions,  without  being  religious,  we 
need  not  look  back  to  the  persecuting  powers 
of  Pagan  or  Papal  Rome ;  nor  need  we  select 
our  instances  from  the  disciples  of  Dominic ; 
nor  from  such  monsters  as  Catharine  di  Medici ; 
nor  from  such  sanguinary  bigots  as  the  narrow- 
souled  Mary,  nor  the  dark-minded  Philip.  Ex¬ 
amples  from  persons  less  abhorrent  from  hu¬ 
man  feelings,  more  mixed  characters,  the  dark 
shades  of  whose  minds  are  blended  with  lighter 
strokes,  and  whose  vices  are  mitigated  with 
softer  qualities,  may  be  more  properly  consider¬ 
ed,  as  approaching  nearer  to  the  common  stand¬ 
ard  of  human  life. 

That  a  prince  may  be  very  zealous  for  re¬ 
ligious  opinions  and  observances,  and  yet  be  so 
defective  in  moral  virtue,  as  to  be  both  person¬ 
ally  and  politically  profligate,  is  exemplified  in 
our  second  James,  who  renounced  three  king¬ 
doms  for  his  religion,  yet  neither  scrupled  to 
live  in  the  habitual  violence  of  the  seventh  com¬ 
mandment,  nor  to  employ  the  inhuman  Jefferies 
as  his  chancellor. 

Harlai,  archbishop  of  Paris,  distinguished 
himself  by  his  zeal  in  attacking  heresy :  so  all 
religion  was  called  except  that  of  the  Jesuits. 
His  activity  proceeded  from  no  love  of  piety, 
but  from  a  desire  to  make  his  way  at  court, 
where  zeal,  just  then,  happened  to  be  the  fash¬ 
ion.  His  religious  activity  however,  neither 
prevented,  nor  cured,  the  notorious  licentious¬ 
ness  of  his  moral  conduct.*  The  king,  his 
master,  fancied,  that  to  punish  Jansenism,  was 
an  indubitable  proof  of  religion  ;  but  to  persecute 
protestantism,  he  conceived  to  be  the  consum 
mation  of  piety.  What  a  lesson  for  princes,  to 
see  him,  after  the  revocation  of  the  edict  of 
Nantz,  gratefully  swallowing  the  equally  false 
and  nauseous  compliments  of  his  clergy,  for 
having,  to  borrow  their  own  phrase,  without 
violent  hands  made  the  whole  kingdom  of  one 
opinion,  and  united  all  his  subjects  to  the  faith  of 
Rome  !  Iniquitous  flattery,  when  four  millions 
of  those  subjects  were  either  groaning  under 
torture,  or  flying  into  exile ;  turning  infidels,  if 
they  resolved  to  retain  their  property  ;  or  chain¬ 
ed  to  the  gallies,  if  they  preferred  their  con¬ 
science  to  their  fortune ! 

As  the  afflicted  Hugonots  were  not  permitted 
to  carry  their  complaints  to  the  foot  of  the 
throne,  the  deluded  king  fancied  his  bloody 
agents  to  be  mild  ministers,  and  the  tortured 
protestants  to  be  mischievous  heretics.  But, 

■*  It  was  a  fact  well  known  at  the  court  of  Versailles, 
that  inadatne  de  Montespan,  during  the  loiifi  period  in. 
which  sill!  continued  the  favourite  inistress  of  the  king, 
by  whom  she  had  seven  children,)  was  so  strict  in  her 
religious  observances,  that,  lest  she  should  violate  tJio 
austerity  of  fasting,  her  bread,  during  Lent,  was  con 
Etautly  weighed. 


^6 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


though  the  kingdom  was,  in  many  parts,  nearly 
^depopulated  by  exile  and  executions,  the  sword, 
as  usual,  made  not  one  proselyte.  The  subjects 
were  tortured,  but  they  were  not  converted. 
The  rack  is  a  bad  rhetorician.  The  gallies  may 
harrass  the  body,  but  do  not  convince  the  under¬ 
standing,  nor  enforce  articles  of  faith.* 

Under  all  these  crimes  and  calamities,  Louis, 
as  a  French  memorialist  observes;  was  not 
ashamed  to  hear,  what  Boileau  was  not  ashamed 
to  sing, 

L’Univers  sous  ton  regne  a-t-il  des  Malheureux  ? 

Colbert,  who  was  a  wise  man,  might  have  taught 
his  royal  master,  that  in  this  persecution  there 
was  as  little  policy  as  piety,  and  that  he  was  not 
only  injuring  his  conscience,  but  his  country. 
By  banishing  so  many  useful  subjects,  he  impo¬ 
verished  the  state  doubly,  not  only  by  robbing 
it  of  the  ingenuity,  the  manufactures,  and  the 
labours  of  such  multitudes,  but  by  transferring 
to  hostile  countries  all  the  industry  and  talents 
which  he  was  driving  from  his  own.  If  the 
treachery  of  detaining  the  protestants  under 
•false  promises,  which  were  immediately  violated, 
is  to  be  charged  on  Louvois,  the  crime  of  blindly 
confiding  in  such  a  minister  is  to  be  charged  on 
the  king. 

How  little  had  this  monarch  profited,  by  the 
example  given,  under  similar  circumstances,  by 
Louis  XII.  When  some  of  the  pious  Waldenses, 
while  they  were  improving  his  barren  land  in 
[Provence  by  their  virtuous  industry,  had  been 
grievously  persecuted,  through  false  representa¬ 
tions;  that  prudent  prince  commanded  the  strict-' 
est  inquiry  to  be  made  into  their  real  character ; 
the  result  was,  that  he  was  so  perfectly  convinced 
of  their  innocence,  that  he  not  only  protected 
them  during  the  rest  of  his  reign,  but  had  the 
magnanimity  to  declare,  that  ‘  they  were  better 
men  than  himself  and  his  catholic  subjects.’ 

Happy  had  it  been  for  himself  and  for  the 
world,  if  the  emperor  Charles  V.  had  instituted 
the  same  inquiries  !  Happy,  if  in  the  meridian 
of  his  power  he  had  studied  the  character  of 
mankind  to  as  good  purpose,  as  he  afterwards, 
in  his  monastic  retreat,  studied  the  mechanism 
of  watches  !  Astonished  to  find,  that  after  the 
closest  application,  he  never  could  bring  any  two 
to  go  just  alike,  he  expressed  deep  regret  at  his 
own  folly,  in  having  bestowed  so  much  time  and 
pains  in  the  fruitless  attempt  of  bringing  man¬ 
kind  to  an  exact  uniformity  in  their  religious 
opinions.  But,  the  discovery  was  made  too  late  ; 
he  ended  where  he  should  have  begun. 


HAP.  XXXV. 

The  Reformation. 

In  order  to  increase  the  royal  pupil’s  reverence 
for  Christianity,  before  she  is  herself  able  to  ap- 

♦  Louvois  and  his  master  would  have  done  wisely  to 
have  adopted  the  opinion  of  those  two  great  ministers  of 
Henry  IV.  who,  when  pressed  to  persecute,  replied  that 
Tihey  thought  ‘  it  better  to  have  a  peace  which  had  two 
religions,  than  a  war  which  had  none.’ 


predate  its  value,  she  should  be  taught,  that  it 
did  not  steal  into  the  world  in  the  days  of  dark¬ 
ness  and  ignorance,  when  the  spirit  of  inquiry 
was  asleep;  but  appeared  in  the  most  enlightened 
period  of  the  Roman  empire.  That  its  light 
dawned,  not  on  the  remoter  regions  of  the  earth, 
but  on  a  province  of  that  empire,  whose  peculiar 
manners  had  already  attracted  much  notice,  and 
whose  local  situation  placed  it  particularly  with¬ 
in  the  view  of  surrounding  nations.  Whereas 
the  religion  of  Mahomet  and  the  corruptions  of 
popery,  which  started  up  almost  together,  arose 
when  the  spirit  of  investigation,  learning,  and 
philosophy,  had  ceased  to  exert  itself.  That, 
during  those  dark  ages,  both  Christianity  and 
human  learning  were  nearly  extinguished  ;  and 
that,  as  both  had  sunk  together,  so  Both  together 
awoke  from  their  long  slumber.  The  restora 
tion  of  letters  was  the  restoration  of  religion  al 
so ;  the  free  access  to  the  ancient  authors  being 
one  grand  instrument  of  the  revival  of  pure 
Christianity. 

The  learning  which  existed  in  the  church  an¬ 
tecedently  to  the  Reformation,  was  limited  to 
very  few,  and  was  in  the  general,  but  meagre 
and  superficial ;  and  the  purposes  to  which  it 
was  confined,  formed  an  effectual  obstacle  to 
substantial  improvement.  Instead  of  being  em 
ployed  in  investigatiiig  the  evidences  of  Chris¬ 
tianity,  or  in  elucidating  the  analogy  of  Christian 
principles,  with  the  laws  of  the  natural,  and  the 
exigencies  of  the  moral  world,  it  was  pressed 
into  the  service  of  what  was  called  school  divi¬ 
nity  ;  a  system,  which  perhaps  had  providen¬ 
tially  been  not  without  its  uses  at  a  previous 
period,  especially  when  under  the  discretion  of 
a  sound  and  upright  mind,  as  having  served 
both  to  elicit  and  exercise  the  intellect  of  a  ruder 
age.  Study  and  industry,  however  they  may  be 
misapplied,  are  always  good  in  themselves ;  and 
almost  any  state  is  better  than  hopeless  inanity. 
These  schoolmen  perhaps  sustained  the  cause 
of  Religion,  when  she  might  utterly  have  sunk, 
though  with  arms  little  suited  to  make  their 
support  effectual,  or  to  produce  solid  practical 
benefit,  either  to  the  church  or  the  people.  Some 
of  the  earlier  scholastic  divines,  though  tedious, 
and  somewhat  trifling,  were,  however,  close  rea- 
soners,  as  well  as  pious  men,  though  they  after¬ 
wards  sunk  in  rationality,  as  they  increased  in 
quibbling  and  subtlety.  Yet,  defective  as  their 
efforts  were,  they  had  been  useful,  as  they  had 
contributed  to  oppose  infidelity,  and  to  keep 
alive  some  love  of  piety  and  devotion,  in  that 
season  of  drowsy  inactivity.  But,  at  the  period 
to  which  we  refer,  their  theology  had  become 
little  better  than  a  mazy  labyrinth  of  trivial,  and 
not  seldom  of  pernicious  sophistry.  Subtle  dis¬ 
quisitions,  metaphysical  niceties,  unintelligible 
obscurities,  and  whimsical  distinctions,  were 
substituted  in  the  place  of  revealed  truth ;  for 
revealed  truth  was  not  sufficiently  intricate  for 
the  speculations  of  those  puzzling  theologians, 
of  whom  Erasmus  said,  that,  ‘  they  had  brought 
it  to  be  a  matter  of  so  much  wit  to  l)e  a  Chris¬ 
tian,  that  ordinary  heads  were  not  able  to  reach 
it.’ — And,  as  genuine  Christianity  was  not  suffi¬ 
ciently  ingenious  for  these  whimsical  doctors, 
neither  was  it  sufficiently  pliant  and  accommo¬ 
dating  to  suit  the  corrupt  state  of  public  morals 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


97 


Almost  entirely  overlooking  the  Scriptures, 
^the  school-men  had  built  schemes  and  systems 
on  the  authority  of  the  fathers,  some  of  them 
spurious  ones.  The  philosophy  of- Aristotle  had 
also  been  resorted  to  for  some  of  the  chief  mate¬ 
rials  of  the  system  ;  so  that  as  the  author  of  the 
History  of  the  Council  of  Trent  informs  us,  ‘  if 
it  had  not  been  for  Aristotle,  the  church  had 
wanted  for  many  articles  of  faith.’ 

The  early  reformers  defeated  these  sophisters, 
by  opposing  to  their  unsubstantial  system,  the 
■plain  unadulterated  Bible.  The  very  text  of 
holy  Scripture,  and  the  most  sober,  rational,  and 
simple  deductions  from  thence,  furnished  the 
ground  work  of  their  arguments.  And  to  this 
noble  purpose  thej’  applied  that  sound  learning, 
which  Providence  had  caused  to  revive  just  at 
the  necessary  period.  Their  skill  in  the  Greek 
and  Hebrew  languages  enabled  them  to  read  the 
original  Scriptures,  and  to  give  correct  transla¬ 
tions  of  them  to  the  public.  And,  in  this  respect, 
■they  had  an  important  advantage  over  the  school 
divines,  who  did  not  understand  the  language  in 
■which  their  master  Aristotle  had  written.  It  is 
no  wonder,  if  an  heterogeneous  theology  should 
have  been  compounded  out  of  such  discordant 
'materials  as  were  made  up  from  spurious  fa¬ 
thers,  and  an  ill-understood  pagan  philosopher. 
The  works  of  this  great  author,  which,  by  an 
inconsistency  not  uncommon  in  the  history  of 
man,  had  not  long  before  been  prohibited  by  a 
papal  decree,  and  burnt  by  public  authority, 
came,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  to  be  considered 
as  little  less  than  canonical ! 

But  this  attachment  to  sophistry  and  jargon 
was  far  from  being  the  worst  feature  of  the  pe¬ 
riod  in  question.  The  generality  of  the  clergy 
were  sunk  into  the  grossest  ignorance,  of  which 
instances  are  recorded  scarcely  credible  in  our 
day  of  general  knowledge.  It  is  difficult  to  say 
whether  the  ecclesiastics  had  more  entirely  dis¬ 
carded  useful  learning,  or  Scripture  truth.  In 
the  place,  therefore,  of  the  genuine  religion  of 
the  Bible,  they  substituted  false  miracles,  lying 
legends,  purchased  pardons,  and  preposterous 
penances.  A  procedure  which  became  the  more 
popular,  as  it  introduced  a  religion  which  did 
not  insist  on  the  inconvenient  appendage  of  a 
good  life ;  those  who  had  money  enough,  easily 
procured  indemnity  for  a  bad  one ;  and  to  the  pro¬ 
fligate  and  the  affluent,  thepurchase  of  good  works 
•was  certainly  more  agreeable  than  the  practice. 

We  are  far  from  asserting,  that  there  were  no 
mixtures  of  infirmity  in  the  instruments  which 
accomplished  the  great  work  of  the  reformation. 
They  were  fallible  men.  But  it  is  now  evident 
“to  every  sincere  inquirer,  that  many  of  their 
transactions,  which  have  been  represented  by 
their  adversaries  as  corrupt  and  criminal,  only 
appeared  such  to  those  who  did  not  take  their 
motives,  and  the  critical  circumstances  of  the 
times,  into  the  account,  or  who  had  an  interest 
in  misrepresenting  them.  Many  of  those  ac¬ 
tions,  which,  through  false  colourings  were 
made  to  appear  unfavourable,  are  now  clearly 
proved  to  have  been  virtuous  and  honourable  ; 
especially  when  we  take  the  then  situation  of 
things,  and  the  flagitious  conduct  of  the  priests  , 
and  pontiffs  with  whom  they  had  to  deal  into 
'the  account. 

Von.  II.  G 


5,  Mr.  Hume  has  been  among  the  foremost  to 
s  revive  and  inflame  the  malignant  reports  re¬ 
el  specting  them.  He  allows  indeed  the  inJlexibLe 
d  intrepidity  with  which  they  Iraved  dangers,  tor- 
:-  tures,  and  even  death  itself.  But  still  they  were, 
e  in  his  estimation,  the  ‘fanatical  and  enraged  re- 
'  formers.’  And  he  carefully  suggests,  through 
i  the  course  of  history,  that  fanaticism  is  the  cha- 
racteristic  of  the  protestant  i-eligion.  The  terms 
1,  ‘protestant  fanaticism,’  and  ‘  fanatical  churches,’ 

3  he  repeatedly  uses.  He  has  even  the  temei  ity 
’  to  assert,  in  contradiction  to  all  credible  testi- 
i  mony,  that  the  reformers  placed  all  merit  in  a 
3  mysterious  species  of  faith,  in  inward  vision, 
s  rapture,  and  ecstacy.’  A  charge,  to  say  nothing 
,  of  truth  and  candour,  unworthy  of  Mr.  Hume’s 
t  good  sense,  and  extensive  means  of  information 
^  For  there  is  no  fact  better  known,  than  that 
3  these  eminently  wise  men  never  pretended  to 
-  illuminations  and  impulses.  What  they  under- 
,  took  honestly,  they  conducted  soberly.  They 
1  pretended  to  no  inspiration  ;  they  did  not  even 
1  pretena  to  introduce  a  new,  but  only  to  restore 
3  to  its  primitive  purity  ‘  the  oZd  religion.’  They 
1  respected  government,  practised  and  taught  sub- 
t  mission  to  civil  rulers,  and  desired  only  the 
.  liberty  of  that  conscience  which  God  has  made 
.  free.* 

I  But  though  in  accomplishing  the  great  work 
of  the  reformation,  reason  and  human  wisdom, 

L  were  most  successfully  exercised ;  though  the 
,  divine  interference  w'as  not  manifested  by  the 
I  working  of  miracles,  or  the  gift  of  supernatural 
endowments  ;  yet  who  can  doubt,  that  this  great 
1  work  was  directed  by  the  hand  of  heaven,  especi- 
.  ally  when  we  consider  the  wonderful  predisposi- 
'  tion  of  causes,  the  extraordinary  combination  of 
I  circumstances,  the  long  chain  of  gradual  but  enn- 
•  stantly  progressive  occurrences,  by  w'hich  this 
'  grand  event  was  brought  about  ?  The  succes 
sive  as  well  as  contemporary  production  of  sin- 
I  gular  characters,  calculated  to  promote  its  gene¬ 
ral  accomplishment,  and  each  peculiarly  fitted 
'  for  his  own  respective  work  !  So  many  uncon- 
scious  or  unwilling  instruments  made  subservi-  ' 
ent  to  one  great  purpose  ! — Friends  and  ene¬ 
mies,  even  Mussulmen  and  popes,  contributing, 
certainly  without  intending  it,  to  its  advance¬ 
ment  ! — Mahomet  banishing  learning  from  the 
east,  that  it  might  providentially  find  a  Shelter 
in  these  countries,  where  the  new  opinions  were 
to  be  propagated  ! — Several  successive  sovereign 
pontiffs,  collecting  books  and  patronizing  that 
literature  which  was  so  soon  to  be  directed 
against  their  own  domination  ! — But  above  all, 
the  multiplication  of  contemporary  popes,  weak¬ 
ening  the  reverence  of  the  people,  by  occasioning 
a  schism  in  the  church,  and  exhibiting  i^s  seve¬ 
ral  heads  wandering  about,  under  the  ludicrous 
circumstance  of  each  claiming  infallibility  for 
himself,  and  denying  it  to  his  competitor  — In¬ 
fallibility,  thus  split,  was  discredited,  and  in  a 
manner  annihilated. — To  these  preparatory  cir¬ 
cumstances  we  may  add  the  infatuation,  or  ra- 

*  See  an  excellent  appendix  toMnsheini’a  Ecclesiasti. 
cal  History,  vol.  iv.  paje  130,  on  the  spirit  of  thn  re 
formers,  and  the  injustice  of  Mr.  lliiriie,  hy  that  truly 
elegant,  candid,  and  accomplished  scholnr,  and  most 
amiable  man,  the  late  Rev  Dr.  Archibald  Macleine, 

The  lover  and  the  love  of  human  kind 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MURE, 


.^S 

ther  judicial  blindness,  of  the  papal  power  :  the 
errors,  even  in  worldly  prudence,  committed  by 
Leo,  a  pontiff  otherwise  of  admirable  talents  ! — 
The  half  measures  adopted,  at  one  time,  of  inef¬ 
ficient  violence ;  at  another,  of  ineffectual  lenity! 

The  temporary  want  of  sagacity  in  an  eccle- 
siastical  court,  which  was  usually  remarkable 
for  political  acuteness ! — The  increasing  apti¬ 
tude  of  men’s  minds  to  receive  truth,  in  propor¬ 
tion  as  events  occurred  to  mature  it ! — Some 
who  loved  learning,  and  were  indifferent  to  re¬ 
ligion,  favouring  the  reformation  as  a  cause 
connected  with  good  letters  ;  the  old  doctrines 
becoming  united  with  the  idea  of  ignorance,  as 
the  new  ones  were  with  that  of  knowledge  ! — 
The  preparatory  invention  of  printing,  without 
which  the  revival  of  learning  would  have  been 
of  little  general  use,  and  the  dispersion  of  the 
Scriptures  slow,  and  inconsiderable ! — Some 
able  and  keen-sighted  men,  working  vigorously 
from  a  perception  of  existing  abuses,  who  yet 
wanted  sufficient  zeal  for  the  promotion  of  reli¬ 
gious  truth ! 

The  pointed  wit,  the  sarcastic  irony,  and 
powerful  reasoning  of  Erasmus,  together  with 
his  profound  theological  learning,  directed 
against  the  corruptions  of  the  Church,  with  such 
force  as  to  shake  the  credit  of  the  clergy,  and  to 
be  of  the  utmost  service  to  that  cause,  which  he 
wanted  the  righteous  courage  systematically  to 
defend  !*  The  unparalleled  zeal,  abilities,  and 
integrity  of  Luther !  His  bold  genius,  and  ad¬ 
venturous  spirit,  not  contenting  itself,  as  the 
other  reformers  had  done,  with  attacking  noto¬ 
rious  errors,  and  stigmatising  monstrous  abuses; 
but  sublimely  exerted  in  establishing,  or  rather 
restoring  the  great  fundamentals  ofChristianity! 
While  Erasmus,  wjth  that  truly  classic  taste  of 
which  he  was  the  chief  reviver,  so  elegantly  sa¬ 
tirized  the  false  views  of  God  and  religion, 
which  the  Romish  church  entertained,  Luther’s 
aim  was  to  acquire  true  Scriptural  notions  of 
both.  Ridicule  served  to  expose  the  old  religion, 
but  something  nobler  was  necessary  to  establish 
the  new. — It  was  for  Erasmus  to  shake  to  its 
foundation  the  monstrous  system  of  indulgences; 
it  remained  for  Luther  to  restore,  not  to  invent,' 
the  doctrine  of  salvation  by  remission  of  sins 
through  a  Mediator. — While  his  predece.ssors, 
and  even  coadjutors,  had  been  satisfied  by  pull¬ 
ing  down  the  enormous  mass  of  corruptions,  the 
mighty  hand  of  the  Saxon  reformer  not  only  re¬ 
moved  the  rubbish,  but  ereeted  a  fair  fabric  of 
sound  doctrine  in  its  place.  The  new  edifice 
arose  in  its  just  symmetry,  and  derives  impreg¬ 
nable  strength,  in  consequence  of  its  having 
been  erected  on  a  broad  foundation.  Nothing 
short  of  the  ardour  of  Luther  could  have  main¬ 
tained  this  great  cause  in  one  stage,  while 
perhaps  the  discreet  temperance  of  Melancthon 
was  necessary  to  its  support  in  another  !  The 
useful  violence  of  Henry  in  attacking  the  people, 

♦  Every  elegant  scholar  must  naturally  be  an  admirer 
of  Erasmus.  We  should  bn  sorry  to  incur  the  censure 
of  any  such  by  regretting,  that  the  wit  and  indignation 
of  this  fine  genius  sometimes  carried  him  to  great 
Inngths.  Impiety,  doubtless,  was  far  from  his  heart, 
yet  in  .some  of  his  Colloquies,  when  he  only  professed  to 
attack  the  errors  of  popery,  reliirion  itself  is  wounded  by 
strokes  which  have  such  a  tendency  to  profaneness,  as 
to  give  pain  to  the  sober  reader. 


with  a  zeal  as  furious  as  if  he  himself  had  nwt 
been  an  enemy  to  the  reformation,  exhibiting  a 
wonderful  illustration  of  that  declaration  of  the 
Almighty^  that  the  fierceness  of  man  shall  turn 
to  his  praise  ! — The  meek  wisdom  of  Cranmer, 
by  which  he  was  enabled  to  moderate  the  other¬ 
wise  uncontrolable  temper  of  his  royal  master ! 
— The  undaunted  spirit  and  matchless  intrepid¬ 
ity  of  Elizabeth,  which  effectually  struggled  for 
and  finally  established  it !  These,  and  a  thou¬ 
sand  other  concurring  circumstances,  furnish 
the  most  unclouded  evidence,  to  every  mind  not 
blinded  by  prejudice,  that  the  divine  Author  of 
Christianity,  was  also,  though  by  the  agency 
of  human  means  and  instruments,  the  Restorer 
of  it. 


CHAP.  XXXVI. 

On  the  importance  of  religious  institutions  and 
observances. — They  are  suited  to  the  nature 
of  Christianity,  and  particularly  adapted  to 
the  character  of  man. 

That  torrent  of  vices  and  crimes  which  the 
French  revolution  has  disembogued  into  society, 
may  be  so  clearly  and  indisputably  traced  to 
the  source  of  infidelity,  that  it  has,  in  a  degree 
become  fashionable  to  profess  a  belief  in  the 
truths,  and  a  conviction  of  the  value  of  Chris¬ 
tianity.  But,  at  the  same  time,  it  has  too  natu¬ 
rally  happened,  that  we  have  fallen  into  the  ha¬ 
bit  of  defending  religion,  almost  exclusively,  on 
political  and  secular  grounds  ;  as  if  Christianity 
consisted  merely  in  our  not  being  atheists  or 
anarchists.  A  man,  however,  may  be  removed 
many  stages  from  the  impiety  of  French  infi¬ 
dels,  and  yet  be  utterly  destitute  of  real  religion. 

Many,  not  openly  profane,  but  even  entertain¬ 
ing  a  respect  for  the  political  uses  of  religion, 
have  a  way  of  generalizing  their  ideas,  so  as  to 
dismiss  the  revelation  from  the  account. — Others 
again,  who  in  this  last  respect  agree  with  the 
former  class,  affect  a  certain  superiority  over 
the  low  contracted  notions  of  churchmen  and 
collegians.  These  assert,  that,  if  virtue  be  prac¬ 
tised,  and  public  order  preserved,  the  motive 
on  which  the  one  is  practised,  and  the  other 
maintained,  is  not  worth  contending  for.  Many 
there  are,  who,  without  formally  rejecting  Chris¬ 
tianity,  talk  of  it  at  large,  in  general,  or  in  the 
abstract. — As  if  it  were  at  once  to  exempt  them¬ 
selves  from  the  trouble  of  religion,  and  to  escape 
the  infamy  of  Atheism,  these  men  affect  to  think 
so  high  of  the  Supreme  Being,  whose  temple  is 
universal  space,  that  he  needs  not  to  be  wor¬ 
shipped  in  temples  made  with  hands.  And  for¬ 
getting  that  the  world  which  he  thouglit  it 
worth  while  to  create,  he  will  certainly  think  it 
worth  while  to  govern,  they  assert,  that  he  is 
too  great  to  attend  to  the  concerns  of  such  petty 
beings  as  we  are,  and  too  exulted  to  listen  to  our 
prayers. — That  it  is  a  narrow  idea  which  we 
form  of  his  attributes,  to  fancy  that  one  day  or 
one  place  is  more  acceptable  to  him  than  ano¬ 
ther. — That  all  religions  are  equally  pleasing 
to  God,  provided  the  worshipper  be  sincere. — 
That  the  establishment  of  a  public  ministry  is 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


99 


perhaps  a  good  expedient  of  political  wisdom, 
for  awing  the  vulgar ;  but  that  every  man  is 
his  own  priest. — That  all  errors  of  opinion  are 
innocent ;  and  that  the  Almighty  is  too  just  to 
punish  any  man  for  merely  speculative  tenets. 

But,  these  lofty  contemners  of  institutions,  ob¬ 
servances,  days,  ordinances,  and  priests,  evince, 
by  their  very  objections,  that  they  are  not  more 
ignorant  of  tlie  nature  of  God,  as  he  has  been 
pleased  to  reveal  himself  in  Scripture,  than  of 
the  character  of  man,  to  whose  dispcjpitions, 
wants,  desires,  distresses,  infirmities,  and  sins, 
the  spirit  of  Christianity,  as  unfolded  in  the 
Gospel,  is  so  wonderfully  accommodated.  This 
admirable  congruity  would  be  of  itself  sufficient, 
were  there  no  other  proof  to  establish  the  divine 
authority  of  our  religion. — Private  prayer,  pub¬ 
lic  wors-bip,  the  observation  of  the  Sabbath,  a 
standing  ministry,  sacramental  ordinances,  are 
all  of  them  so  admirably  adapted  to  those  sub¬ 
limely  mysterious  cravings  of  the  mind,  which 
distinguish  man  from  all  inferior  animals,  by 
rendering  him  the  subject  of  hopes  and  fears, 
which  nothing  earthly  can  realize  or  satisfy, 
that  it  is  difficult  to  say,  whether  these  sacred 
institutions  most  bespeak  the  wisdom  or  the 
goodness  of  that  supreme  benefactor,  who  alone 
could  have  thus  applied  a  remedy,  because  he 
alone  could  have  penetrated  the  most  hidden  re¬ 
cesses  of  that  nature  which  required  it.  Reli¬ 
gion,  in  fact,  is  not  more  essential  to  man,  than, 
in  the  present  state  of  things,  those  appointments 
are  essential  to  religion.  And,  accordingly,  we 
see,  that  when  they  are  rejected,  however  its  un¬ 
profitable  generalities  may  be  professed,  religion 
itself,  practically,  and  in  detail,  is  renounced. 
Nor  can  it  be  kept  alive  in  ereatures  so  abound¬ 
ing  in  moral,  and  so  exposed  to  natural  evil,  by 
mere  metaphysical  distinctions,  or  a  bare  intel¬ 
lectual  conception  of  divinity.  In  beings  whose 
minds  are  so  liable  to  wander,  religion  to  be  sus¬ 
tained,  requires  to  be  substantiated  and  fixed,  to 
be  realized  and  invigorated.  Conscious  of  our 
own  infirmity,  we  ought  to  look  for  every  out¬ 
ward  aid  to  improve  every  internal  grace ;  and 
consequently  ought  gladly  to  submit  to  the  con¬ 
trol  of  habits,  and  the  regularity  of  institutions. 
Even  in  the  common  pursuits  of  life,  our  fugi¬ 
tive  and  unsteady  thoughts  require  to  be  tied 
down  by  exercises,  duties,  and  external  circum¬ 
stances.  And  while  the  same  expedients  are  no 
less  necessary  to  insure  the  outward  observances 
of  religion,  instead  of  obstructing,  they  promote 
its  spirituality ;  for  they  are  not  more  fitted  to 
attract  the  senses  of  the  ignorant,  than  they  are 
to  engage  the  thoughts,  and  fix  the  attention,  of 
the  enlightened.  While,  therefore,  in  order  to 
get  rid  of  imaginary  burdens,  and  suspected  pe¬ 
nalties,  men  are  contending  for  a  philosophical 
religion,  and  an  imaginary  perfection,  of  which 
the  mind,  while  incorporated  with  matter,  is 
little  capable,  they  lose  the  benefit  of  those  salu¬ 
tary  means  and  instruments,  so  admirably  adapt¬ 
ed  to  the  state  of  our  minds,  and  the  constitution 
of  our  nature.  Means  and  instruments,  which, 
on  a  sober  inquiry  into  their  origin,  will  be  found 
as  awfully  sanctioned,  as  they  are  obviously 
suitable ; — in  a  word,  which  will  be  found,  and 
this,  when  proved,  puts  an  end  to  the  controver¬ 
sy,  to  be  the  appointments  of  God  himself. 


The  Almighty  has  most  certainly  declared, 
that  he  will  be  worshipped  in  spirit  and  in  truth, 
But  does  it  therefore  follow,  that  he  will  not  be 
worshipped  in  churches  ? — We  know  that  all  our 
days  are  his,  and  for  the  use  of  all  we  are  ac¬ 
countable  to  him.  But,  docs  this  invalidate  the 
duty  of  making  Sunday  more  peculiarly  his  ? — 
We  are  commanded  to  ‘  pray  without  ceasing  ; 
in  every  thing  to  give  thanks  that  is  to  carry 
about  with  us  a  heart  disposed  to  pray,  and'  a 
spirit  inclined  to  thankfulness  ;  but  is  this  any 
argument  against  our  enjoining  on  ourselves  cer¬ 
tain  stated  times  of  more  regular  prayer,  and 
fixed  periods  of  more  express  thanksgiving  ?  Is 
it  not  obvious,  that  the  neglect  of  the  religious 
observance  of  Sunday,  for  example,  results,  in 
fact,  from  an  irreligious  state  of  the  heart,  how¬ 
ever  gravely  philosophic  reasons  for  the  omis¬ 
sions  may  be  assigned  ?  Is  it  not  obvious  also, 
that  the  very  recurrence  of  appointed  seasons 
serves  to  stir  up  to  the  performance  of  the  duties 
allotted  to  them  ?  The  philosopher  may  deride 
this  as  a  mechanical  religion,  which  requires  to 
have  its  springs  wound  up,  and  stand  in  need  of 
external  impulses  to  set  it  a-going.  But  the 
Christian  feels,  that  though  he  is  neither  to  re¬ 
gulate  his  devotions  by  his  crucifix,  nor  to  cal¬ 
culate  them  by  his  beads,  yet,  while  his  intel¬ 
lectual  part  is  encumbered  with  a  body,  liable 
to  be  misled  by  temptation  without,  and  impeded 
by  corruption  within,  he  stands  in  need  of  every 
supplemental  aid  to  remind,  to  restrain,  and  to 
support  him.  These,  therefore,  are  not  helps 
which  superstition  has  devised,  or  fallible  man 
invented.  Infinite  wisdom,  doubtless,  foreseeing 
that  what  was  left  dependent  on  the  choice  of 
mutual  human  will  to  be  observed,  would  pro¬ 
bably  not  be  observed  at  all,  did  not  leave  such 
a  duty  to  such  a  contingency,  but  established 
these  institutions  as  part  of  his  written  word  ; 
the  lawgiver  himself  also  sanctioning  the  law 
by  his  own  practice. 

It  would  be  well  if  these  men  of  large  views 
and  philosophical  conceptions,  would  consider 
if  there  be  nothing  in  the  very  structure  of  the 
human  mind,  we  had  almost  said,  in  the  very 
constitution  of  nature,  which  might  lead  us  to 
expect,  that  religion  would  have  those  grosser, 
and  more  substantial  parts  and  relations,  which 
we  have  represented  ;  instead  of  being  that  en¬ 
tirely  thin  and  spiritual  essence,  of  which  they 
vainly  dream.  It  was  reserved  for  a  philosopher 
of  our  own  nation  to  show,  that  the  richest  pos¬ 
sessions  of  the  most  capacious  mind  are  only 
the  well  arranged  and  variegated  ideas  which 
originally  entered  in  through  the  medium  of  the 
senses,  or  which  we  derive  from  contemplating 
the  operations  of  our  own  minds,  when  employed 
on  those  ideas  of  sensation.  But,  if  material 
bodies  are  the  sourees  whence  general  know¬ 
ledge  is  derived,  why  is  every  thing  to  be  incor¬ 
poreal  which  respects  religion  ?  If  innate  ideas 
have  no  existence  in  the  human  mind,  why  are 
our  religious  notions  not  to  be  derived  from  ex¬ 
ternal  objects'? 

Plato,  the  purest  of  heatnen  philosophers,  and 
the  nearest  to  those  who  derived  their  light  from 
heaven,  failed  most  essentially  in  reducing  his 
theory  to  practice.  He  seems  to  liave  supposed 
that  we  possess  certain  ready-framed  notions  of 


100 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


every  thing  essential  to  moral  happiness  ;  and 
that  contemplation  of  the  chief  good,  and  sub¬ 
jugation  of  animal  nature,  were  all  that  was 
necessary  to  moral  perfection.  Is  it  not  then 
most  worthy  of  attention,  that  the  holy  Scrip¬ 
ture  differs  from  the  plan  of  the  Grecian  sage, 
just  where  he  himself  differs  from  truth  and 
nature,  as  developed  by  their  most  accurate  ob¬ 
server,  the  sagacious  and  venerated  Locke  ? 
Man,  according  to  this  profound  reasoner,  de¬ 
rives  the  original  stock  of  his  ideas  from  ob¬ 
jects  placed  in  his  view,  which  strike  upon  his 
senses.  Revelation  as  if  on  this  very  principle, 
presents  to  man  impressive  objects.  From  the 
creation  to  the  deluge,  and  still  more  from  the 
call  of  Abraham,  when  we  may  say  that  our 
religion  commences,  to  the  giving  of  the  Holy 
Ghost,  after  our  Saviour’s  ascension,  the  pe*'iod 
in  which  we  may  deem  its  character  completed, 
we  are  instructed  in  a  great  measure,  by  a 
series  of  facts. — In  the  earlier  period,  especially, 
we  do  not  meet  with  theoretic  descriptions  of 
the  divine  nature ;  but  we  see  the  eternal  God 
himself,  as  with  our  mind’s  eye,  visibly  mani¬ 
festing  himself  to  the  patriarchs,  exemplifying 
his  attributes  to  their  senses,  and  by  interpo¬ 
sitions  the  most  impressive,  both  in  a  way  of 
judgment  and  of  mercy,  training  them  to  ap¬ 
prehend  him  ;  in  the  mode  of  all  others  the  most 
accommodated  to  the  weakness  of  human  nature. 

Thus  we  see  a  religion,  in  some  degree  a 
matter  of  fact  religion,  growing  gradually  to  its 
completion;  until  ‘he,  who,  at  sundry  times 
and  in  divers  manners,  had  spoken  to  the  fathers 
by  the  prophets,  spoke  in  these  last  days  by  his 
Son.’ 

And  thus  we  observe  the  first  preachers  of 
Christianity,  not  philosophising  on  abstract 
truths,  but  plainly  bearing  witness  to  vsihat  had 
been  transacted  in  their  presence. — ■*  The  Word 
was  made  flesh,  and  dwelt  among  us,  and  we 
beheld  his  glory,  the  glory  as  of  the  only  beg;ot- 
ten  of  the  Father.’  And  again — ‘  That  which 
we  have  seen  and  heard,  declare  we  unto  you.’ 

This  then  is  the  particular  characteristic  of 
Christianity,  that  from  its  origin  till  its  final 
consummation,  it  considers  man  critically  as  he 
is  ;  and,  that  is,  not  as  he  was  deemed  by  the 
most  enlightened  sages  of  earlier  times,  but  as 
he  has  been  discovered  to  be,  by  one  of  the  most 
penetrating  minds  in  the  world,  seventeen  hun¬ 
dred  years  after  the  Christian  era.  To  this,  now 
universally  acknowledged  notion  of  man,  every 
thing  is  adapted,  both  in  wliat  is  recorded  and 
what  is  enjoined  in  the  Scripture.  Every  obser¬ 
vance  relates  to  facts,  and  is  fitted  to  impress 
them.  To  strip  Christianity,  therefore,  of  any 
of  the  observances,  which  are  really  of  scrip 
tural  appointment,  would  be  to  sublimate  it 
into  philosophical  inefficacy.  In  common  life 
we  see  the  affections  little  engaged  in  abstract 
speculation.  They  then  only  are  moved  when 
those  sensible  images,  which  the  laws  of  nature 
have  made  moving,  are  aptly  presented  to  them. 

What,  for  example,  could  all  the  mathematical 
truth  in  the  world  do,  in  exciting  our  affections, 
compared  with  a  tale  of  human  misery,  or  hu¬ 
man  magnanimity,  even  though  known  to  be 
fabricated  for  our  amusement  ’ — When  Christi- 
tnity  then  is  so  obviously,  in  a  great  measure. 


a  business  of  the  affections,  that  we  are  then 
only  under  its  influence  when  we  love  and  de¬ 
light  in,  as  well  as  assent  to,  or  reason  upon  its 
principles ; — shall  we  cavil  at  that  religion 
which  alone  accomplishes  its  end,  on  account  of 
those  very  features  ofit,  which,  on  every  ground 
of  philosophy,  and  by  every  proof  of  efficacy, 
were  the  fact  to  bo  candidly  investigated,  ren¬ 
der  it  such  as  it  must  be,  in  order  to  answer  its 
purpose  ? 

Th(ye  cannot  be  a  more  conclusive  internal 
evidence  of  our  holy  religion  than  this,  that  in 
every  principle  which  is  established,  in  every 
lesson  which  it  inculcates,  and  in  every  ex¬ 
ample  which  it  offers;  there  is  throughout 
one  character  that  invariably  prevails,  which  is, 
the  truest  and  soundest  good  sense.  The  Scrip¬ 
ture,  while  in  the  main  so  plain  and  simple, 
‘that  he  may  run  that  readeth,’  has  accord¬ 
ingly  been  ever  most  prized  by  its  profoundest 
and  most  sagacious  readers.  And  the  longer 
and  more  attentively  such  persons  have  studied 
it,  the  higher  has  their  estimation  risen.  We 
will  not  adduce  cases  from  that  constellation  of 
shining  lights,  the  learned  churchmen,  whose 
testimony  might  be  objected  to,  from  the  very 
circumstance  which  ought  to  enhance  its  value, 
their  professional  attachment,  because  the  name 
of  Bacon,  Boyle,  and  Locke  is  sufficient. 

It  will  be  found  on  the  most  impartial  scru¬ 
tiny,  that  that  plan  or  practice  which  is  clearly 
opposed  to  Scripture,  is  no  less  really  hostile  to 
right  reason,  and  to  the  true  interests  of  man. 
.\nd  it  is  scarcely  to  be  doubted,  that  if  we  could 
investigate  the  multiform  history  of  individuals 
in  the  Christian  world,  it  would  be  indisputable, 
that  a  deep  impression  of  scripture  facts  and 
principles  had  proved,  beyond  comparison,  the 
most  successful  preservative  against  the  worst 
evils  of  human  life.  Doubtless  it  has  been 
found  most  difficult  to  retain  such  an  impres¬ 
sion  amid  the  business,  and  pleasures,  and  en¬ 
tanglements  of  the  world,  but,  so  far  as  it  has 
been  retained,  it  has  \ieen  uniformly  the  pledge 
of  regularity  in  the  conduct,  peace  in  the  mind, 
and  an  honourable  character  in  society.  Thus 
much  by  way  of  introduction  to  the  following 
chapter. 


HAP.  XXXVII. 

Of  the  eslahlished  church  of  England. 

Christianity  then  only  answers  its  end,  when 
it  is  established  as  a  paramount  principle  in  the 
heart,  purifying  the  desires  and  intentions, 
tranquillizing  the  temper,  enlarging  the  affec¬ 
tion,  and  regulating  the  conduct.  But,  though 
this  alone  be  its  perfect  work,  it  has  subordinate 
operations,  which  are  not  only  valuable  for 
their  direct  results,  but  seem  in  the  order  of 
Providence,  to  be  preliminary  to  its  moio  in¬ 
ward  and  spiritual  efficacy. 

When  we  observe  how  extensive  is  the  out 
ward  profession  of  Christianity,  and  how  ob¬ 
viously  limited  is  a  consistently  Christian  prac¬ 
tice  ;  the  first  emotion  of  a  serious  mind  is  na¬ 
turally  that  of  regret.  But  a  more  considerate 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


101 


view  will  give  occasion  to  other  feelings.  It 
will  be  seen,  that  that  outward  profession  of 
our  holy  religion,  which  is  secured  by  an  estab¬ 
lishment,  is  an  inestimable  blessing  to  a  com¬ 
munity  ;  that  the  public  benefits  which  result 
from  it  are  beyond  reckoning,  besides  the  far 
greater  utility  of  affording  to  each  individual 
that  light  of  information,  and  those  means  of 
religious  worship,  which  duly  used,  will  insure 
his  eternal  salvation. 

That  there  should  therefore  be  a  visible  as 
well  as  an  invisible  church,  an  instituted,  as 
well  as  a  personal  religion,  and  that  the  one 
should  embrace  whole  communities,  while  the 
other  may  extend  to  a  comparative  few,  appears 
not  only  the  natural  consequence  of  Christianity, 
as  a  religious  profession,  spreading  through  so¬ 
ciety,  and  necessarily  transmitted  from  father 
to  son ;  but  it  seems  also  that  kind  of  arrange¬ 
ment  which  divine  wisdom  would  sanction,  in 
order  to  the  continuance  of  Christianity  in  the 
world. 

Thus  much  would  rational  reflection  dictate 
on  a  view  of  the  case ;  but  we  are  not  left  to 
our  own  mere  reasonings.  What  in  itself  ap¬ 
pears  so  probable,  our  Saviour  has  intimated  to 
us  an  essential  part  of  the  divine  plan,  in  several 
of  his  parables.  What  is  the  leaven  hid  in  the 
three  measures  of  meal,  but  real  Christianity 
operating  in  those  happy  individuals  whose 
hearts  and  lives  are  governed  by  its  influence  ? 
And  what  again  is  the  mass  of  meal  with  which 
the  leaven  is  blended,  but  the  great  body  of 
mankind,  who,  by  God’s  gracious  Providence, 
have  been  led  to  assume  the  Christian  profes¬ 
sion,  and  thus  to  constitute  that  Visible  church, 
whose  mixed  character  is  again  shown  in  the 
subsequent  parables  of  the  net  cast  into  the  sea, 
as  well  as  in  that  of  the  wheat  and  the  tares. 

If,  then,  the  public  profession  of  Christianity 
be  thus  explicitly  sanctioned  by  the  divine 
wisdom ;  if  also,  our  own  daily  experience 
shows  it  to  be  most  beneficial  to  society,  as  well 
as  obviously  conducive  to  the  inward  and  spiri¬ 
tual  purposes  of  our  religion  ;  we  must  admit, 
that  the  establishment  which  evidently  secures 
such  profession,  is  an  object  of  inestimable  value. 
It  was  necessary  in  the  order  of  nature,  that 
what  was  to  impregnate  the  world,  should  be 
first  itself  prepared  and  proved.  For  three  cen¬ 
turies,  therefore,  it  pleased  God  to  leave  Chris¬ 
tianity  to  make  its  way,  by  its  own  mere 
strength,  that  by  its  superiority,  both  to  the 
allurenients  and  the  menaces  of  the  world,  to 
all  that  could  be  desired,  and  to  all  that  could 
be  suffered  by  man,  its  true  nature,  and  its 
genuine  energy,  might  be  fbr  ever  demonstrat¬ 
ed  ;  and  its  efficacy  to  assimilate,  at  length,  the 
whole  world  to  itself,- be  evinced,  by  its  restless 
growth,  in  circumstances  the  most  apparently 
desperate. 

During  this  period,  therefbre,  such  instru¬ 
ments  alone  were  used  as  might  serve  to  evince 
more  clearly,  that  the  ‘  excellency  of  the  power 
Avas  of  God,  and  not  of  men.’  But  when  the 
season  had  arrived  when  the  intermixture  was 
to  be  extensively  promoted,  then  another  and 
very  different  agency  was  resorted  to;  when 
the  world  was  to  be  brought  into  the  visible 
Church,  then  the  powers  of  the  world  received 


that  impulse  from  the  hand  of  heaven,  which 
made  them,  in  a  deeper  sense  than  ever  before, 
‘  ministers  of  God  for  good.’ — Then,  for  the  first 
time,  kings  and  princes  embraced  the  profes¬ 
sion  of  Christianity,  and  enjoined  it  by  laws 
and  edicts,  as  well  as  by  still  better  methods,  on 
the  great  body  of  their  subjects. 

How  far  the  national  changes  which  then  took 
place  were  voluntary  or  necessitated,  there  is 
no  occasion  for  us  to  inquire. — ‘  The  good  which 
is  done  upon  the  earth,  God  doeth  it  himself.’ 
And  what  good,  next  to  the  actual  giving  of  the 
Gospel,  has  been  greater  than  the  providential 
blessing  of  the  leaven  of  Christianity  with  the 
great  mass  of  human  society  1  If  the  first  gene¬ 
ration  of  those  nominal  Christians  were  even 
pagans  in  their  hearts,  that  did  not  lessen  the 
greatness  of  the  benefit  to  posterity.  They 
passed  away,  and  their  paganism  passed  away 
with  them;  and  the  light  of  Christianity,  in¬ 
valuable  in  its  immediate,  but  infinitely  more 
so  in  its  ultimate  consequences,  became  the 
entailed  possession  of  these  European  nations, 
under  the  double  guarantee  of  popular  attach¬ 
ment  and  political  power. 

Such  was  the  providential  origin  of  religious 
establishments.  I.et  those  who  object  to  them, 
only  keep  in  their  view,  that,  chain  of  events  by 
which  the  Christian  profession  w'as  made  na¬ 
tional  in  any  country  ;  let  them  also  inquire  the 
fate  of  Christianity  in  those  countries,  where 
either  no  such  establishments  took  place,  or 
where  they  were  overthrown  by  the  ascendancy 
of  the  Mahometan  potentates.  Lastly,  let  them 
reflect  on  the  benefit  and  the  comfort  of  that 
one  single  effect  of  ‘  kings  becoming  nursing- 
fathers,  and  queens  nursing-mothers,’  of  the 
visible  Church,  the  legal  enforcement  of  the 
Christian  Sabbath, — and  then  see  on  what 
grounds,  as  friends  to  good  order,  as  honest 
citizens,  or  as  consistent  Christians,  they  can 
oppose  or  condemn  so  essential  and  so  effectual 
an  instrument  of  the  best  blessings  which  hu- 
man  kind  can  enjoy  ? 

If  then  the  national  establishment  of  Christi¬ 
anity,  even  under  the  most  disadvantageous 
circumstances,  became  the  source  of  invaluable 
benefits  and  blessings  ;  what  estimate  ought  to 
be  formed  of  that  Chr  istian  establishment  in  par¬ 
ticular,  which,  on  the  most  impartial  survey 
of  all  similar  institutions  which  have  been 
known  in  the  Christian  world,  will  be  found  the 
most  admirably  fitted  for  its  purpose  ? 

The  established  ch.urch  of  England  may  not, 
it  is  true,  bear  a  comparison  with  theoretic  per¬ 
fection,  nor  will  it  gain  the  approbation  of  those 
who  require  that  a  visible  should  possess  the 
qualities  of  an  invisible  church,  and  that  every 
member  of  a  national  institution  should  equal 
in  piety,  certain  individual  Christians ;  nor,  in 
any  point  of  view,  can  its  real  character  be  as¬ 
certained,  or  its  just  claims  be  established,  ex¬ 
cept  it  bo  contemplated,  as  a  fixed  institution, 
existing  from  the  period  of  the  reformation  to 
the  present  day,  independently  of  the  variations 
and  discordances  of  the  successive  multitudes 
who  adhered  to  it. 

Let  it  then,  under  this  only  fair  notion  of  it, 
bo  compared  with  all  the  other  national  churches 
of  the  reformation,  and,  on  such  a  comparative 


103 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


view,  its  superiority  will  be  manifest.  The 
truth  is,  our  church  occupies  a  kind  of  middle 
place  ;  neither  multiplying  ceremonies,  nor  af¬ 
fecting  pompousness  of  public  worship  with  the 
Lutheran  church,  nor  rejecting  all  ceremonies 
and  all  liturgical  solemnity  with  the  church  of 
Geneva  ; — a  temperament  thus  singular,  adopted 
and  adhered  to,  in  times  of  unadvanced  light 
and  much  polemical  dissonance,  amid  jarring 
interests  and  political  intrigues,  conveys  the 
idea  of  something  more  excellent  than  could 
have  been  expected  from  mere  human  wisdom. 

A  national  establishment  is  ill-fitted  for  its 
purpose,  if  it  present  nothing  striking  to  the  ex¬ 
ternal  senses  or  imagination.  In  order  to  answer 
its  design,  it  ought  at  once  to  be  so  outwardly 
attractive,  as  to  attach  the  great  mass  of  pro¬ 
fessing  Christians  to  its  ordinances  ;  and  yet  the 
substance  of  these  ordinances  should  be  so  solid 
and  rational,  and  so  spiritual,  as  to  be  fitted  to 
the  farther  and  still  more  important  purpose  of 
infusing  inward  vital  Christianity.  These  eha- 
racters,  we  conceive,  are  exhibited  in  the  Angli¬ 
can  church,  in  a  degree  unexampled  in  any  other 
Christian  establishment.  .She  alone  avoids  all 
extremes.  Though  her  worship  be  wisely  po¬ 
pular,  it  is  also  deeply  spiritual ;  though  simple, 
it  is  sublime.  She  has  rejected  pompous  cere¬ 
monies,  but  she  has  not  therefore  adopted  an 
offensive  negligence.  In  laying  aside  all  that 
was  ostentatious,  she  retained  all  that  is  solemn 
and  affecting.  Her  reasonable  service  peculiarly 
exeraplifies  the  apostle’s  injunction  of  praying 
with  the  understanding  as  well  as  with  the 
heart.  To  both  these  the  chief  attention  is  di¬ 
rected  while  the  imagination  and  the  senses  are 
by  no  means  excluded  from  regard.  It  is  our 
Saviour’s  exquisitely  discriminating  rule  applied 
to  another  subject.  ‘  These’  says  he,  (the 
weightier  matters,)  ‘  ye  ought  to  have  done,  and 
not  to  leave  the  others  undone' 

If  these  remarks  had  nothing  but  opinion  to 
support  them,  a  different  opinion  might  no  less 
fairly  be  opposed  to  them.  But  let  a  matter  of 
fact  question  be  asked.  Which  of  the  protestant 
establishments  has  best  answered  its  end :  In 
other  words — in  w'hich  of  the  protestant  coun¬ 
tries  in  Europe,  have  the  fundamental  truths  of 
Scripture  been  most  strictly  adhered  to,  and  the 
Christian  religion  most  generally  respected  ? 
If  we  inquire  into  the  present  circumstances  of 
protestant  Europe,  shall  wo  not  find  that,  in  one 
class  of  churches  on  the  continent,  the  more 
learned  of  the  clergy  commonly  become  Socini- 
ans  ;  while,  among  the  clergy  of  the  other,  there 
appears  a  strange  tendency  towards  absolute 
deism  ?  Amongst  the  laity  of  both  churches, 
French  principles,  it  may  be  feared,  have  so 
much  prevailed,  as  to  become  in  a  great  mea¬ 
sure  their  own  punishment.  For  to  what  other 
cause  but  a  departure  from  the  faith  of  their  fa¬ 
thers,  can  we  ascribe  their  having  so  totally  lost 
the  ardour  and  resolution,  which  once  distin¬ 
guished  their  communities  ?  Infidelity  takes 
from  the  collective  body  its  only  sure  cement, 
and  from  the  individual  his  only  certain  source 
of  courage.  It  leaves  the  mass  of  the  people 
without  that  possession  to  be  defended,  in  whicli 
all  ranks  and  degrees  are  alike  interested ;  and 
takes  from  the  individual  that  one  principle 


which  alone  can,  at  all  times,  raise  a  human  be. 
ing  above  his  natural  weaknesses,  and  make 
him  superior  both  to  pleasure  and  pain.  While 
religion  was  an  object  with  the  people  alluded 
to,  it  inspired  the  lowest,  as  well  as  the  highest, 
with  a  zeal  to  defend  their  country  against  in¬ 
vaders  who,  if  predominant,  would  have  robbed 
them  of  their  religious  liberty.  But  now,  con¬ 
cern  for  religion  being  too  generally  cooled,  they 
prefer  the  most  disgraceful  ease  to  exertions 
which  would  necessarily  demand  self-denial  and 
might  deprive  them  of  that  only  existence  for 
which  infidels  can  be  concerned. 

Why  is  it  otherwise  in  England  ?  Why  are 
not  we  also  overspread  with  pernicious  princi¬ 
ples  and  sunk  in  base  pusillanimity  ? — The  Ger¬ 
mans  were  once  as  brave,  the  Swiss  once  as  re¬ 
ligious  as  any  of  us ;  but  bravery  and  religion 
seem,  as  far  as  wo  can  learn,  to  have  abandoned 
some  of  those  countries  together.  In  England, 
blessed  be  God  !  things  present  a  very  different 
aspect.  We  have  indeed  much  to  lament,  and 
much,  very  much  to  blame  ;  but  infidelity  does 
not  triumph,  nor  does  patriotism  decline.  Why 
is  it  thus?  Is  it  not  because  the  temperament 
of  the  English  establishment  has  left  no  room 
for  passing  from  one  extreme  to  another ;  be¬ 
cause  its  public  service  is  of  that  stirring  e.xcel- 
lence,  which  must  ever  be  attractive  to  the  im¬ 
pressible  mind,  edifying  to  the  pious  mind,  un¬ 
impeachable  by  the  severest  reasoner,  and  awful 
even  to  the  profligate  ? 

For,  in  enumerating  the  merits  of  our  admi¬ 
rable  esiablishment,  we  must  not  rest  in  the  su¬ 
periority  of  her  forms,  excellent  as  they  are,  but 
must  extend  the  praise,  where  it  is  so  justly  due, 
to  the  still  more  important  article  of  her  doc¬ 
trines.  For  after  all,  it  is  her  luminous  exhibi¬ 
tion  of  Christian  truth,  that  has  been  the  grand 
spring  and  fountain  of  the  good  which  she  has 
produced.  It  is  the  spirituality  of  her  worship, 
— it  is  the  rich  infusion  of  Scripture,* — it  is  the 
deep  confessions  of  sin, — it  is  the  earnest  invo¬ 
cations  of  mercy, — it  is  the  large  enumeration 
of  spiritual  wants,  and  the  abundant  supply  of 
correspondent  blessings,  with  which  her  liturgy 
abounds,  that  are  so  happily  calculated  to  give 
the  tone  of  piety  to  her  children. 

In  forming  this  invaluable  liturgy,  there  was 
no  arrogant  self-conceit  on  the  one  ha«d,  no  re¬ 
linquishment  of  strict  judgment  on  the  other. 
The  errors  of  the  Romish  church  were  to  be  re¬ 
jected,  but  the  treasures  of  ancient  piety  which 
she  possessed,  were  not  to  be  abandoned.  Her 
formularies  contained  devotional  compositions, 
not  more  venerable  for  their  antiquity,  than  va- 
’■’able  for  their  intrinsic  excellence,  being  at 
once  simple  and  energetic,  perspicuous  and  pro¬ 
found.  What  then  was  more  suitable  to  the  so¬ 
ber  spirit  of  reformation,  than  to  separate  those 
precious  remnants  of  ancient  piety  from  their 
drossy  accompaniments, — and,  while  these  last 
were  deservedly  cast  awa}',  to  mould  the  pure 
gold  which  remained  into  a  now  form,  fitted  at 
once  to  interest,  and  edify  the  public  mind  ? 

*  Of  the  vast  importance  of  this  one  circumstance,  an 
early  proof  was  piven.  ‘  t’ranrner,’  says  the  learned  au¬ 
thor  of  the  Elements  of  Christian  Tln-’olopy,  ‘  found  the 
people  so  inqiroved  by  hearinp  the  Epistles  and  Gospels, 
as  to  be  brought  to  bear  the  alterations  he  had  provided. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


103 


It  is  worthy  of  observation,  that  in  all  reforms, 
whether  civil  or  religious,  wise  and  good  men 
prove  themselves  to  be  such,  by  this  infallible 
criterion,  that  they  never  alter  for  the  sake 
OF  ALTERING,  but  in  their  zeal  to  introduce  im- 
Krovements,  are  conscientiously  careful  to  depart 
no  further  from  established  usages,  than  strict 
duty  and  indispensable  necessity  require. 

Instead,  therefore,  of  its  being  any  stigma  on 
our  church  service,  that  it  was  collected  from 
breviaries  and  missals,  it  adds  substantially  to 
its  value.  The  identity  of  true  Christian  piety, 
in  all  ages,  being  hereby  demonstrated,  in  a  way 
as  satisfactory  to  the  judgment,  as  it  is  interest¬ 
ing  to  the  heart.  In  such  a  procedure,  Christian 
liberty  was  united  with  Christian  sobriety  ;  pri¬ 
mitive  piety  with  honest  policy. — A  whole  com¬ 
munity  was  to  be  attached  to  the  new  mode  of 
worship,  and,  therefore,  it  was  expedient  to  break 
their  habits  no  more  than  Christian  purity  de¬ 
manded.  They  only,  however,  who  actually 
compare  those  of  our  prayers  which  are  selected 
from  Romish  formularies,  with  the  originals, 
can  form  a  just  idea  with  what  discriminative 
judgment  the  work  was  executed,  and  what  rich 
improvements  are  often  introduced  into  the  En¬ 
glish  collects,  so  as  to  heighten  the  sentiment, 
yet,  without  at  all  impairing  the  simplicity.  In¬ 
deed,  the  wisdom  and  moderation  of  the  founders 
of  our  church  were  equally  conspicuous  in  the 
whole  of  their  proceedings  ;  never  strenuously 
contending  for  any  points,  not  even  in  that  sum¬ 
mary  of  Christian  doctrines,  which  was  to  be 
the  established  standard,  but  for  such  as  affect¬ 
ed  the  grand  foundations  of  faith,  hope  and  cha¬ 
rity. 

How  honourable  to  our  reformers,  and  to  the 
glorious  work  in  which  they  so  successfully  la¬ 
boured,  tliat  in  the  very  first  formation  of  the 
English  church,  that  care  to  distinguish  between 
essentials  and  non-essentials  should  be  so  strictly 
exercised,  which  the  brightest  philosophical  lu¬ 
minary  in  his  own,  or  perhaps  in  any  age,  some 
years  after,  so  strongly  recommended,  and  so 
beautifully  illustrated.  ‘  We  see  Moses,’  says 
lord  Bacon,  ‘  when  he  saw  the  Israelite  and  the 
Egyptian  fight,  he  did  not  say,  why  strive  ye  ? 
but  drew  his  sword  and  slew  the  Egyptian.  But 
when  he  saw  two  Israelites  fight,  he  said,  you 
arc  brethren,  why  strive  you?  If  the  point  of 
doctrine  be  an  Egyptian,  it  must  be  slain  by  the 
sword  of  the  Spirit ;  but  if  it  be  an  Israelite, 
though  in  the  wrong,  then  why  strive  you  ?  We 
see  of  ihc  fundamental  points  Christ  penneth  the 
league  thus  :  he  that  is  not  aginst  us  is  for  ms.’* 
But  of  points  not  fundamental  thus, — he  that  is 
not  against  us  is  with  us. 

To  the  eternal  praise  then  of  our  reformers, 
as  v/ell  as  with  tlie  deepest  gratitude  to  God,  be 
it  said,  that  in  their  concern  for  matters  of  faith, 
in  which  concern  they  yielded  to  none  of  their 
contemporaries,  they  intermingled  a  charity  in 
which  they  have  excelled  them  all.  And,  in 
conse(|uencc  of  this  radical  and  truly  Cliristian 
'berality,  a  noble  spirit  of  tolerance  has  ever 
peon  the  characteristic  of  genuine  Church  of 
England  divines :  of  those,  I  mean  who  have 
cordially  agreed  with  the  first  reformers,  and 

*  I.ord  Bacon  on  tlie  Advancement  of  Learning,  book 
gecond. 


wished  no  deviation  from  their  principles,  either 
in  doctrine  or  in  worship ;  desiring  neither  to 
add  to,  nor  diminish,  the  comely  order  which 
they  had  established  in  the  public  service  ;  nor 
to  be  dogmatical  where  they  had  been  enlarged  , 
nor  relaxed  where  they  had  been  explicit :  yet 
ready  at  all  times  to  indulge  the  prejudices  of 
their  weaker  brethren,  and  to  grant  to  others 
that  freedom  of  thought,  of  which,  in  their  own 
case,  they  so  fully  understood  the  value.  Our 
first  reformers  were  men  of  eminent  piety,  and, 
happily  for  the  interests  of  genuine  religion,  far 
less  engaged  in  controversy  than  the  divines  of 
the  continent.  Even  those  of  their  own  nation, 
who  differed  from  them  in  lesser  points,  and  with 
whom  they  did  debate,  were  men  of  piety  also, 
and  entirely  agreed  with  them  in  doctrines. 
Hence,  the  strain  of  preaching  in  our  Church 
of  England  divines,  became  less  polemical  and 
more  pious  and  practical,  than  that  of  the  clergy 
of  other  churches.  To  this  end  the  book  of  Ho¬ 
milies  was  highly  conducive,  being  an  excellent 
model  which  served  to  give  the  example  of  use¬ 
ful  and  practical  preaching.  In  this  most  im¬ 
portant  particular,  and  in  that  of  deep  and  con¬ 
clusive  reasoning,  we  may  assign  the  decided 
superiority  to  English  divines,  above  all  those 
of  the  continent,  though  the  latter  may  perhaps, 
in  some  instances,  dispute  with  them  the  palm 
of  eloquence. 

From  divines  of  the  above  character,  happily 
never  wanting  in  any  age,  our  national  establish¬ 
ment  has  ever  derived  its  best  strength  at  home, 
and  its  honour  and  credit  in  foreign  countries. 
These  have  made  the  Anglican  church  looked 
up  to  by  all  the  churches  of  the  reformation. 
Their  learning  has  been  respected, ^heir  wisdom 
hlias  been  esteemed,  their  liberality  has  been  loved 
and  honoured,  their  piety  has  been  revered,  by 
all  of  every  protestant  communion  who  were  ca¬ 
pable  of  discerning  and  improving  excellence ; 
nay,  even  in  the  Romish  communion,  they  have 
sometimes  excited  a  degree  of  estimation,  which 
nothing  could  have  called  forth  but  the  most  in¬ 
disputable  superiority. 

But,  it  is  not  only  in  the  clerical  order  that 
the  kindly  influences  of  the  English  establish¬ 
ment  have  been  manifest ;  they  appear  in  the 
brightest  point  of  view,  in  those  illustrious  lay¬ 
men  whose  labours  have  contributed  not  less  to 
raise  the  British  name,  than  the  achievements, 
unexampled  as  they  have  been,  of  our  armies  or 
our  navies.  On  account  of  these  men,  we  have 
been  termed  by  foreigners,  a  nation  of  philoso¬ 
phers  ;  and,  for  tho  sake  of  their  writings,  Eng¬ 
lish  has  become  not  so  much  a  fashionable  as, 
what  is  far  more  honourable,  a  kind  of  learned 
language  in  almost  every  country  in  Europe. 
Yet,  in  no  wr.lers  upon  earth,  has  a  sense  of 
religion  been  more  evidently  the  very  key-stone 
of  their  excellence.  This  it  is  which  gives  them 
that  sobriety  of  mind,  that  intellectual  conscien¬ 
tiousness,  that  penetrating  pursuit,  not  of  sub¬ 
tlety,  but  of  truth  ;  that  decorous  dignity  of  lan¬ 
guage,  that  cordiality  as  well  as  sublimity  of 
moral  sentiment  and  expression,  which  have 
procured  for  them,  not  merely  the  suffrage  of 
the  understanding,  but  the  tribute  of  the  heart. 

And  let  it  be  attentively  inquired,  how  they 
came  by  Jhis  rare  qualification  ?  how  it  happen. 


1U4 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ed,  that  in  them,  so  much  more  strikingly  than 
in  the  learned  and  philosophical  of  perhaps  any 
otlier  nation,  increase  of  knowledge  did  not  ge¬ 
nerate  scepticism,  nor  the  consciousness  of  their 
mental  strength  inspire  them  with  contempt  for 
the  religion  of  their  country  ?  Was  it  not,  that 
that  religion  was  so  modified,  as  equally  to  en¬ 
dear  itself  to  the  vivid  sensibility  of  youth,  the 
quick  intelligence  of  manhood,  the  matured  re¬ 
flection  of  age  and  wisdom  ?  That  it  did  not  on 
the  one  hand  conceal  the  beauty  and  weaken  the 
sense  of  vital  truth,  by  cumbrous  and  unneces¬ 
sary  adjuncts ; — nor  on  the  other  hand  withhold 
from  it  that  graceful  drapery,  without  which,  in 
almost  all  instances,  the  imagination,  as  it  were, 
instinctively,  refuses  to  perform  its  appropriate 
function  of  conveying  truth  to  the  heart ! — And 
further,  have  not  the  above  invaluable  effects 
been  owing  to  this  also,  that  the  inherent  spirit 
of  Christian  tolerance,  which  has  been  described 
as  distinguishing  our  communion  from  every 
other  national  communion  in  the  world,  by  al¬ 
lowing  to  their  minds  every  just  claim,  has 
taken  the  best  possible  method  of  preventing  in¬ 
tellectual  licentiousness  ?  In  fine,  to  what  other 
causes  than  those  just  stated,  can  we  ascribe  it, 
that  this  country  above  all  others,  has  been  the 
seat  of  philosophy,  unbounded  in  its  researches, 

J'et  modest  in  its  assumptions,  and  temperate  in 
ts  conclusions  ? — Of  literary  knowledge,  not 
only  patiently  pursued,  and  profoundly  explored, 
but  wisely  digested  and  usefully  applied  ? — Of 
religion,  in  its  most  rational,  most  influential, 
most  Christian  shape  and  character  ; — not  the 
dreary  labour  of  superstition,  not  the  wild  deli¬ 
rium  of  fanaticism,  but  the  infallible  guide  of 
reason,  the  iflvincible  guard  of  virtue,  the  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  present  peace,  and  the  assurance  of  fu¬ 
ture  happiness  ? 

But  whatever  providential  causes  have  hither¬ 
to  contributed  among  us  to  restrain  infidelity 
and  profaneness,  have  we  no  reason  to  fear  that 
their  operations  are  growing  less  and  less  pow¬ 
erful?  And  should  we  not  bear  in  mind,  that 
It  is  not  the  form  of  our  church  establishment, 
incomparable  as  that  is,  which  can  alone  arrest 
the  progress  of  danger,  if  there  should  arise  any 
declension  of  zeal  in  supporting  its  best  inter¬ 
ests,  if  ever  there  should  be  found  any  lack  of 
knowledge  for  zeal  to  work  with.  The  charac¬ 
ter  also  of  the  reigning  prince  will  always  have 
a  powerful  effect  either  in  retarding  or  accele¬ 
rating  the  evil. 

One  of  our  most  able  writers  on  history  and 
civil  society,*  is  perpetually  inculcating  that  no 
political  constitution,  no  laws,  no  provision  made 
by  former  ages,  can  ever  secure  the  actual  en¬ 
joyment  of  political  happiness  and  liberty,  if 
there  be  not  a  zeal  among  the  living  for  the  fur¬ 
therance  of  these  objects.  Laws  will  be  mis¬ 
construed  and  fall  into  oblivion  and  ancient 
maxims  will  be  superseded,  if  the  attention  of 
the  existing  generation  be  not  alive  to  the  subject. 

Surely  it  may  be  said,  at  least  with  equal 
,ruth,  that  no  excellence  of  our  religious  esta- 
ishrnent,  no  orthodoxy  in  our  articles,  no,  nor 
ven  that  liturgy  on  whose  excellences  we  have 
elighted  to  expatiate,  can  secure  the  mainte- 
Bance  of  true  religion,  but  in  proportion  as  the 
*  Ferguson.  * 


religious  spirit  is  maintained  in  our  clergy ;  in 
proportion  as  it  is  diffused  among  the  people  ;  in' 
proportion  as  it  is  encouraged  from  the  throne. 

If  such  then  be  the  value,  and  such  the  re¬ 
sults  of  the  English  ecclesiastical  establishment, 
how  high  is  the  destiny  of  that  personage  whom 
the  laws  of  England  recognise  as  its  supreme 
head  on  earth !  How  important  is  it,  that  the 
prince,  charged  with  such  unexampled  trust, 
should  feel  its  weight,’  should  understand  its 
grand  peculiarities,  and  be  habitually  impressed 
with  his  own  unparalleled  responsibility.  To 
misemploy,  in  any  instances,  the  prerogative 
which  this  trust  conveys,  is  to  lessen  the  stabi¬ 
lity,  and  counteract  the  usefulness  of  the  fairest 
and  most  beneficial  of  all  the  visible  fabrics, 
erected  in  this  lower  world !  But  what  an  ac¬ 
count  would  that  prince,  or  that  minister  have 
to  render,  who  should  systematically  debase  this 
little  less  than  divine  institution,  by  deliberately 
consulting,  not  how  the  Church  of  England 
may  be  kept  high  in  public  opinion,  influential 
on  public  morals,  venerable  through  the  meek 
yet  manly  wisdom,  the  unaffected  yet  unble¬ 
mished  purity,  the  energetic  yet  liberal  zeal  of 
its  clergy ; — but,  how  it  may  be  made  subservi¬ 
ent  to  the  trivial  and  temporary  interests  of  the 
prevalent  party,  and  the  passing  hour  ? 

Besides  the  distribution  of  dignities,  and  the 
great  indirect  influence  which  this  affords  the 
prince,  in  the  disposal  of  a  vast  body  of  prefer¬ 
ment  ;  his  wisdom  and  tenderness  of  conscience 
will  be  manifested  also  in  the  appointment  of 
the  chancellor,  whose  church  patronage  is  im¬ 
mense.  And  in  the  discharge  of  that  most  im¬ 
portant  trust,  the  appointment  of  the  highest  dig 
nitaries,  the  monarch  will  not  forget,  that  his 
responsibility  is  proportionably  the  more  awful, 
because  the  exercise  of  his  power  is  less  likely 
lo  be  controuled,  and  his  judgment  to  be  thwart¬ 
ed,  than  may  often  happen  in  the  case  of  his 
political  servants. 

Nor  will  it,  it  is  presumed,  be  deemed  imper¬ 
tinent  to  remark,  that  the  just  administration 
of  this  peculiar  power  may  be  reasonably  ex¬ 
pected  as  much,  we  had  almost  said  even  more, 
from  a  female,  than  from  a  monarch  of  the  other 
sex.  The  bishops  chosen  by  those  three  judi¬ 
cious  queens,  Elizabeth,  Mary,  and  Caroline, 
were  generally  remarkable  for  their  piety  and 
learning.  And  let  not  the  writer  be  suspected 
of  flattering  either  the  queen  or  the  bishop  by 
observing,  that  among  the  wisdom  and  abilities 
which  now'  adorn  the  bench,  a  living  prelate 
high  in  dignity,  in  talents,  and  in  Christian  vir¬ 
tue,  is  said  to  have  owed  his  situation  to  the 
discerning  eye  of  his  present  majesty. 

What  an  ancient  cannon,  cited  by  the  judi¬ 
cious  Hooker,  suggests  to  bishops  on  the  sub 
ject  of  preferment  is  equally  applicable  to  kings 
— It  expressly  forbiddeth  them  to  be  led  by  hu 
man  affection  in  bestowing  the  things  of  God.* 


CHAP.  XXXVIII. 

Superintendence  of  Providence  manifested  in 
the  local  circumstances  and  in  the  cityil  ancs 
religious  history  of  England. 

*  TIk  Ecclesiastical  Polity. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


105 


Among  the  various  subjects  on  which  the 
!nind  of  the  royal  pupil  should  be  exercised, 
there  is  none  more  appropriate,  than  that  which 
might,  perhaps,  be  most  fitly  denominated,  the 
providential  History  of  England.  That  it  has 
not  hitherto  engaged  attention,  in  any  degree 
suitable  to  its  importance,  is  much  more  an 
apology  for  its  being,  in  the  present  instance, 
specially  adverted  to,  than  reason  for  its  being 
any  longer  neglected. 

The  marks  of  divine  interference,  in  the  ge¬ 
neral  arrangement  of  states  and  empires,  are 
rendered  so  luminous  by  the  rays  which  Scrip¬ 
ture  prophecy  has  shed  upon  them,  as  to  strike 
every  mind  which  is  at  once  attentive  and  can¬ 
did,  with  a  force  not  to  be  resisted.  But,  while 
this  indisputable  truth  leads  us  necessarily  to 
infer,  that  a  like  superintendance  to  that  which 
is  over  the  whole,  acts  likewise  respecting  all 
the  separate  parts ;  the  actual  tracing  this  su¬ 
perintendence,  in  the  occurrences  of  particular 
nations,  must,  in  general,  be  a  matter  of  diffi¬ 
culty  and  doubt,  as  that  light  of  prophecy,  which 
falls  so  brightly  on  the  central  dome  of  the 
temple,  cannot  reasonably  be  hoped  for,  when 
we  turn  into  the  lateral  recesses. 

There  are  instances,  however,  in  which  God’s 
providential  works  shine  so  clearly  ‘  by  their 
own  radient  light,’  as  to  demonstrate  the  hand 
which  fashioned,  and  the  skill  which  arranged 
them.  And  though  others  are  of  a  more  doubt¬ 
ful  nature ;  yet,  when  the  attainments  of  any 
one  particular  nation  become  matter  of  general 
influence,  so  that  what  was,  at  first,  the  fruit  of 
merely  local  labour,  or  the  effect  of  a  peculiar 
combination  of  local  circumstances,  becomes 
from  its  obvious  utility  or  intrinsic  excellence 
an  object  to  other  surrounding  countries,  and 
grows  at  length  into  an  universal  benefit ; — in 
such  a  distinction,  we  can  hardly  forbear  to 
trace  something  so  like  a  consistent  plan  of  Ope¬ 
rations  that  the  duty  of  observing  and  acknow¬ 
ledging  it,  seems  incumbent  on  such  communi¬ 
ties  as  appear  to  have  been  thus  signally  favour¬ 
ed.  What  advantage,  for  instance,  has  the 
whole  civilized  world  derived  from  the  philoso¬ 
phizing  turn  of  the  ancient  Greeks  !  How 
widely  extensive,  and  how  durable  has  been  its 
influence. 

Of  what  importance  are  the  benefits,  which 
the  politic  spirit  of  the  Roman  empire  diffused 
among  the  countries  of  Europe,  most  of  which, 
to  this  day,  acknowledge  the  hand  that  reared 
them  from  barbarism,  by  still  retaining  those 
laws  which  that  hand  transcribed  for  them,  as 
if  Rome  were  allowed  to  do  that  for  men’s  cir¬ 
cumstances,  which  Greece  was  permitted  to 
effect  for  their  minds  ! 

But  a  third  instance  is  encumbered  with  less 
difficulty, — the  designation  of  Judea  to  be  the 
local  source  of  true  religion.  In  this  small  pro¬ 
vince  of  the  Roman  empire,  what  a  scene  was 
transacted,  and  from  those  transactions,  what  a 
series  of  consequences  have  followed,  and  what 
a  system  of  influences  has  been  derived,  operat¬ 
ing,  and  still  to  operate  on  individuals — commu¬ 
nities — nations,  in  ways,  and  with  effects,  the 
happiest,  or  moat  awful,  as  they  are  embraced 
or  rejected ;  and  leading  to  results  not  to  be 
calculated  even  as  to  this  world, — but  wholly  in¬ 


conceivable,  as  to  that  future  world  where  afj 
the  deep  purposes  of  God  are  to  have  their  per¬ 
fect  consummation. 

But,  if  such  has  been  the  method  of  Provi¬ 
dence  in  those  great  designs,  which  have  here¬ 
tofore  been  carried  on  in  the  world,  can  we  sup¬ 
pose  that  the  same  plan  is  not  substantially  pur¬ 
sued  in  his  present  arrangements?  Are  not 
blessings  still  to  be  conferred  on  society  ?  Bless¬ 
ings.  yet  in  general  unknown,  and  greater  mea¬ 
sures  of  those  which  are  already  in  part  attain¬ 
ed  ? — How  rare,  for  example,  has  been  hitherto 
the  blessing  of  complete  civil  government — of 
such  a  political  system  as  combines  the  apparent 
contrarieties  of  public  security  with  personal 
liberty  !  An  object  aimed  at  by  the  wisest  legis¬ 
lators  of  earlier  times,  but  regarded  by  them  as 
a  beautiful  theory,  incapable  of  being  realized  ! 
Still  more — How  limited  is  the  attainment  of 
religious  truth  of  well-weighed  well-digested  re¬ 
ligious  belief — and  of  well-conceived,  well-regu¬ 
lated  divine  worship Christianity  exists  in  the 
Scripture,  like  virgin  gold  in  the  mine;  but  how 
few,  comparatively,  have  been  able  to  extract  it 
without  loss,  or  to  bring  it  into  public  circula-- 
tion  without  deplorable  alloy  !  How  erroneous, 
in  most  instances,  are  those  modes  and  exercises' 
of  it,  which  are  adopted  by  states  and  govern¬ 
ments  ;  and  how  seldom  does  it  seem  rightly 
apprehended,  even  by  the  most  enlightened  indi¬ 
viduals  !  To  suppose  things  will  always  remain 
in  this  state,  is  little  short  of  an  imputation  on 
divine  wisdom.  But,  in  the  mean  time,  how  dis¬ 
astrous  are  the  consequences  to  individuals  and 
to  society  1 

If  there  be  then  a  country,  long  and  signally 
distinguished  in  both  these  important  instances 
— in  the  former,  so  as  to  have  been  the  object 
of  universal  admiration  ; — in  the  latter,  so  as  to 
have  been  looked  up  to  by  all  the  ‘most  enlight¬ 
ened  parts  of  the  Christian  world. — If  there  be- 
such  a  country,  can  we  help  regarding  its  su¬ 
periority  to  other  countries  as  the  result  of  a 
providential  destination,  as  clear  as  that  which 
allotted  philosophy  to  ancient  Greece,  and  civil 
polity  to  ancient  Rome  ? — And  may  it  not  even 
be  added,  as  really  divine,  though  not  miracu¬ 
lous,  as  that  which  gave  true  religion  to  ancient- 
Judea. 

If  England  be  this  community,  if  England  be 
the  single  nation  upon  earth, — where  that  check¬ 
ed  and  balanced  government, — that  tempera¬ 
ment  of  monarchic,  aristocratic  and  popular 
rule,  which  philosophic  statesmen,  in  ancient 
times,  admired  so  much  in  theory,  has  been 
actually  realized — If  it  be  also  distinguished  by 
a  temperament  in  religious  concerns  little  less 
peculiar,  is  not  every  thinking  member  of  such 
a  community  bound  to  acknowledge  with  deep¬ 
est  gratitude,  so  extraordinary  a  distinction  ? 
And  what  employment  of  thought  can  be  more 
interesting  than  to  trace  the  providential  means 
by  which  such  unexampled  benefits  and  bless¬ 
ings  have  been  conferred  upon  our  country  ! 

To  enter  at  large  into  so  vast  a  subject,  would 
be  an  impracticable  attempt,  on  such  an  occa¬ 
sion  as  the  present.^  It  would  itself  furnish  mate¬ 
rials  for  a  volume  rather  than  for  a  few  pages 

*  The  train  of  thought  pursued  in  this  and  the  follow*, 
iog  chapter,  as  well  as  some  of  the  thoughts  thcmselvea, 


lOS 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


and  to  treat  it  with  justice  would  be  a  task,  to 
which  the  best  informed  and  profoundest  mind 
would  alone  be  competent.  A  few  scattered 
observations,  therefore,  are  all  that  we  can  pre¬ 
tend  to  offer,  not  however  without  hope,  that 
'they  will  excite  to  a  deeper  and  more  extended 
investigation.  We  are  told  by  St.  Paul,  that 
‘he  who  made  of  one  blood  all  nations,  fixed 
not  only  the  time  before  appointed  (the  epochs 
of  their  rise  and  fall)  but  also  the  bounds  of 
their  habitation.’  The  result  of  this  created 
arrangement,  respecting  the  greater  divisions 
of  the  earth,  Europe,  Asia,  and  Africa,  separated, 
yet  connected  by  that  inland  ocean  the  Medi¬ 
terranean  Sea,  have  been  already  noticed.  But, 
nothing  has  been  more  pregnant  in  its  conse¬ 
quences  in  this  general  plan  than  the  insulated 
situation  of  Great  Britain,  with  respect  to  our 
national  circumstances. — If  we  are  at  this  day 
free,  while  so  many  neighbouring  nations  are 
enslaved. — If  we  stand  erect,  while  they  are 
trampled  on — let  us  not  entirely  attribute  it  to 
any  superiority  in  ourselves,  of  spirit,  of  wis- 
dom,  or  strength  ;  but  let  us  also  humbly  and 
gratefully  ascribe  it  to  that  appointment  of  the 
Creator,  which  divided  us  from  the  continent 
of  Europe.  Had  we  been  as  accessible  to  the 
arms  of  France,  as  Holland,  Switzerland,  or  the 
Austrian  Netherlands,  we  might  perhaps  have 
been  involved  in  the  same  calamities.  But  we 
cannot  stop  here.  The  entire  series  of  our  his¬ 
tory,  as  a  nation,  seems  in  a  great  measure  to 
have  been  derived  from  this  source  ;  and  every 
link  in  the  chain  of  our  fortune  bears  some  sig¬ 
nificant  mark  of  our  local  •  peculiarity.  With¬ 
out  this,  where  would  have  been  our  commer¬ 
cial  opulence  or  our  maritime  power?  If  we 
had  not  been  distinct  as  a  country  we  had  not 
been  distinct  as  a  people.  We  might  have  im¬ 
bibed  the  taints,  been  moulded  by  the  manners, 
and  im  merged  in  the  greatness  of  our  more  pow¬ 
erful  neighbours.  It  was  that  goodness  which 
made  us  an  island,  that  laid  the  foundation  of 
our  national  happiness.  It  was  by  placing  us 
in  the  midst  of  the  waters  that  the  Almighty 
prepared  our  country  for  those  providential 
uses  to  which  it  has  served  and  is  yet  to  serve 
in  the  great  scheme  of  his  dispensations.  Thus, 
then,  we  behold  ourselves  raised  as  a  nation 
above  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  by  that  very 
circumstance  which  made  our  country  be  re¬ 
garded,  two  thousand  years  ago,  only  as  a  recep¬ 
tacle  for  the  refuse  of  the  Roman  empire  ! 

To  this,  evidently,  it  has  been  owing,  that 
amongst  us,  the  progress  of  society,  from  bar- 
barianism  to  high  improvement,  has  not  only 
been  more  regular,  but  more  radical  and  entire, 
as  to  alt  the  portions  and  circumstances  of  the 
body  politic,  than  in  any  instance  with  which 
we.  are  acquainted.  Shut  in  from  those  deso¬ 
lating  blasts  of  war  which  have  ever  and  anon 
been  sweeping  the  continent,  the  culture  of  our 

botli  here,  and  in  one  or  two  former  passages  may  per¬ 
haps  be  recognized  by  the  Rev.  and  learned  Doctor  Mil¬ 
ler,  late  fellow  of  Trinity  College,  D  iblin,  ae  a-kin  to 
tho.ee  views  of  providential  history,  which  he  has  given 
in  a  course  of  lectures  in  that  college.  The  author 
gladly  acknowle  Iges  having  received,  through  a  friend, 
a  few  vaUiable  hints  from  this  source,  of  which  it  is 
earnestly  hoped  the  public  may  in  due  time  be  put  in  full 
possession. 


moral  soil  has  been  less  impeded,  and  the  seeds 
which  have  been  sown  have  yielded  ampler,  as 
well  as  maturer  harvests.  We  have  had  our 
vicissitudes — but  in  a  manner  peculiar  to  our¬ 
selves.  They  seem  clearly  providential,  and 
not  fortuitous ;  since  it  is  certain  that  the  agita¬ 
tions  which  we  have  experienced,  and  the  ap¬ 
parent  calamities  which  we  have  suffered  have 
been,  in  almost  every  instance,  signally  condu¬ 
cive  to  our  advancement.  When  England  be¬ 
came  possessed  by  the  Saxons,  she  appeared 
only  to  be  sharing  the  fate  of  other  European 
countries ;  all  of  which,  about  that  period,  or 
soon  after,  became  the  prey  of  similar  hordes 
of  invaders.  But  a  difference  of  resuft,  in  our 
particular  instance,  arising  chiefly  from  our 
insular  situation,  after  some  time,  presents  it¬ 
self  to  us,  as  already  marking  that  happy  des¬ 
tination  with  which  Providence  intended  to  fa¬ 
vour  us. 

It  has  been  observed  by  historians,  that  when 
an  army  of  those  northern  invaders  took  pos¬ 
session  of  any  country,  they  formed  their  estab¬ 
lishment  with  a  view  of  self-defence,  much  more 
than  to  civil  improvement.  They  knew  not 
how  suddenly  they  might  be  attacked  by  some 
successful  army  of  adventurers  ;  and  therefore 
says  Dr.  Robertson,  ‘  a  feudal  kingdom  resem¬ 
bles  a  military  establishment,  rather  them  a 
civil  institution.’  ‘  Such  a  policy,’  adds  the 
same  historian,  ‘  was  well  calculated  for  defence, 
against  the  assaults  of  any  foreign  power  ;  but 
its  provisions  for  the  interior  order  and  tran¬ 
quillity  of  society,  was  extremely  defective  ;  the 
principles  of  disorder  and  corruption  being  dis¬ 
cernible  in  that  constitution  under  its  best  and 
most  perfect  form.’* 

To  this  ‘  feudal  system,’  however,  the  newly 
established  potentates  of  the  continent  seem  to 
have  been  impelled  by  necessity;  but  an  inevi¬ 
table  consequence  was,  that  that  taste  for  liberty, 
which  had  animated  their  followers  in  their 
native  forests,  could  no  longer  be  cherished, 
and  was  of  course  doomed  to  extinction. 

In  Britain  alone  such  a  necessity  did  not 
exist.  The  possession  of  the  country  being 
once  accomplished,  its  tenure  was  comparatively 
secured  by  the  surrounding  ocean.  Defence 
was  not  to  be  neglected ;  but  danger  was  not 
imminent.  Thus  no  new  habit  was  forced  on 
the  new  settlers,  so  as  to  expel  their  original 
propensities ;  and  accordingly  whatever  means 
of  safety  they  might  have  resorted  to  against 
each  other,  during  the  multiplicity  of  these 
governments,  we  see  at  the  distance  of  four 
centuries,  Alfred,  turning  from  successful  war¬ 
fare  against  invaders,  to  exercise  that  consum¬ 
mate  wisdom,  with  which  his  mind  was  en¬ 
riched,  in  systematizing  those  very  aboriginal 
principles  of  Saxon  liberty.  A  civil  polity  was 
thus  erected,  which  was  not  only  in  its  day  the 
most  perfect  scheme  of  government  that  had  yet 
existed,  but  it  also  was  formed  of  such  materials, 
and  established  on  such  a  solid  foundation,  as 
never  after  to  bo  wholly  demolished;  until  at 
length,  it  has  been  gradually  wrought  into  that 
magnificent  fabric,  which,  through  the  bless- 

*  Robertson’s  View  of  the  State  of  Europe,  prefliod 
to  Charles  V.  Sect.  1. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


lOT 


ing  of  heaven,  is  at  this  day  the  glory  and  the 
defence  of  our  island. 

In  these  rudiments,  then,  of  the  first  English 
constitution,  let  us  gratefully  recognize  the  first 
most  striking  indication  of  a  particular  provi¬ 
dence  presiding  over  our  country.  A  genius, 
the  first  of  his  age,  is  raised  in  a  remote  and 
insulated  part  of  Europe, — where  at  first  view, 
it  might  be  thought  his  talents  must  be  destitute 
of  their  proper  sphere  of  action.  But  in  what 
other  European  country  could  his  enlarged 
views  have  been  in  any  adequate  degree  re¬ 
alized  ? — Where  the  feudal  government  was 
established,  such  wise  and  liberal  arrangements 
as  those  of  Alfred  were  necessarily  precluded  ; 
at  least  they  could  not  have  been  introduced, 
without  stripping  such  a  government  of  its 
essential  characters ;  Alfred’s  system  being  as 
strictly  civil,  as  the  other  was  military.  He 
provided  eufficiently  for  external  safety,  but  it 
was  internal  security  and  tranquility  to  which 
his  exquisite  policy  was  peculiarly  directed. 
And  from  its  correspondence  with  right  reason, 
with  the  native  spirit  of  the  people,  and  with 
the  local  circumstances  of  the  country,  it  so 
rooted  itself  in  the  English  soil,  as  to  out-live 
all  the  storms  of  civil  discord,  as  well  as  the 
long  winter  of  the  Norman  tyranny. 

Is  it  not  then  remarkable  that,  when  such  a 
concurrence  of  favourable  circumstances  exist¬ 
ed  in  that  very  sequestred  spot  should  arise  an 
individual,  so  precisely  fitted  to  turn  them  to, 
what  appears,  their  allotted  purpose  ?  Had  there 
not  been  an  Alfred  to  accomplish  the  work,  all 
these  capabilities  might  soon  have  vanished,  and 
our  national  happiness  never  have  been  realized. 
On  the  other  hand,  had  Alfred  lived  without  his 
appropriate  sphere  of  action,  he  would  no  doubt 
have  been  a  successful  warrior,  a  gracious 
prince,  and  clearly,  as  far  as  the  state  of  men’s 
minds  admitted,  a  friend  to  letters,  and  such 
rude  arts  as  were  then  in  use ;  but  he  would  not 
have  been  venerated,  at  the  distance  of  a  thou¬ 
sand  years  as  the  founder  of  the  bast  scheme  of 
laws,  and  the  happiest  system  of  government, 
that  the  world  ever  saw.  Such  a  correspon¬ 
dence,  then,  of  so  distinguished  an  agent  to  so 
apt  a  sphere  of  action,  and  attended  with  results 
so  permanent,  so  beneficial,  and  so  widely  in¬ 
fluential  on  human  society,  was  surely  far  above 
fortuitous  coincidence.  Was  it  not,  on  the  con¬ 
trary,  an  adaptation  so  self-evident,  as  can  only 
be  ascribed  to  the  special  interference  of  over¬ 
ruling  Providence  ? 

It  is  true,  that  by  the  Norman  conquest,  the 
benefits  derived  from  this  wise  and  happy  es¬ 
tablishment  appeared  for  the  time  overwhelmed 
by  a  threefold  tyranny, — regal,  feudal,  and  ec¬ 
clesiastical.  But  this,  on  an  attentive  view, 
will  appear  no  less  to  have  been  over-ruled  for 
good.  To  repress  for  the  purpose  of  excitement, 
and  to  employ  gross  admixtures  in  order  to 
higher  purification,  are  procedures  congruous 
with  all  the  laws  of  nature. 

In  a  constitution  formed  in  so  dark  an  age, 
and  adapted  to  so  rnde  a  people,  there  could  be 
little  more  than  the  crude  elements  of  such  a 
political  system,  as  more  advanced  times  would 
require.  Yet  had  the  enjoyment  of  those  earlier 
privileges  remained  undisturbed,  nothing  better 


might  have  been  aimed  at !  and  instead  of  that 
progressive  advance,  with  which  we  have  been 
blessed,  our  nation  might,  at  this  day,  have  only 
been  distinguished  by  a  blind  and  stupid  attach, 
ment  to  some  obsolete  forms  of  liberty,  from 
which  all  substantial  worth  had  long  since  de¬ 
parted.  For  the  prevention  of  such  an  evil, 
human  foresight  could  make  no  provision  ;  and 
we  may  now  look  back  with  wonder,  on  the 
wisdom,  as  well  as  efficacy  of  the  process.  The 
original  plan  was  guarded  by  the  same  gracious 
hand,  until  the  habits  induced  by  it  were  fixed 
in  the  minds  of  Englishmen  ; — then  it  was  sus¬ 
pended,  that  they  might  struggle  to  regain  it ; 
and  by  the  activity  thus  excited,  and  more  and 
more  elicited  by  new  competitions,  they  might 
at  length  attain  to  the  highest  civil  and  political 
happiness,  which  has  been  enjoyed  in  this  im¬ 
perfect  state  of  being. 

But  on  a  yet  more  enlarged  view  of  our  na¬ 
tional  progress,  shall  we  not  be  led  to  conclude, 
that  something  more  than  the  improvement  of 
our  political  constitution  was  in  the  design  of 
Providence,  when  the  Norman  dynasty  became 
possessed  of  the  throne  ?  A  far  more  important 
reformation,  than  that  of  human  laws,  or  poli¬ 
tical  systems  was  at  length  to  take  place.  And 
in  this  great  ecclesiastical  revolution,  England 
was  intended  to  act  a  conspicuous  part.  For 
this,  even  these  preparatory  steps  would  be  ne¬ 
cessary.  And  may  we  not  clearly  trace  such 
steps  from  the  epoch  of  which  we  are  speaking  ? 
The  encroachments  of  the  papal  see  had,  till 
then,  been  comparatively  little  felt  in  England. 
But  the  Norman  princes  ,  introduced  foreign 
bishops,  who  exercised  in  the  church  as  galling 
a  dominion,  as  that  of  their  royal  patrons  in  the 
state.  ‘The  consciences  of  men,’  says  Sir 
William  Blacks  tone,  ‘were  enslaved  by  sour 
ecclesiastics,  devoted  to  a  foreign  power  and 
unconnected  with  the  civil  state  under  which 
they  lived  ;  who  now  imported  from  Rome,  for 
the  first  time,  the  whole  farrago  of  superstitious 
novelties,  which  had  been  engendered  by  the 
blindness  and  corruption  of  the  times,  between 
the  first  mission  of  Augustine  the  monk,  and 
the  Norman  conquest.’* 

Had  these  pernicious  practices  heen gradually 
and  insensibly  introduced,  as  they  were  in  most 
countries  on  the  continent,  they  would  have 
been  inevitably  combined  with  the  common  ha¬ 
bits  of  the  people.  But  being  thus  suddenly  and 
forcibly  imposed,  in  conjunction  too  with  such 
a  mass  of  political  grievances,  their  almost  ne¬ 
cessary  tendency  was  to  excite  a  spirit  of  resist¬ 
ance.  We  accordingly  find,  that  in  every  ad¬ 
vance  which  was  made  towards  regaining  a  free 
government,  a  conquest  was  gained  over  some 
instances  of  ecclesiastical  as  well  as  of  political 
tyranny;  than  which,  what  more  effectual  course 
could  the  most  sagacious  foresight  have  pursu¬ 
ed,  for  rousing  the  national  mind  from  the  dead 
drowsiness  of  superstition,  aad  preparing  it  to 
give  a  cordial  reception  to  that  light  of  religious 
truth,  which,  when  the  proper  season  shoirid 
arrive,  was  to  beam  forth  witli  peculiar  bright¬ 
ness  on  this  favoured  country  ? 

But  it  is  not  only  in  its  encroachments  and 

*  Blackstone’s  Commentaries,  vol.  iv.  last  chap. 


lOB 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


severities  that  we  are  to  regard  the  Norman  go¬ 
vernment  as  an  instrument  of  Providence.  It, 
aoubtless,  was  the  means  of  much  direct  and 
positive  good.  The  minds  of  Englishmen  need¬ 
ed  improvement,  still  more  than  their  civil  con¬ 
stitution.  Alfred  had  attempted  to  sow  the  seeds 
of  learning,  as  well  as  of  jurisprudence,  amongst 
his  countrymen  ;  but  to  inspire  a  barbarous  peo¬ 
ple  with  a  love  of  literature,  was  what  neither 
he  nor  his  master,  Charlemagne,  was  able  in 
any  great  degree  to  accomplish.  An  advance 
of  general  civilization  was  necessary  to  strike 
out  such  a  disposition  ;  and  it  was  not  until  to¬ 
ward  the  beginning  of  the  12th  century,  that 
any  part  of  Western  Europe  appeared  to  have 
been  visited  with  the  dawn  of  an  intellectual 
day.  A  connexion,  therefore,  with  the  continent 
previously  to  that  period,  could  not  have  served 
the  moral,  and  might  have  injured  the  political 
interests  of  our  island.  But  that  it  should,  just 
at  that  time,  be  brought  into  such  circumstances, 
as  should  ensure  its  participation  in  all  the  men¬ 
tal  acquirements,  of  the  neighbouring  countries, 
appears  evidently  to  bespeak  the  same  superin¬ 
tendence,  as  in  the  instances  already  noticed. 

It  is,  however,  in  the  great  event  of  the  En¬ 
glish  reformation,  that  we  perceive,  as  has  been 
already  observed,*  the  most  striking  marks  of 
divine  direction  ;  and  it  seems  to  discover  to  us, 
why  it  has  pleased  God  to  distinguish  us  by  so 
many  previous  instances  of  favour.  We  were 
not  only  to  be  -H/Sssed  with  the  light  of  truth 
ourselves,  but  we  were  to  be  in  some  sort,  ‘  a  city 
set  upon  a  hill.’  The  peculiar  temperament  of 
the  English  protestant  establishment,  which 
places  it  in  a  kind  of  middle  line  between  the 
churches  of  the  continent,  has  been  also  noticed 
in  a  former  chapter.  But  is  it  not  evident,  that 
our  national  church,  humanly  speaking,  derived 
that  temperament  from  a  previously  formed  na¬ 
tional  character?  ‘The  English,’  says  Voltaire, 

*  into  whom  nature  has  infused  a  spirit  of  inde¬ 
pendence,  adopted  the  opinion  of  the  reformers, 
but  mitigated  them,  and  composed  from  them  a, 
religion  peculiar  to  themselves.’t  It  is  seldom, 
that,  on  such  a  subject,  this  acute  but  most  per¬ 
verted  pen  has  so  justly  described  the  fact.  But, 
what  a  striking  testimony  is  this,  not  only  to  the 
worth  of  that  national  character,  which  thus  dis¬ 
tinguished  itself  from  the  whole  Christian  world, 
but  also  to  the  depth  of  that  Divine  wisdom, 
which  made  so  many  remote  and  unconnected 
contingences  work  together  in  producing  so  va¬ 
luable  a  result ! 

In  establishing  a  religion,  which  is  founded 
on  truth,  and  which  consists  essentially  in  the 
love  of  God  and  man,  what  more  suitable  dispo- 
sitii  ms  could  there  be  provided,  than  an  indepen¬ 
dent  spirit  and  a  mitigating  temper  ?  That  both 
those  were  eminently  exemplified  by  our  vene¬ 
rable  reformers,  need  not  here  be  proved.  Nor 
is  it  necessary  to  enlarge  upon  the  obvious  ten¬ 
dency  of  the  English  laws  and  constitution,  to 
form  such  dispositions  in  those  who  lived  within 
their  influence.  If  this  tendency  were  doubtful, 
a  striking  fact  in  after  times  might  serve  to  il¬ 
lustrate  it.  I  mean,  that  steady  zeal  with  which 
all  the  great  constitutional  lawyers,  during  the 

•  Chap.  XXIV. 

t  Siecle  do  Louis  XIV.  chap,  xzxii. 


agitations  of  the  seventeenth  century,  endea 
voured  to  preserve  to  the  English  church  esta¬ 
blishment  that  very  temperament,  which  had  so 
happily  entered  into  its  first  formation.  Nor  can 
we  pass  over  the  care  which  was  taken,  in  the 
very  occurrences  of  the  reformation,  for  adapt¬ 
ing  it  to  the  independent  spirit  of  the  English, 
and  also  for  perpetuating,  in  the  establishment 
itself,  that  mild  and  mitigating  temper  which 
had  influenced  its  first  founders. 

It  was  indispensable  that  the  change  in  the 
church  establishment  should  be  accomplished  by 
the  paramount  powers  of  the  state ;  they  alone 
being  either  legally,  or  naturally  competent. 
But  no  act  of  a  king  or  council,  or  even  of  a  par¬ 
liament,  was  adequate  to  effect  in  the  minds  of 
the  English  public,  that  rational  and  cordial  ac¬ 
quiescence  in  the  new  state  of  things,  without 
which  it  must  have  been  inefficient,  as  to  influ¬ 
ence,  and  insecure  as  to  duration. 

But  for  this.  Providence  itself  made  admirable 
provision.  The  pious  and  amiable  Edward  was 
kept  upon  the  throne,  until  all  that  was  neces¬ 
sary  to  be  done,  in  an  external  and  political  way 
had  been  effected. — Then,  for  a  time,  the  old 
system  was  permitted  to  return,  with  all  its  hor¬ 
rible  accompaniments,  in  order,  as  it  should 
seem,  that  the  protestant  church  of  England 
might  not  rest  upon  human  laws  alone,  but  might 
appear  to  have  originated  in  the  same  essential 
principles  with  those  of  the  apostolic  church, 
and  to  have  been  constituted  by  men  of  a  like 
spirit,  who,  when  called  to  it,  were  similarly  pre¬ 
pared  to  seal  their  testimony  with  their  blood. 

The  service  that  these  illustrious  men  had 
done,  by  their  temperate  w'isdom,  and  admirable 
judgment,  in  the  reign  of  Edward,  in  compiling 
such  a  liturgy,  and  establishing  such  a  worship, 
and  such  a  form  of  doctrine,  is  ever  to  be  held 
in  grateful  remembrance.  But  their  passive 
virtue,  their  primitive  heroism,  in  patiently,  and 
even  joyfully  dying  for  those  truths  which  they 
had  conscientiously  adopted  ;  this  it  was  which 
established  protestantism  in  the  hearts  of  the 
English  populace  !  They  saw  the  infernal  cru¬ 
elty  of  the  popish  leaders,  and  the  calm  magna¬ 
nimity  of  the  protestant  martyrs.  They  saw 
these  holy  men,  whose  connexion  with  secular 
politics  might  be  thought  to  have  corrupted 
them,  and  whose  high  station  in  society  might 
be  supposed  to  have  enervated  them,  facing 
death  in  its  most  dreadful  form,  with  more  than 
human  tranquillity  !  They  saw  all  this,  and  the 
impression  made  upon  them  was  like  that  which 
was  made  on  the  Israelites  at  Mount  Carmel,  by 
the  event  of  the  memorable  contest  between  the 
priests  of  Baal,  and  the  prophets  of  the  Lord. 
Accordingly  on  the  death  of  Mary,  the  accession 
of  Elizabeth  excited  universal  joy. — The  acqui¬ 
escence  of  the  people  in  the  changes  made  by 
Henry,  and  even  by  Edward,  were  little  more 
than  acts  of  necessity,  and  therefore  implied  no 
revolution  in  the  general  opinion.  But  now  it 
was  evinced,  by  every  possible  proof,  that  a  tho¬ 
rough  detestation  of  popery  had  extended  itself 
through  the  whole  community.  ‘  Were  we  to 
adopt,’  says  Goldsmith,  ‘the  maxim  of  the  ca¬ 
tholics,  that  evil  may  be  done  for  the  production 
of  good,  one  might  say,  that  the  persecutions  in 
Mary’s  reign  were  permitted  only  to  bring  th 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


109 


kingdom  ov'ir  to  the  p»'otestant  religion.  The 
people  had  formerly  been  compelled  to  embrace 
it,  and  their  fears  induced  them  to  conform,  but 
now  almost  the  whole  nation  were  protestants 
from  inclination.’  Nothing  can  surely  be  more 
just  than  the  substance  of  tJiis  sentiment.  The 
lively  writer  seems  only  to  have  forgotten  that 
we  may  ascribe  to  divine  Providence  the  per¬ 
mission  of  evil,  in  order  to  a  greater  good,  with¬ 
out  sanctioning  any  maxim,  revolting  in  theory, 
or  dangerous  in  practice. 


CHAP.  XXXIX. 

The  same  subject  continued.  Tolerant  spirit  of 
the  church.  Circumstances  which  led  to  the 
revolution — And  to  the  providential  succession 
of  the  house  of  Hanover. 

The  circumstances  attending  the  reformation, 
which  has  been  most  regretted,  was,  that  a  por¬ 
tion  of  the  protestants  were  dissatisfied  with  it, 
as. not  coming  up  to  the  extent  of  their  ideas  ; 
and  that  this  laid  the  foundation  of  a  system  of 
dissent,  which  broke  the  uniformity  of  public 
worship,  and  led,  at  length,  to  a  temporary  over¬ 
throw,  both  of  tile  ecclesiastical  and  civil  con¬ 
stitution. 

On  these  events,  as  human  transactions,  our 
subject  does  not  lead  us  to  enlarge.  If  the  above 
remarks,  with  those  in  a  foregoing  chapter,  on 
the  peculiar  characters  of  the  English  establish¬ 
ment  be  just,  these  persons,  however  conscien¬ 
tious,  were  opposing,  without  being  aware  of  it, 
an  institution  which,  from  its  excellent  tendency 
and  effects,  seems  to  have  been  sanctioned  by 
Providence  But  may  not  even  their  opposition, 
and  subsequent  dissent,  be  considered  in  the 
same  light  as  tlioso  other  transactions,  which 
have  been  mentioned ;  that  is,  as  permitted  by 
the  all-wise  Disposer,  in  order  to  beneficial  r6- 
sults,  which  could  not  in  the  nature  of  things, 
according  to  our  conception,  have  been  equally 
produced  through  any  other  instrumentality ! 
For  example  :  did  it  not  supply  the  aptest  means, 
which  we  can  conceive,  for  answering  the  im¬ 
portant  purpose,  which  was  mentioned  above — 
the  perpetuating  in  the  establishment  itself,  that 
•  mild  and  mitigating  temper,  which  had  so  sig. 
nally  influenced  its  first  founders. 

If  Christian  virtue  be,  in  every  instance,  the 
result,  and  the  reward,  of  conflict ;  and  if  each 
virtue  be  formed,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  ruins  of 
the  opposite  vice ;  then  may  we  not  deem  it  mo¬ 
rally  certain,  that  a  Christian  community,  which 
’  God  delighted  to  honour,*  should,  as  well  as  in¬ 
dividuals,  have  an  opportunity  suitable  to  its 
circumstances,  of  not  being  ‘overcome  of  evil,’ 
but  of ‘overcoming  evil  with  good?’  And  would 
it  not,  therefore,  appear  probable  that,  though  it 
should  pofisoss  that  political  strength,  and  that 
portion  of  outward  dignity,  which  miglit  bo  ne¬ 
cessary  to  its  efficiency  as  a  national  establish¬ 
ment,  it  should  also  have  some  opposition  to  en¬ 
counter,  some  trials  to  sustain,  some  calumnies 
to  surmount,  some  injuries  to  forgive  ?  Would 
n at  such  circumstances  strengthen  its  claim  to 
being  (^semed  an  integral  part  of  the  church 


militant  ?  and  would  they  not  fit  it  for  answer¬ 
ing  all  the  purposes  of  a  Christian  establishment, 
far  better  than  if  it  had  possessed  that  exclusive 
ascendancy,  which  should  leave  no  room  for  the 
exercise  of  passive,  and  almost  supersede  the  ne¬ 
cessity  even  of  active  virtue  ? 

That  the  schism  of  which  we  speak,  was  per¬ 
mitted  by  Providence,  for  some  such  purpose  as 
that  just  described,  appears  probable,  from  the 
agreement  of  such  an  intention  with  that  wise 
and  temperate  plan  by  which  the  reformation 
had  been  effected  ;  from  the  obvious  consistency 
of  providing  for  the  continuance  of  that  mode¬ 
rate  and  mitigating  temper  of  the  first  reform¬ 
ers  ;  and,  above  all,  because  it  is  evident  that 
the  event  in  question  has  actually  answered  this 
valuable  purpose  :  the  most  eminent  divines  of 
our  church  having  been  generally  as  much  dis- 
tinguished  for  candour  towards  those  who  differ¬ 
ed  from  them,  as  for  ability  and  firmness  in 
maintaining  their  own  more  enlarged  mode  of 
conduct 

Tliat  they  could  not  have  so  fully  manifested 
these*amiable  and  truly  Christian  qualities,  in  a 
state  of  things  where  there  was  nothing  to  call 
them  forth,  is  self-evident ;  and  it  is  almost  as 
certain,  that  even  their  possession  of  such  vir¬ 
tues  must  depend  upon  their  having  had  motives 
to  exercise  them.  We  accordingly  perceive,  in 
the  lives  and  writings  of  the  great  luminaries  of 
our  church,  not  only  a  happy  prevalence  of  li¬ 
beral  principles,  and  charitable  feelings,  but  also 
the  very  process,  if  we  may  so  speak,  by  which 
these  principles  and  feelings  were  formed.  From 
having  continually  in  their  view  a  set  of  persons, 
who  had  substantially  the  same  faith,  yet  differ¬ 
ed  in  modes  of  worship,  we  see  them  acquiring 
a  peculiar  habit  of  distinguishing  between  the* 
essentials  and  circumstantials  of  religion.  Their 
judgment  becomes  strong,  as  their  charity  be¬ 
comes  enlarged,  and  above  all  other  divines, 
perhaps,  they  investigate  religion  as  philoso¬ 
phers,  without  injury  to  the  humility  of  their 
faith,  or  the  fervency  of  their  devotion.  In  al¬ 
most  every  other  communion  (though  with  some 
admirable  exceptions)  deep  contemplative  piety 
often  appears  associated  witli  some  sentiment  or 
practice,  which  is  apt  to  abate  our  estimation  of 
the  rationality  of  the  party,  or  if  rationality  be 
preserved,  there  is  too  often  some  diminution  of 
the  pious  aflTections.  And  what  proves,  that, 
from  the  seeming  evil  of  which  we  have  spoken, 
God  has  by  his  overruling  influence  deduced 
this  good,  is,  that  the  completest  spirit  of  tolera¬ 
tion,  and  this  high  description  of  character,  have 
not  been  commonly  united,  but  that  seasons 
which  peculiarly  called  forth  in  churchmen  the 
exercise  of  Christian  forbearance,  were  also  sin¬ 
gularly  fruitful  in  examples  of  this  sublime  and 
philosophic  piety.* 

In  fact,  whether  we  consider  the  circum¬ 
stances  under  which  the  church  of  England 
was  formed,  the  language  in  which  she  ex¬ 
presses  her  sense  of  the  Christian  doctrines,  the 
spirit  which  pervades  all  her  formularies,  or  the 
temper  which  has  distinguished  the  first  fcund- 
ers,  and  all  their  genuine  successors  ;  she  evi 
dently  appears  designed  by  Eternal  Wisdom  to 

*  See  bishop  Burnet's  history  of  his  own  times. 


JIO 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


have  been  a  toierant  church  ;  and  by  being  such, 
to  be  the  means  of  serving  the  great  cause  of 
Christianity,  in  certain  important  instances ; 
which  could  only  be  accomplished  in  a  state  of 
religious  liberty.  In  too  many  other  Christian 
countries,  the  established  religion  has  appeared 
to  rest  entirely  upon  a  political  foundation.  In 
consequence  of  this,  men  of  lively  talents  have 
too  generally,  in-such  countries,  become  infidels. 
In  England,  the  tolerant  nature  of  the  church 
establishment,  in  honourably  maintaining,  and 
giving  the  highest  reverence  to  a  national 
form  of  worship,  but  allowing  individuals  their 
unrestrained  choice,  has  left  religion  itself  to 
be  a  matter  of  reason  and  conviction,  as  really 
as  it  was  in  the  primitive  times ;  and  the  con¬ 
sequence  has  been,  that  reason  and  conviction 
have  signally  done  their  part.  Infidels  have 
made  their  utmost  efforts,  with  every  aid  that 
perverted  talents  and  misapplied  learning  could 
give  them  ;  but  all  they  could  accomplish,  has 
been  to  call  forth  far  more  powerful  minds  to 
defeat  them  with  their  own  weapons ;  and  to 
demonstrate,  that  though  the  divine  religjon  of 
the  Gospel  leans  on  political  support,  for  the 
sake  of  greater  public  utility,  yet  its  appropriate 
strength  is  that  of  invariable  reason^  irrefragible 
truth,  and  self-evident  excellence. 

And  while  the  English  establishment  has  thus 
served  the  general  interests  of  religion,  she  has 
most  substantially  served  herself.  Making  her 
appeal  to  reason,  she  has  been  estimated  accord¬ 
ingly  ;  and  what  she  has  not  endeavodred  to  ex¬ 
tort  by  force,  has  been  greatly  yielded  to  her 
from  rational  attachment.  It  was  natural,  that 
the  toleration  which  was  given,  should,  in  so 
exclusive  a  community,  be  largely  made  use  of 
But  this  leaves  room  for  the  establishment  to 
try  its  comparative  fitness  to  attach  more  minds, 
in  which,  be  it  said  without  invidiousness,  the 
result  has  at  all  times  been  such,  as  signally  to 
strengthen  whatever  has  been  adduced  to  illus¬ 
trate  the  high  providential  uses  of  the  establish¬ 
ed  church  of  England. 

Still,  however,  as  the  natural  and  proper  ten¬ 
dency  of  the  very  best  things  may  be  thwarted 
by  opposite  influences,  we  ought  to  be  aware 
that  the  genuine  tendency  of  the  establishment 
to  attach  men’s  minds,  and  recommend  itself 
by  its  own  excellence,  should  not  be  trusted  in 
so  confidentially,  as  that  any  of  those  to  whom 
this  precious  deposit  is  committed  should,  from 
an  idea  that  its  influence  cannot  be  weakened, 
become  supine,  while  its  enemies  are  alive  and 
active.  We  do  not  mean,  that  they  should  op¬ 
pose  the  adversaries  of  the  church  by  acrimo¬ 
nious  controversy,  but  by  the  more  appropriate 
weapons  of  activity  and  diligence.  We  may 
reasonably  presume,  that  the  Almighty  having 
wrought  such  a  work  for  us  at  the  Reformation, 
will  still  continue  his  blessing,  while  the  same 
means  are  employed  to  maintain,  which  were 
used  to  establish  it.  But  to  this  end  every  aid 
should  be  resorted  to,  every  method  should  be 
devised,  by  which  the  groat  mass  of  the  people 
may  be  brought  to  the  public  worship  of  the 
church.  To  one  most  important  means  we  have 
already  adverted,*  and  it  cannot  be  too  much 

*  Chap,  xviii. 


insisted  on — that  the  lower  classes,  among  which 
the  defection  is  greatest,  should  betimes  receive 
an  impression  on  their  minds,  not  only  of  God’s 
goodness  and  mercy,  but  of  his  power  and  ««- 
■  premacy  ;  and  also,  that  God  is  the  real  original 
authority  by  which  ‘kings  reign,  and  princes 
decree  justice by  which  obedience  and  loyalty 
to  government  are  enforced,  and  all  the  subor¬ 
dinate  duties  of  life  required  of  them.  It  is  from 
the  pulpit,  undoubtedly,  that  every  duty,  both  to 
God  and  man,  is  best  inculcated,  and  with  a 
power  and  sanction  peculiar  to  itself ;  and  it  is 
the  clergy  that  must  prepare  for  God  faithful 
servants  and  true  worshippers  ;  and  for  the  king 
a  willing  and  obedient  people. 

But  the  clergy,  however  zealous,  pious,  and 
active,  cannot  find  time  to  do  all  that  might  be 
done.  A  people  might  be  prepared  for  the  clergy 
themselves.  The  minds  of  children  should  be 
universally  familiarized  with  the  moving  stories, 
and  their  affections  excited  by  the  amiable  cha¬ 
racters  in  the  Bible.  When  the  beautiful  alle¬ 
gories  of  the  New  Testament  have  been  not  only 
studied,  but  properly  interpreted  to  them  ;  when 
their  memories  have  been  stored  with  such  sub¬ 
jects  and  passages  as  constantly  occur  in  preach¬ 
ing,  the  service  of  the  church,  by  becoming 
more  intelligible,  will  become  more  attractive. 
And  as  we  have  already  observed,  with  their  re¬ 
ligious  instructions,  there  should  be  mixed  a 
constant  sense  of  their  own  church,  the  privi¬ 
leges  belonging  to  it,  the  mischief  of  departing 
from  it,  the  duties  which  lie  upon  them  as  mem¬ 
bers  of  it.  They  should  be  taught  the  nature 
of  the  government  of  this  church,  the  authority 
from  which  it  is  derived,  and  their  duty  and  ob¬ 
ligations,  not  as  children  only,  but  through  life 
to  its  ministers.  They  should  be  taught  what 
all  the  offices  and  institutions  of  the  church 
mean  ;  that  none  of  them  are  empty  ceremonies, 
but  arrangements  of  genuine  wisdom,  and  to  be 
valued  and  used  accordingly. 

We  will  venture  to  say,  that  were  such  a. 
mode  of  training  the  lower  classes  every  where 
adopted,  they  would  then,  not  occasionally,  fall 
in  with  the  stream  on  Sundays,  and  be  mixed, 
they  know  not  why,  with  a  congregation  of 
customary  worshippers ;  but  they  would  come 
with  ability  to  understand,  and  dispositions  to 
prefer  the  established  mode  of  worship ;  their 
ideas  and  sentiments  would  readily  mix  and  as¬ 
similate  with  what  they  saw  and  heard.  And 
thus  an  habitual  veneration,  both  for  the  church 
and  its  pastors,  would  be  an  additional  prepara¬ 
tion  for  the  gradual  influence  of  real  religion  on 
their  minds.  But  while  these  modes  of  instruc¬ 
tion  may  be  maintained  by  the  leisure  and  the 
liberality  of  the  laity,  the  clergy  must  be  the 
life,  and  soul  and  spirit  of  them. 

But  to  return. — Perhaps,  in  a  fair  view  of  the 
importance  of  that  truly  Christian  liberty,  which 
ever  since  the  revolution  of  1688  has  been  esta¬ 
blished  in  England,  it  might  be  doubted,  whether 
this  was  not  the  ultimate  object,  on  account  of 
which,  the  civil  rights  of  the  English  communi¬ 
ty  were  so  providentially  fostered.  Certain  it 
is,  tliat  at  every  period  of  our  history  when  an 
advance  is  made  in  civil  matters,  some  step  ap¬ 
pears  generally  to  have  been  gained  in  ecclesi¬ 
astical  concerns  also ;  and  the  completion  of  the 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Ill 


one  is  equally  that  of  the  other.  But  it  seems 
as  if  the  distinct  agency  of  Providence,  in  bring¬ 
ing  our  church  to  that  avowed  and  established 
tolerance,  which  was  alike  congenial  to  Us  spi¬ 
rit,  and  necessary  to  its  purpose,  is  even  more 
remarkable  than  that  series  of  interpositions 
w’hich  has  been  referred  to  in  the  civil  history 
of  the  country.  And  let  it  hot  be  forgotten,  that 
the  toleration  of  our  church  is  connected  with 
our  national  love  of  civil  liberty,  and  that  the 
state  also  is  tolerant.* 

The  long  reign  of  queen  Elizabeth  seems  to 
have  been  designed  for  the  purpose  of  consoli¬ 
dating  and  perpetuating  the  great  work  which 
had  been  accomplished.  During  that  period,  all 
the  energies  of  the  prerogative  were  exercised 
for  the’  exclusive  maintenance  of  the  established 
religion.  And  may  we  not  believe,  that  this  was 
necessary,  till  the  new  order  of  things  should 
have  established  itself  in  the  habits  of  the  people. 

That  neither  civil  nor  religious  liberty  was 
fully  enjoyed  in  England  till  the  revolution,  will 
not  be  denied.  And  that  the  weak,  and  some¬ 
times  most  erroneous  conduct  of  the  race  of 
Stuart  was  providentially  over-ruled,  so  as  to 
lead  to  that  glorious  consummation,  is  equally 
obvious.  May  we  not  then  suppose,  that  this 
family  was  brought  upon  the  throne  for  this 
purpose,  when  we  see,  that  when  that  object 
was  ripe  for  accomplishment,  the  family,  in  its 
male  line,  was  excluded  from  the  sovereignty, 
on  the  clearest  grounds  of  invincible  necessity, 
and  hopeless  bigotry  ;  an  event,  the  occasion 
for  which  was  as  much  to  be  deplored,  as  its 
motives  are  to  be  revered,  and  its  consequences 
to  be  gloried  in.  This  revolution  was  one  of 
those  rare  and  critical  cases,  which  can  never 
be  pleaded  as  a  precedent  by  discontent  or  dis¬ 
affection.  It  was  a  singular  instance  when  a 
high  duty  was  of  necessity  superseded  by  a 
higher ;  and  when  the  paramount  rights  of  law 
and  conscience  united  in  urging  the  painful  but 
irresistible  necessity. 

Gk)d  has  made  human  society  progressive,  by 
the  laws  of  nature,  as  well  as  by  the  order  of 
Providence.  At  some  periods,  this  progress 
seems  accelerated.  It  is,  doubtless,  the  wisdom 
of  those  who  preside  over  communities,  to  mark 
all  such  periods,  and  instead  of  resisting,  to  re¬ 
gulate  the  progress.  This  did  not  the  unfortu¬ 
nate  house  of  Stuart.  Their  political  errors 
shall  not  here  be  enumerated.  Probably  they 
would  have  been  preserved  from  them  if  they 
had  not  fought  against  divine  Providence,  in  se¬ 
veral  instances.  The  spirit  of  the  English  re¬ 
formation  was  that  of  rational  but  strict  piety. 
This  strictness,  the  conduct  botli  of  James  and 
even  of  the  first  Charles,  had  a  tendency  to  ex¬ 
tinguish,  by  sanctioning,  and,  in  a  degree,  en¬ 
joining  the  profanation  of  the  Lord’s  day.  The 
order  of  public  worship,  as  established  by  the 
reformers,  was  sufficiently  majestic  ; — no  deco¬ 
rous  circumstance  being  wanting,  no  exception¬ 
able  ceremonies  being  admitted.  Instead  of 
wisely  and  steadily  guarding  this  admirable  ar¬ 
rangement  from  encroachments,  the  unfortunate 
Charles  endeavoured  to  bring  back  these  genu- 

•  It  is  to  bo  lamented  that  there  was  a  most  unhappy 
instance  of  departure  from  this  spirit  in  tlie  reign  of 
Charles  II. 


flections,  and  other  ceremonies  which  the  first 
reformers  had  discarded ;  and  enforced  these  in¬ 
novations  by  a  severity,  still  more  abhorrent 
from  the  temper  of  the  Anglican  church  Un¬ 
der  such  mismanagement,  these  dissentient 
principles,  which  existed  since  the  reformation, 
were  fanned  into  that  furious  flame,  from  which 
the  English  constitution  in  church  and  state 
seems  tu  have  come  forth  unhurt,  only  because 
the  designs  of  over-ruling  Providence  required 
their  preservation. 

The  second  Charles,  untaught  by  the  calami¬ 
ties  of  his  virtuous  but  misguided  father,  disre¬ 
garded  all  principle  in  his  public,  and  outraged 
all  decency  in  his  private  conduct.  His  reign 
was  a  continual  rebellion  against  that  Provi¬ 
dence,  which  had  destined  the  English  nation 
to  exemplify,  both  good  government  and  good 
morals,  to  the  surrounding  world.  Perhaps, 
however,  nothing  short  of  the  enormities  of  him¬ 
self,  and  the  misconduct  of  his  successor,  could 
have  been  sufficient  to  impel  the  English,  after 
the  miseries  they  had  so  lately  experienced  from 
anarchy,  to  the  vindication  of  their  just,  consti¬ 
tutional  rights.  And  probably  again,  they  would 
not  have  possessed  that  temper,  which  kept 
them  from  demanding  more  than  their  just 
rights,  if  they  had  not  received  that  previous 
discipline  from  the  hand  of  heaven.  It  is  worthy 
of  notipe,  that  when  the  house  of  Stuart  was 
dispossessed  of  the  throne  of  England,  that  same 
Providence-  caused  a  respite  in  favour  of  those 
two*  princesses  who  had  not  participated  in  the 
vices  of  their  father’s  house.  Of  these,  the  elder 
was  made  a  chief  instrument  in  the  great  work 
which  was  to  be  accomplished.  She  was  a  cor- 
dial  protestant,  and  a  pious  Christian :  and  we 
cannot  doubt,  but  her  marriage  with  that  prince, 
who  was  appointed  to  perfect  our  liberties,  was 
a  special  link  in  the  chain  of  intermediate 
causes.  She  became  a  true  English  sovereign : 
a  lover  of  the  establishment,  and  an  example  of 
Christian  charity.  Strictly  and  habitually  de¬ 
vout  amid  all  the  temptations  of  a  court,  she 
was  prepared  to  meet  death  with  almost  more 
than  resignation. 

The  character  of  her  sister  was  much  less 
impressive ;  her  good  qualities  being  better 
fitted  for  a  private  life  than  a  throne.  It  would 
be  hard  to  charge  her  with  inheriting  the  faults 
of  her  ancestors,  from  all  the  grosser  instances 
of  which  she  was  clearly  exempt.  Yet  there 
certainly  appears,  in  her  attachment,  much  of 
that  weak  subjection  of  mind,  (and  a  little,  it 
may  be  feared  of  that  dissimulation  too,)  which 
had  been  so  manifest  in  some  former  monarohs 
of  her  family.  Yet  even  this  weakness  was 
overruled  to  great  purposes.  Had  her  attach¬ 
ment  to  the  duchess  of  Marlborough  been  more 
moderate,  the  duke  might  not  have  possessed 
that  supreme  authority,  which  enabled  him  to 
humble,  by  so  unexampled  a  series  of  victories, 
that  power  which  had  been  the  scourge  of  pro- 
testantism,  ana  the  pest  of  Europe.  And  had 
her  temper  been  less  mutable,  it  might  not  have 
been  so  easy  to  accomplish  a  peace,  when  the 
reasonable  ends  of  war  had  been  so  fully  an¬ 
swered 

•Mary  and  Anne. 


112 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


It  would  almost  seem  that  the  issue  of  this 
princess  was  deemed  by  Providence  too  central 
a  branch  of  the  Stuart  family,  to  be  entrusted 
with  the  newly  renovated  constitution.  A  more 
distant  connexion  had  already  been  specially 
trained  for  this  most  important  trust,  though 
with  little  apparent  probability  of  being  called 
to  exercise  it,  the  princess  Anne  having  been 
no  less  than  seventeen  times  pregnant.  The 
death  of  the  duke  of  Gloucester,  the  last  of  her 
family,  at  length  turned  the  eyes  of  the  English 
public  towards  the  princess  Sophia ;  from  hence¬ 
forth  she  and  her  issue  were  recognized  as  pre¬ 
sumptive  heirs  to  the  crown.  Many  of  the 
events  which  occurred  during  the  last  years  of 
queen  Anne’s  reign,  served  not  a  little  to  en¬ 
hance  to  all  who  were  cordially  attached  to  the 
English  constitution,  the  providential  blessing 
of  so  suitable  a  succession. 

A  more  remarkable  event  is  scarcely  to  be 
found  in  the  annals  of  the  world.  Nothing 
could  be  more  essential  to  the  interests  of 
British  liberty,  than  that  they,  who  were  con¬ 
cerned  for  its  maintenance,  should  be  possessed 
iof  the  promptest  and  most  unexceptionable 
means  of  filling  the  vacant  throne.  No  prince 
was  fitted  to  their  purpose,  who  was  not  zeal- 
,ously  attached  to  the  protestant  religion  ;  and  it 
was  desirable  that  he  should,  at  the  same  time, 
possess  such  a  title,  onground  of  consanguinity, 
as  that  the  principle  of  hereditary  monarchy 
might  be  as  little  departed  from  as  the  exi¬ 
gencies  of  the  case  would'  admit.  For  the  se¬ 
curing  of  both  these  radical  objects,  what  an 
adequate  provision  was  made  in  the  princess 
Sophia,  and  her  illustrious  offspring  !  The  con¬ 
nexion  thus  near  was  made  interesting  by  every 
circumstance  which  could  engage  the  hearts 
of  English  profestants.  The  princess  Sophia 
was  the  only  remaining  child  of  that  only  re¬ 
maining  daughter  of  James  the  first,  who  being 
married  to  one  of  the  most  zealous  protestant 
princes  of  the  empire,  became  his  partner  in  a 
series  of  personal  and  domestic  distress,  in 
which  his  committing  himself,  on  the  cause  of 
the  protestants  of  Bohemia,  involved  him  and 
his  family  for  near  half  a  century.  In  her,  all 
the  rights  of  her  mother,  as  well  as  of  her  father, 
were  vested  ;  and  while  by  the  electorial  dignity, 
(of  which  her  father  had  been  deprived)  being 
restored  to  her  husband,  the  duke  of  Hanover, 
she  seemed,  in  part,  compensated  for  the  afflic¬ 
tions  of  her  earlier  life, — her  personal  character, 
in  which  distinguished  wit  and  talents  were 
united  with  wisdom  and  piety,*  both  these  last 
probably  taught  her  in  the  school  of  adversity, 
procured  for  her-the  admiration  of  all  who  knew 
her,  as  well  as  the  veneration  of  those  whose 
religious  sentiments  were  congenial  with  her 
own. 

Such  was  the  mother  of  George  the  first! 
She  lived,  enjoying  her  bright  Ikculties  to  a 
very  advanced  age,  to  see  a  throne  prepared 
for  her  son  far  more  glorious  than  that  from 
which  her  father  had  been  driven  ;  or,  what  to 
her  excellent  mind  was  still  more  gratifying, 

*  See  IM.  ChevreauJs  character  of  the  Princess  Sophia, 
quoted  by  Addison.  Freeholder,  No.  HO.  See  al.so  her 
two  letters  to  Bishop  Burnet,  in  liis  life  annexed  to  his  . 
own  times. 


she  saw  herself  preserved,  after  the  extinction 
of  all  the  other  branches  of  her  paternal  house, 
to  furnish  in  the  most  honourable  instance  pos¬ 
sible,  an  invaluable  stay  and  prop  for  that  cause, 
on  account  of  which  her  parents  and  their  chil¬ 
dren  seemed,  for  a  time,  to  have  ‘  suffered  the 
loss  of  all  things.’ 

Whether,  then,  we  consider  the  suceession 
of  the  house  of  Hanover,  as  the  means  of  finally 
establishing  our  civil  and  religious  constitution, 
which  then  only  can  be  regarded  as  having  at¬ 
tained  a  perfect  triumph  over  every  kind  of 
oppression ; — or  whether  we  view  it  as  a  most 
signal  aet  of  that  retributive  goodness  which 
has  promised  ‘that ‘every  one  who  forsaketh 
house,  or  brethren,  or  lands,  for  his  sakci  shall 
receive  manifold  more  even  in  this  present 
life.’  I  say,  in  whichsoever  light  we  con¬ 
template  it, — especially  if  we  connect  it  with 
the  series  of  events  in  England, — and,  above  all, 
compare  it  with  the  fate  of  the  family  from 
which  the  parent  princess  had  sprung — but 
whieh,  after  being  chastised  to  no  purpose,  was 
rejected,  to  make  room  for  those,  who  had  suf¬ 
fered  in  so  much  nobler  a  cause,  and  with  so 
much  better  effect, — what  can  we  say,  but  with 
the  Psalmist,  ‘  that  promotion  cometh  neither 
from  the  east,  nor  from  the  west,  nor  yet  from 
the  south.  But  God  is  the  judge;  he  putteth 
down  one,  and  setteth  up  another.  For  in  the 
hand  of  the  Lord  there  is  a  cup,  and  the  wine 
is  red ;  it  is  full  mixed,  and  he  poureth  out  of 
the  same.  But  as  for  the  dregs  thereof,  all  the 
wicked  of  the  earth  shall  wring  them  out,  and 
drink  them.  All  the  horns  also  of  the  wicked 
shall  be  cut  off,  but  the  horns  of  the  righteous 
shall  be  exalted.’ 

Another  less  momentous,  yet  highly  interest- 
ing  instance  of  providential  remuneration,  con¬ 
nected  with  this  great  event,  must  not  be  passed 
over.  It  shall  be  given  in  the  words  of  a  living 
and  a  near  observer.  ‘  A  wife,’  says  bishop 
Burnet,  ‘  was  to  be  sought  for  prince  Charles 
(the  emperor’s  brother,  whom  the  allies  wished 
to  establish  on  the  Spanish  throne)  among  the 
protestant  courts,  for  there  was  not  a  suitable 
match  in  the  popish  courts.  He  had  seen  the 
princess  of  Anspach,  and  was  much  taken 
with  her,  so  that  great  applications  were  made 
to  persuade  her  to  change  her  religion ;  but  she 
could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  buy  a  crown  at  so 
dear  a  rate.  And  soon  after,  she  was  married 
to  the  prince  Electoral  of  Brunswick ;  which 
gave  a  glorious  character  of  her  to  this  nation. 
-And  her  pious  firmness  is  like  to  be  rewarded, 
even  in  this  life,  by  a  much  better  crown  than 
that  which  she  rejected.’*  Surely  this  portion 
of  our  queen  Caroline’s  history  deserves  to  be 
had  in  perpetual  remembrance  ! 

The  same  prelate  speaking  of  king  William, 
says,  ‘  I  considered  him  as  a  person  raised  up 
by  God,  to  resist  the  power  of  France,  and  the 
progress  of  tyranny  and  persecution.  The  thirty 
years,  from  the  year  1672  to  his  death,  in  which 
he  acted  so  great  a  part,  carry  in  them  so  many 
amazing  steps  of  a  glorious  and  distinguishing 
Providence,  that  in  the  words  of  David  he  may 
be  called, —  The  man  of  God's  right  hand,  whom 
he  made  strong  for  himself' 

*  Burnet’s  own  times,  1707. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


113 


But  if  there  were  just  grounds  for  this  re¬ 
mark  respecting  this  particular  period,  and  this 
individual  personage  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
entire  chain  of  providences,  which  runs  through 
our  whole  national  history,  from  the  landing  of 
our  Saxon  ancestors  to  the  present  hour  ?  May 
it  not  be  confidently  asked.  Is  there  at  this  day 
a  nation  upon  earth,  whose  circumstances  ap¬ 
pear  so  clearly  to  have  been  arranged,  and  bound 
together,  by  the  hands  of  him,  ‘  who  does  what¬ 
soever  he  pleases,  both  in  heaven  and  earth  V 

That  the  purposes  of  this  great  scheme  have, 
as  yet  been  most  inadequately  answered,  as  far 
as  our  free  agency  is  concerned,  is  a  deep 
ground  for  our  humiliation,  but  no  argument 
against  the  reality  of  providential  direction.  The 
Sacred  history  of  the  Jews,  the  only  people  who 
have  been  more  distinguished  than  ourselves, 
presents  to  us  not  only  their  unparalleled  obli¬ 
gations  to  the  Almighty,  but  also  a  series  of  such 
abuses  of  those  mercies,  as  at  length  brought 
upon  them  a  destruction  as  unexampled  as 
their  guilt.  The  great  purposes  of  heaven  can¬ 
not  be  frustrated  ;  but  the  instrument  which  em¬ 
barrassed  the  process  may,  too  surely,  be  ex¬ 
cluded  from  any  share  in  the  beneficial  results, 
and  be,  on  the  contrary,  (the  distinguished  vic¬ 
tim  of  indignation.  Thus  Judea,  in  spite  of 
all  its  apostacies,  was  made  subservient  to  its 
original  object.  In  spite  of  the  barrenness  of 
the  parent  tree,  the  mystic  branch  was  made 
to  spring  from  its  roots ;  but  this  purpose  being 
once  served,  the  tree  itselfi  nourished  as  it  had 
been  with  the  chief  fatness  of  the  earth,  and 
with  the  richest  dews  of  heaven,  was  ‘  hewn 
down  and  cast  into  the  fire.’ 

Let  England,  let  those  especially  of  rank  and 
influence,  and,  above  all,  let  the  personage 
whose  high,  but  most  awful  trust  it  may  be  to 
have  the  delegated  oversight  of  this  vineyard, 
which  God  has  ‘  fenced  and  planted  with  the 
choicest  vine;’  let  all  feel  the  weight  of  their 
responsibility,  and  avert  those  judgments  which 
divine  justice  may  deem  commensurate  to  our 
abused  advantages ! 

We  have  been  the  object  of  admiration  to  the 
whole  civilized  world !  Such  have  been  the 
blessings  conferred  upon  us,  and  such  have  been 
the  bright  lights,  from  time  to  time,  raised  up 
among  us,  that  it  could  not  be  otherwise.  But 
what  would  the  effect  have  been,  if  our  unexam¬ 
pled  constitution,  correspondent  to  its  native 
design,  had  called  forth,  not  the  unblushing, 
because  unpunishable,  baseness  of  party  pro¬ 
fligacy,  but  the  unfettered,  disinterested,  unani¬ 
mous,  exertion  of  commanding  talent,  of  ener¬ 
getic  application,  and  of  invincible  virtue  !  if  a 
solicitude  to  digest  the  principles,  to  imbibe  the 
spirit,  and  to  exemplify  the  virtues  of  our  illus¬ 
trious  worthies  had  been  as  assiduously  excited 
by  preceptors  in  their  pupils,  and  by  parents 
in  their  children,  as  a  blind  admiration  of  them, 
or  a  blinder  vanity  on  account  of  them  : — if  those 
worthies  had  been  as  sedulously  imitated,  as 
they  have  been  loudly  extolled  ;  and  above  all, 
if  our  national  church  establishment  had  been 
as  universally  i||fluentia],  us  it  is  intrinsically 
admirable  in  its  impressive  ordinances,  its  be¬ 
nignant  spirit,  and  its  liberal,  yet  unadulterated 
doctrines  ; — We  mean  not,  if  these  effects  had 
11 


been  produced  to  any  improbable  Utopian  extent, 
but  in  that  measure,  which  was,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  possible,  and  which  the  moral  Gover¬ 
nor  of  the  Universe  had  an  equitable  right  to 
look  for. — If  this  had  been  realized,  who  can 
say  what  evils  might  have  been  prevented,  what 
good  might  have  been  accomplished?  How 
might  Protestantism  have  spread  through  Eu¬ 
rope,  did  our  national  morals  keep  pace  with 
our  profession  ?  How  happily  might  the  sound 
philosophy  of  the  English  school,  when  thus 
illustrated,  have  precluded  the  impious  princi¬ 
ples  and  the  blasphemous  language  of  Voltaire 
and  his  licentious  herd !  And  how  would  the 
widely  diffused  radiance  of  our  then  unclouded 
constitution  have  poured  even  upon  surrounding 
countries  so  bright  a  day,  as  to  have  made  ra¬ 
tional  liberty  an  object  of  general,  but  safe  pur¬ 
suit,  and  left  no  place  for  those  works  of  dark¬ 
ness  by  which  France  has  degraded  hcrselfi 
and  outraged  human  nature  ! 

Shall  we  then  persevere  in  our  inattention  to 
the  indications  of  Providence  ?  Shall  we  persist 
in  our  neglect  or  abuse  of  the  talents  committed 
to  us  ?  Shall  we  be  still  unconscious  that  all  our 
prosperity  hangs  suspended  on  the  sole  will  of 
God,  and  that  the  moment  of  his  ceasing  to  sus¬ 
tain  us,  will  be  the  moment  of  our  destruction  ? 
And  shall  not  this  be  felt  particularly  by  those 
who,  by  being  placed  highest  in  the  community, 
would,  in  such  a  ruin,  be  the'  most  signal  vic¬ 
tims,  so  they  may  now  do  most  toward  averting 
the  calamity  ?  On  the  whole,  what  is  the  almost 
audible  language  of  heaven  to  prince  and  peo¬ 
ple,  to  nobles  and  commoners,  to  church  and 
state,  but  that  of  the  great  Author  of  our  religion 
in  his  awful  message  to  the  long  since  desolated 
churches  of  Asia?  ‘Repent,  or  else  I  will  come 
unto  thee  quickly,  and  will  fight  against  thee 
with  the  sword  of  my  mouth  ;  and  I  will  kill 
thy  children  wuth  death,  and  all  the  churches 
shall  know  that  I  am  he  that  searcheth  the 
reins  and  hearts,  and  I  will  give  to  every  one 
of  you  according  to  your  works.’ 


CHAP.  XL. 

On  Christianity  as  a  principle  of  action,  es¬ 
pecially  as  it  respects  supreme  rulers. 

Christianity  is  not  an  ingenious  theory,  a 
sublime  but  impracticable  speculation,  a  fanci¬ 
ful  invention  to  exercise  the  genius  or  sharpen 
the  wit ;  but  it  is  a  system  for  common  appre¬ 
hension,  for  general  use,  and  daily  practice.  It 
is  critically  adapted  to  the  character  of  man, 
intelligible  to  his  capacity,  appropriated  to  his 
exigencies,  and  accommodated  to  his  desires- 
It  contains,  indeed,  abstruse  mysteries  to  exercise 
his  faith,  to  inure  him  to  submission,  to  habi¬ 
tuate  him  to  dependence  ;  but  the  sublimest  of  its 
doctrines  involve  deep  practical  consequences. 

Revelation  exhibits  what  neither  the  philoso¬ 
phy  of  the  old,  nor  the  natural  religion  of  the 
modern  sceptic,  ever  pretended  toexhihil,  a  com¬ 
pact  system  of  virtues  and  graces.  Philosophy 
boasted  only  fair  ideas,  independent  virtues,  and 
disconnected  duties.  Christianity  presents  >*r 


114 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


unmutilated  whole,  in  which  a  few  simple  but 
momentous  premises  induce  a  chain  of  conse¬ 
quences  commensurate  with  the  immortal  na¬ 
ture  of  man.  It  is  a  scheme  w’hich  not  only 
displays  every  duty,  but  displays  it  in  its  just 
limitation  and  relative  dependence;  maintaining 
a  lovely  symmetry  and  fair  proportion,  which 
arise  from  the  beautiful  connexion  of  one  virtue 
with  another,  and  of  all  virtues  with  that  faith 
of  whieh  they  are  the  fruits. 

But  the  paramount  excellence  of  Christianity 
is,  that  its  effects  are  not  limited,  like  the  virtues 
of  the  Pagans,  to  the  circumscribed  sphere  of 
this  world.  Their  thoughts  and  desires,  though 
they  occasionally  appeared,  from  their  sublimity, 
to  have  been  fitted,  for  a  wider  range,  were  in  a 
great  measure  shut  in  by  the  dark  and  narrow 
bounds  of  the  present  scene.  At  most,  they  ap¬ 
pear  to  have  had  but  transient  glimpses  of  eva¬ 
nescent  light,  which,  however,  while  they  lasted, 
made  them  often  break  out  into  short  but  spirit¬ 
ed  apostrophes  of  hope,  and  even  triumph.  The 
Stoics  talked  deeply  and  eloquently  of  self-denial, 
hut  never  thought  of  extending,  by  its  exercise, 
their  happiness  to  perpetuity.  Philosophy  could 
never  give  to  divine  and  eternal  things,  sufficient 
distinctness  or  magnitude  to  induce  a  renuncia¬ 
tion  of  present  enjoyment,  or  to  insure  to  the 
conqueror,  who  should  obtain  a  victory  over  this 
world,  a  crown  of  upfading  glory.  It  never  was 
explained,  except  in  the  page  of  Revelation,  that 
God  was  himself  an  abundant  recompence  for 
every  sacrifice  which  can  bo  made  for  his  sake. 
Still  less  was  it  ascertained,  that,  even  in  this 
life,  God  is  to  the  good  man  his  refuge  and  his 
strength,  ‘  a  very  present  help  in  time  of  trou¬ 
ble.’  There  is  more  rational  consolation  for 
both  worlds,  in  these  few  words  of  the  Amighty 
to  Abraham,  ‘  Fear  not,  I  am  thy  shield,  and  thy 
exceeding  great  reward,’  than  in  all  the  happy 
conjectures,  and  ingenious  probabilities,  of  all 
the  philosophers  in  the  world. 

The  religion,  therefore,  which  is  in  this  little 
work  meant  to  be  inculcated,  is  not  the  gloomy 
austerity  of  the  ascetic  ;  it  is  not  the  fierce  into¬ 
lerance  of  the  bigot,  it  is  not  the  mere  assent  to 
historical  evidence,  nor  the  mere  formal  obser¬ 
vances  of  the  nominal  Christian.  It  is  not  the 
extravagance  of  the  fanatic,  nor  the  extermi¬ 
nating  zeal  of  the  persecutor :  though  all  these 
faint  shadows,  or  distorting  caricatures  have 
been  frequently  exhibited  as  the  genuine  por¬ 
traits  of  Christianity  ;  by  those  who  either  never 
saw  her  face,  or  never  came  near  enough  to  de¬ 
lineate  her  fairly,  or  who  delighted  to  misrepre¬ 
sent  and  disfigure  her. 

True  religion  is,  on  the  contrary,  the  most  so¬ 
ber,  most  efficient,  most  natural,  and  therefore 
most  happy  exercise  of  right  reason.  It  is  in¬ 
deed,  rationally  made  predominant  by  such  an 
apprehension  of  what  concerns  us,  in  respect  to 
our  higher  nature,  as  sets  us  above  all  undue 
attraction  of  earthly  objects ;  and  in  a  great 
measure,  frees  the  mind  from  its  bondage  to  the 
body.  It  is  that  inward  moral  liberty  which 
gives  a  man  the  mastery  over  himself,  and  ena¬ 
bles  him  to  pursue  those  ends  which  his  heart 
and  his  conscience  approve,  without  yielding  to 
any  of  those  warping  influences,  by  which  all, 
except  genuine  Christians,  must  be,  more  or  lessi, 


led  captive.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  influentia. 
knowledge  of  Him,  whom  to  know  is  wisdom — 
whom  to  fear  is  rectitude — whom  to  love  is  hap¬ 
piness.  A  principle  this,  so  just  in  rational 
creatures  to  their  infinite  owner,  benefactor,  and 
end  ;  so  demanded  by  all  that  is  perceivable  in¬ 
outward  nature,  so  suggested  by  all  that  is  right, 
and  so  required  by  all  that  is  wrong  in  the  hu¬ 
man  mind,  that  the  common  want  of  it,  which 
almost  every  where  presents  itself  is  only  to  be 
accounted  for  on  the  supposition  of  human  na¬ 
ture  being  under  some  unnatural  perversion, 
some  deep  delirium,  or  fatal  intoxication ;  which 
by  filling  the  mind  with  sickly  dreams,  renders 
it  insensible  to  those  facts  and  verities,  of  which 
awakened  nature  would  have  the  most  awful  and 
most  impressive  perception. 

Thus,  to  awaken  our  reason,  to  make  us  sen 
sible  of  our  infatuation,  to  point  us  to  our  true 
interest,  duty,  and  happiness,  and  to  fit  us  for 
the  pursuit,  by  making  us  love  both  the  objects 
at  which  we  are  to  aim,  and  the  path  in  which 
we  are  to  move,  are  the  grand  purposes  of  the 
Christian  dispensation.  If  moral  rectitude  be 
an  evil ;  if  inward  self-enjoyment  be  a  grievance, 
if  a  right  estimate  of  all  things  be  folly  ;  if  a 
cheerful  and  happy  use  of  every  thing,  according 
to  its  just  and  proper  value,  be  misery  ;  if  a  su¬ 
preme,  undeviating  attachnient  to  every  thing 
that  is  true  and  honest,  and  pure,  and  just,  and 
lovely,  and  of  good  report,  be  weakness:  in  short, 
if  the  true  relish  for  every  thing  substantially 
useful,  every  thing  innocently  pleasant  in  life, 
with  the  prospect,  when  life  is  ended,  of  felicity 
unspeakable  and  eternal,  be  moping  melancholy, 
then,  and  not  otherwise,  ought  the  religion  of 
the  New  Testament  to  be  treated  with  neglect, 
or  viewed  with  suspicion  ;  as  if  it  were  hostile 
to  human  comfort,  unsuitable  to  high  station,  or 
incompatible  with  any  circumstances  which 
right  reason  sanctions. 

The  gospel  is,  in  infinite  mercj’,  brought  with¬ 
in  the  apprehension  of  the  poor  and  the  igno¬ 
rant  ;  but  its  grandeur,  like  that  of  the  God  who 
gave  it,  is  not  to  be  lowered  by  condescension. 
In  its  humblest  similitudes,  the  discerning  mind 
will  feel  a  majestic  simplicity,  identical  with 
that  of  created  nature ;  and  in  its  plainest  les¬ 
sons,  an  extent  of  meaning  which  spreads  into 
infinitude.  When  we  yield  ourselves  to  its  in- 
fluences,  its  effects  upon  us  are  correspondent  to 
its  own  nature.  It  lays  the  axe  to  the  root  of 
every  kind  of  false  greatness,  but  it  leaves  us  in 
a  more  confirmed,  and  far  happier  enjoyment  of 
all  which  really  gives  lustre  to  the  character, 
which  truly  heightens  the  spirit,  which  strength¬ 
ens,  ennobles,  and  amplifies  the  mind.  It  an¬ 
nounces  to  us  a  spiritual  sovereign,  to  whose 
unseen  dominion  the  proudest  potentates. of  the 
earth  are  in  unconscious,  but  most  real  subjec¬ 
tion  ;  but  who,  notwithstanding  his  infinite  great¬ 
ness,  condescends  to  take  up  his  residence  in 
every  human  heart  that  truly  yields  to  his  influ¬ 
ence  ;  suppressing  in  it  every  unruly  and  unhap¬ 
py  passion  ;  animating  it  with  every  holy  and 
heavenly  temper,  every  noble  and  generous  vir¬ 
tue  ;  fitting  it  for  all  the  purpose  of  Providence, 
and  fortifying  it  against  calamities,  by  a  peace 
‘  which  passolh  all  understanding.’ 

That  this  is  a  view  of  Christianity,  founded 


THE  WORKS  01.  HANNAH  MORE. 


115 


in  irrefragable  fact,  and  peculiarly  demanding 
our  regard,  appears  from  the  uniform  language 
of  its  divii*e  author,  respecting  himself  and  his 
mission,  on  all  occasions  where  a  summary  an- 
nunciation  was  fitting.  It  is  a  spiritual  king¬ 
dom,  on  the  eve  of  actual  establishment,  of  which 
he  gives  notice.  To  this  ultimate  idea,  the  other 
great  purposes  of  his  incarnation  are  to  be  re¬ 
ferred.  They  over  whom  he  means  to  reign  are 
attainted  rebels.  He,  therefore,  so  fulfils  every 
demand  of  that  law  which  they  had  violated,  as 
to  reverse  the  attainder,  on  grounds  of  eternal 
justice.  They  were,  also,  captives  to  a  usurper, 
whose  mysterious  power  he  has  so  broken  as  to 
disable  him  from  detaining  any.  who  are  cor¬ 
dially  willing  to  break  their  bonds.  And  having 
thus  removed  all  obstacles,  he  offers  privileges 
of  infinite  benefit ;  and  demands  no  submission  ; 
no  dereliction,  no  observance,  but  what,  in  the 
very  nature  of  things,  are  indispensable  to  the 
recovery  of  moral  health,  moral  liberty,  and  mo¬ 
ral  happiness  :  and  what  He,  by  the  gracious  in¬ 
fluences  of  his  ever-present  Spirit,  will  render, 
not  only  attainable,  but  delightful  to  the  honest 
and  humble  heart. 

The  royal  person,  then,  should  early  and  con¬ 
stantly  be  habituated  to  consider  herself  as  pecu¬ 
liarly  under  the  government,  and  in  a  most  espe¬ 
cial  manner  needing  the  protection  and  guidance 
of  this  Almighty  Sovereign  ;  looking  to  his  word 
for  her  best  light,  and  to  his  Spirit  for  her  best 
strength  ;  performing  all  that  she  undertakes, 
in  the  manner  most  perfectly  conformed  to  his 
laws,  and  most  clearly  subservient  to  the  inte¬ 
rests  of  his  spiritual  kingdom ;  submitting  all 
events  to  his  wisdom,  and  acknowledging  no  less 
his  particular  than  his  general  Providence  ;  and, 
above  all,  praying  daily  for  his  support,  depend¬ 
ing  on  his  goodness  for  success,  and  submitting 
to  his  will  in  disappointment.  In  fact,  to  none, 
in  so  eminent  a  sense  as  to  princes,  does  that  sen¬ 
timent  of  an  inspired  instructor  belong  :  ‘  Not 
that  we  are  sufficient  of  ourselves,  to  think  any 
thing  as  of  ourselves  ;  but  our  sufficiency  is  of 
God.’ 

She  should  practically  understand,  that  reli¬ 
gion,  though  it  has  its  distinct  and  separate  du¬ 
ties,  yet  it  is  not  by  any  means  a  distinct  and 
separate  thing,  so  as  to  make  up  a  duty  of  itself, 
disconnected  with  other  duties,  but  that  it  is  a 
grand,  and  universally  governing  principle,which 
is  to  be  the  fountain  of  her  morality,  and  the 
living  spring  of  all  her  actions  :  that  religion  is 
not  merely  a  thing  to  be  retained  in  the  mind, 
as  a  dormant  mass  of  inoperative  opinions,  but 
which  is  to  be  brought,  by  every  individual,  into 
the  detail  of  every  day’s  deeds :  which,  in  a 
prince,  is  to  influence  his  private  behaviour,  as 
well  as  his  public  conduct ;  which  is  to  regulate 
his  choice  of  ministers,  and  his  adoption  of  mea¬ 
sures  ;  which  is  to  govern  his  mind,  in  making 
war  and  making  peace  j  which  is  to  accompany 
him,  not  only  to  the  closet,  but  to  the  council ; 
which  is  to  fill  his  mind,  whether  in  the  world 
or  in  retirement,  with  an  abiding  sense  of  the 
vast  responsibility  which  he  is  under,  and  the 
awful  account  to  which  he  will  one  day  be  call¬ 
ed,  before  that  Being,  who  lodges  the  welfare  of 
BO  many  millions  in  his  hands.  In  fine,  to  bor¬ 
row  the  wo’^ds  of  the  pious  archbishop  Seeker, 


‘  It  ought  to  be  e.vplicitly  taugnt,  aud  much  dwelt 
upon,  that  religion  extends  its  authority  to  every 
thing  ;  to  the  most  w’orldly,  the  commonest,  the 
lowest’  (and  surely,  still  more  the  highest  earth¬ 
ly)  ‘  things ;  binding  us  to  behave  reasonably, 
decently,  humbly,  honourably,  meekly,  and  kind¬ 
ly  in  them  all ;  and  that  its  interfering  so  far, 
instead  of  being  a  hardship,  is  a  great  blessing 
to  us,  because  it  interferes  always  for  our 
good.’ 

Parasites  have  treated  some  weak  princes,  as 
if  they  were  not  of  the  same  common  nature 
with  those  whom  they  govern ;  and  as  if,  of 
course,  they  were  not  amenable  to  the  same 
laws.  Christianity,  however,  does  not  hold  out 
two  sorts  of  religion,  one  for  the  court,  and  one 
for  the  country  ;  one  for  the  prince,  and  another 
for  the  people.  Princes,  as  well  as  subjects,  who, 
‘  by  patient  continuance  in  well-doing,  seek  for 
glory,  and  honour,  and  immortality,’  shall  reap 
‘  eternal  life.’  As  there  is  the  same  code  of  laws, 
so  there  is  the  same  promise  annexed  to  the  ob¬ 
servance  of  them.  ‘  If  thou  wilt  enter  into  life, 
keep  the  commandments.’  There  are  no  exempt 
cases.  The  maxim  is  of  universal  application. 
There  will  be  no  pleading  of  privilege  on  that 
day,  when  the  dead,  small  and  great,  shall 
stand  before  God  ;  when  they  shall  be  ‘judged 
out  of  those  things  which  are  written  in  the 
book  of  God’s  re-membrance,  according  to  their 
works.’ 

So  far  from  a  dispensation  of  indulgences  be- 
ing  granted  to  princes,  they  are  bound  even  to 
more  circumspection.  They  are  set  on  a  pinna¬ 
cle,  the  peculiar  objects  of  attention  and  imita¬ 
tion.  Their  trust  is  of  larger  extent,  and  more 
momentous  importance. — Their  influence  in¬ 
volves  the  conduct  of  multitudes.  Their  exam¬ 
ple  should  be  even  more  correct,  because  it  will 
be  pleaded  as  a  precedent.  Their  exalted  sta¬ 
tion,  therefore,  instead  of  furnishing  excuses  for 
omission,  does  but  enlarge  the  obligation  of  per¬ 
formance.  They  may  avail  themselves  of  the 
same  helps  to  virtue,  the  same  means  for  duty  ; 
and  they  have  the  same,  may  we  not  rather  say, 
they  have  even  a  stronger  assurance  of  divine 
aid,  since  that  aid  is  promised  to  be  proportioned 
to  the  exigence  ;  and  the  exigencies  of  princes 
are  obviously  greater  than  those  of  any  other 
class  of  men. 

Power  and  splendor  are  not  to  be  considered 
as  substitutes  for  virtue,  but  as  instruments  for 
its  promotion,  and  means  for  its  embellishment. 
The  power  and  splendor  of  sovereigns  are  con¬ 
firmed  to  them  by  the  laws  of  the  state,  for  the 
wisest  and  most  beneficial  purposes.  But  tlio.se 
illustrious  appendages  are  evidently  not  meant 
for  their  personal  gratification,  but  to  give  im¬ 
pressiveness  and  dignity  to  their  station  ;  to  be 
suitable  and  honourable  means  of  supporting  an 
authority,  which  .  Providence  ha.s  made  indis- 
pensable  to  the  peace  and  happiness  of  society  ; 
and  on  the  adequate  energy  of  which,  the  secu¬ 
rity  and  comfort  of  all  subordinate  ranks,  in 
their  due  gradations,  so  materially  depend. 

Can  we  hesitate  to  conclude,  that  at  the  last 
great  audit,  princes  will  be  called  to  account, 
not  only  for  all  the  wrong  which  they  have  done, 
but  for  all  the  right  which  they  have  neglected 
to  do  ?  Not  only  for  all  the  evil  they  have  per 


il6 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


petrated,  but  for  all  that  they,  wilfully,  have  per¬ 
mitted?  For  all  the  corruptions  whieh  they  have 
Banctioned,  and  all  the  good  which  they  have 
discouraged?  It  will  be  demanded  whether 
they  have  employed  royal  opulence,  in  setting 
an  example  of  wise  and  generous  beneficence, 
or  of  contagious  levity  and  voluptuousness  ? 
Whether  they  have  used  their  influence,  in  pro¬ 
moting  objects  clearly  for  the  public  good,  or  in 
accomplishing  the  selfish  purposes  of  mercenary 
favourites  ?  And  whether,  on  the  whole,  their 
public  and  private  conduct  tended  more  to  dif¬ 
fuse  religious  principle,  and  sanction  Christian 
virtue,  or  to  lend  support  to  fashionable  profli¬ 
gacy,  and  to  undermine  national  morality  ? 

At  the  same  time  it  is  to  be  remembered,  that 
they  will  be  judged  by  that  omniscient  Being, 
who  sees  the  secret  bent  and  hidden  inclinations 
of  the  heart;  and  who  knows  that  the  best 
prince  cannot  accomplish  all  the  good  he  wishes, 
nor  prevent  all  the  evil  he  disapproves  : — by  that 
merciful  Being,  who  will  recompense  pure  de¬ 
sires  and  upright  intentions,  even  where  pro¬ 
vidential  obstacles  prevented  their  being  carried 
into  execution — by  that  compassionate  Being, 
who  sees  their  difficulties,  observes  their  trials, 
weighs  their  temptations,  commisserates  their 
dangers,  and  takes  most  exact  cognizance  of 
circumstances,  of  which  no  human  judge  can 
form  an  adequate  idea.  Assured,  as  we  are,  that 
this  gracious  method  of  reckoning  will  be  ex¬ 
tended  to  all,  may  we  not  be  confident,  that  it 
will  be  peculiarly  applied,  where  the  case  most 
expressly  stands  in  need  of  it  ?  And  may  we 
not  rest  persuaded,  that  if  there  is  a  spectacle 
which  our  Almighty  Ruler  beholds  with  pecu¬ 
liar  complacency  on  earth,  and  will  recompense 
with  a  crown  of  distinguished  brightness  in 
heaven,  it  is  a  sovereign  doin<?  justly,  loving 
MERCY,  AND  WALKING  HUMBLY  WITH  GoD. 

But  is  religion  to  be  pursued  by  princes  only, 
as  a  guide  of  conduct,  a  law  by  which  thej^  are 
to  live  and  act :  as  a  principle  which,  if  culti¬ 
vated,  will  qualify  them  for  eternal  felicity  ? 
These  are  invaluable  benefits,  but  they  do  not 
wholly  express  all  that  princes  in  particular  need 
from  religion. —  T/tey,  in  an  eminent  degree,  re¬ 
quire  consolation  and  support  for  this  life,  as 
well  as  a  title  to  happiness  in  the  life  to  come. 
They,  above  all  human  beings,  need  some  pow¬ 
erful  resource  to  bear  them  up  against  the  agi¬ 
tations  and  the  pressures,  to  which  their  high 
station  inevitably  exposes  them. 

To  whom  on  this  earth  are  troubles  and  heart- 
achs  so  sure  to  be  multiplied,  as  to  princes,  espe¬ 
cially  to  those  of  superior  understanding  and 
sensibility  ?  Who,  of  any  other  rank  are  exposed 
to  such  embarrassing  trials,  such  difficult  dilem¬ 
mas?  We  speak  not  merely  of  those  unfortu¬ 
nate  monarchs,  who  have  undergone  striking 
vicissitudes,  or  who  have  been  visited  with  ex¬ 
traordinary  calamities  ;  but  of  such  also  whom 
the  world  would  rather  agree  to  call  prosperous 
and  happy  : — Yet  let  him  who  doubts  this  ge¬ 
neral  truth,  read  the  accounts  given  by  all  our 
historians  of  the  last  years  of  king  William, and 
the  last  months  of  queen  Anne  ;  and  tlien  let 
liim  pronounce  what  could  be  more  trying,  than 
those  disappointments  and  disgusts  wliich  sunk 
into  the  very  soul  of  the  one,  or  those  cares  and 


agitations  which  finally  destroyed  the  peace  of 
the  other. 

If  there  be  then  any  secret  in  the*nature  of 
things,  and  clearly  infallible  remedy  by  which 
such  distresses  may  be  assuaged,  by  which  self- 
command,  self-possession,  and  even  eelf-enjoy 
ment  may  be  secured  in  the  midst  of  the  great¬ 
est  trials  to  which  mortality  is  liable, — would 
not  this  be  an  object  to  which  the  view  of  princes, 
even  above  all  the  rest  of  mankind,  should  be 
directed  ;  and  in  comparison  of  which,  they 
might  justl}'  hold  cheap  all  the  honours  of  their 
birth,  and  all  the  prerogatives  of  their  rank  ? 

Christian  piety,  when  real  in  itself,  and  when 
thoroughly  established  in  the  heart  and  in  the 
habits,  is  this  secret.  When  the  mind  is  not 
only  conscientiously,  but  affectionately  religious; 
when  it  not  only  fears  God,  as  the  Almighty 
Sovereign,  but  loves  and  confides  in  him,  as  the 
all-gracious  Father,  not  merely  inferred  to  be 
such,  from  the  beauty  and  benignity  apparent 
in  the  works  of  nature,  but  rationally  understood 
to  be  such  from  the  discoveries  of  divine  grace 
in  the  word  of  God  ; — and  let  us  add,  no  less  ra- 
tionally  felt  to  be  such,  from  the  transforming 
influence  of  that  word  upon  the  heart :  then, 
acts  of  devotion  are  no  longer  a  penance,  but  a 
resource,  and  a  refreshment ;  insomuch  that 
the  voluptuary  would  as  soon  relinquish  those 
gratifications  for  which  he  lives,  as  the  devout 
Christian  would  give  up  his  daily  intercourse 
with  his  Maker.  But  it  is  not  in  stated  acts 
merely  that  such  devotion  lives, — it  is  an  ha¬ 
bitual  sentiment  which  diffuses  itself  through 
the  whole  of  life,  purifying,  exalting  and  tran- 
quilizing  every  part  of  it,  smoothing  the  most 
rugged  paths, — making  the  yoke  of  duty  easy, 
and  the  burden  of  care  light.  It  is  a  perennial 
spring  in  the  very  centre  of  the  heart,  to  which 
the  wearied  spirit  betakes  itself  for  refreshment 
and  repose. 

In  this  language  there  is  no  enthusiasm.  It 
is  in  spite  of  the  cold  raillery  of  the  sceptic,  the 
language  of  truth  and  soberness. — The  Scrip¬ 
tures  ascribe  to  Christian  piety  this  very  efficacy; 
and  every  age  and  nation  furnish  countless 
instances  of  its  power  to  raise  the  human  mind 
to  a  holy  heroism,  superior  to  every  trial !  ‘  Were 
there  not,’  says  the  sober  and  dispassionate  Til- 
lotson,  ‘  something  real  in  the  principles  of  reli¬ 
gion,  it  is  impossible  that  they  should  have  so 
remarkable  and  so  regular  an  effect,  to  support 
the  mind  in  every  condition,  upon  so  great  a 
number  of  persons,  of  different  degrees  of  un¬ 
derstanding,  of  all  ranks  and  conditions,  young 
and  old,  learned  and  unlearned,  in  so  many  dis 
tant  places,  and  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  the 
records  whereof  have  come  down  to  us.  I  say 
so  real,  and  so  frequent,  and  so  regular  an  effect 
as  this,  cannot  with  any  colour  of  reason,  be 
ascribed  either  to  blind  chance  or  mere  imagi¬ 
nation,  but  must  have  a  real  and  regular,  and 
uniform  cause,  proportionable  to  so  great  and 
general  an  effect.’* 

We  are  persuaded  that  if  the  subject  of  this 
chapter  be  considered  with  an  attention  equal  to 
its  importance  every  other  virtue  will  spring  up, 
as  it  were  spotaneously,  in  the  mind,  and  a  high 
degreee  of  excellence,  both  public  and  private, 
*  Sermon  Xf. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


117 


be  instinctively  pursued.  In  such  a  case,  how 
happy  would  be  the  distinguished  individual, 
and  how  inconceivably  benefited  and  blessed 
would  be  the  community  ! 

Pious  sovereigns  are  at  all  times,  the  richest 
boon  which  heaven  can  bestow  on  a  country. 
The  present  period  makes  us  more  than  ever 
sensible  of  their  importance.  A  period  in  which 
law  has  lost  its  force,  rank  its  distinction,  and 
order  its  existence;  in  which  ancient  institu¬ 
tions  are  dissolving,  and  new  powers,  of  unde¬ 
scribed  character,  and  unheard  of  pretension, 
are  involving  Europe  in  contests  and  convul¬ 
sions,  of  which  no  human  foresight  can  antici¬ 
pate  the  end.  In  what  manner  we  may  be 
affected  by  this  unprecedented  state  of  things, 
what  perils  we  may  have  to  face,  what  difficul¬ 
ties  to  struggle  with,  or  what  means  of  final  ex¬ 


trication  may  be  afforded  us,  it  is  not  in  man  to 
determine.  But  certain  it  is,  that  even  in  the  - 
most  threatening  circumstances,  the  obvious, 
unaffected,  consistent  piety  of  the  sovereign  will 
do  more  to  animate  and  unite  a  British  public, 
than  the  eloquence  of  a  Demosthenes,  or  the 
songs  of  a  Tyrtceus ;  and  it  will  be  as  sure  a 
pledge  of  eventful  success,  as  either  the  best  dis¬ 
ciplined  armies  or  the  most  powerful  navies 
Who  can  say  how  much  we  are  indebted  for  our 
safety  hitherto  to  the  blessing  of  a  king  and 
queen  who  have  distinguished  themselves  above 
all’the  sovereigns  of  their  day,  by  strictness  of 
moral  conduct  and  by  reverence  for  religion  ? 
May  their  successors,  to  the  latest  posterity, 
improve  upon,  instead  of  swerving  from  their 
illustrious  example 


CHRISTIAN  MORALS. 


In  moral  actions.  Divine  law  holdeth  exceedingly  the  law  of  Reason  to  guide  a  man’s  life  ;  but 
in  supernatural  it  alone  guideth. — Hooker. 


As  a  slight  memorial  of  sincere  esteem  and  cordial  friendship,  this  little  sketch  of 

CHRISTIAN  MORALS 
Is,  with  strict  propriety,  Inscribed 
TO  THE  REV.  THOMAS  GISBORNE, 

Of  Yoxall  Lodge; 

IN  HIS  WRITINGS  AND  IN  HIS  LIFE,  A  CONSISTENT  CHRISTIAN  MORALIST 


PREFACE. 

Mr.  Pope,  in  his  Essay  on  Criticism,  has  asserted,  that  the  ‘  last  and  greatest  art’  of  literary 
composition  is  *  the  art  to  blot.’  With  a  full  conviction  of  the  difficulty  and  the  duty  of  this  art, 
the  Author  of  the  following  pages  ventures  to  insist,  even  in  contradiction  to  this  high  authority, 
that  there  is,  in  writing,  an  art  still  more  rare,  still  more  slowly  learned,  still  more  reluctantly 
adopted — the  art  to  stop. 

But  when  shall  this  difficult,  but  valuable,  art  be  resorted  to  ?  At  what  precise  moment  shall 
we  begin  to  reduce  so  wholesome  a  theory  to  practice  ?  It  may  be  answered — at  the  period 
when  time  may  reasonably  be  suspected  to  have  extinguished  the  small  particle  of  fire  which  the 
fond  conceit  of  the  author  might  tempt  him  to  fancy  he  once  possessed. 

But  how  is  he  to  ascertain  this  critical  moment  of  extinction  ?  His  own  eyes,  always  dim  in 
the  discernment  of  his  own  faults,  may  have  become  quite  blind.  His  friends  are  too  timid,  or 
too  tender,  to  hazard  the  perilous  intimation.  If  his  enemies,  always  kindly  ready  to  perform 
this  neglected  office  of  friendship,  proclaim  the  unwelcome  truth,  they  are  probably  not  believed. 
The  public,  then,  who  are  neither  governed  by  the  misleadings  of  affection,  nor  influenced  by  the 
hostility  of  hatred,  would  seem  to  be  the  proper  arbiters,  the  court  from  whoso  decision  there 
should  lie  no  appeal. 

But  if,  through  generous  partiality  to  good  intentions,  or  habitual  kindness  to  long  acquaint 
ance,  that  the  public,  instead  of  checking,  continue  to  cherish,  the  efforts  which  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  indulge,  and  the  author  be  tempted  still  to  persist  in  writing,  may  he  not  be  in 
imminent  danger  of  wearing  out  the  good  humour  of  his  protectors,  by  a  successive  reproduction 
of  himself — of  abusing  their  kindness,  by  the  vapid  exhibition  of  an  exhausted  intellect? 

May  the  writer  of  the  following  pages,  w’ithout  incurring  too  heavily  the  imputation  of  vanity, 
bo  permitted  to  observe,  that  there  is  a  sense  in  which  the  favour  she  has  uniformly  experienced 
is  honourable  to  that  public  who  have  conferred  it?  Their  indulgence  has  never  been  purchased 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


lie 


by  flattery ,  their  support  has  never  been  in  payment  for  softening  errors  that  require,  not  to  be 
qualified,  but  combated ;  has  never  been  a  reward  for  incense  offered  to  the  passions,  for  senti¬ 
ments  accommodated  to  whatever  appeared  to  be  defective  tn  any  reigning  opinion,  in  any  pre¬ 
vailing  practice.  They  have  received  with  approbation  unvarnished  truth,  and  even  borne  with 
patience  bold  remonstrance.  In  return,  she  is  willing  to  hope,  that  she  has  paid  them  a  more 
substantial  respect,  by  this  hazardous  sincerity,  than  if  she  had  endeavoured  to  conciliate  their 
regard  by  indirect  arts  and  unworthy  adulation. 

Next  to  injure  any  reader,  her  deepest  regret  would  be  to  offend  him  ;  but  when  the  questions 
agitated  are  of  momentous  concern,  would  not  disguising -truth,  or  palliating  error,  be,  as  to  the 
intention,  the  worst  of  injuries,  however  powerless  the  writer  might  be  in  making  a  bad  inten¬ 
tion  effectively  mischievous  ?  Sincere,  therefore,  as  would  be  her  concern,  if  any  stroke  of  her 
pen 

Should  tend  to  make  one  worthy  man  her  foe, 

yet  the  feeling  of  having  contributed  to  mislead  a  single  youthful  mind,  by  the  suppression  of  a 
right,  or  the  establishment  of  a  false  principle,  would  be  more  painful  than  any  censures  which 
an  imprudent  honesty  might  draw  down  upon  her. 

If  the  humble  work  now  presented  to  the  world,  be  of  little  use  to  the  reader,  the  writer  is 
willing  to  hope  it  may  not  be  altogether  unprofitable  to  herself.  If  it  induce  her  more  strenu¬ 
ously  to  cultivate  the  habit  of  rendering  speculation  practical,  if  it  should  dispose  her  to  adopt 
more  cordially  what  she  is  so  prompt  to  recommend,  she  will  then  have  turned  to  some  little  ac¬ 
count  the  hours  of  pain  and  suffering  under  which  it  has  been  composed. 

She  does  not,  however,  absurdly  presume  to  plead  pain  and  suffering  as  an  apology  for  defects 
in  a  work  which  she  was  at  liberty  not  to  have  undertaken ;  for,  with  whatever  other  evils  sick¬ 
ness  may  be  chargeable,  it  imposes  on  no  one  the  necessity  of  adding  one  more  to  the  countless 
catalogue  of  indifferent  books. 

Barley  Wood,  December,  lOfA,  1812 


CHRISTIAN  MORALS. 


CHAP.  I. 

On  the  writers  of  pious  books. 

All  the  things  in  this  world  carry  in  them 
such  evident  marks  of  imperfection,  are  so  liable 
to  be  infected  with  error,  good  is  separated 
from  evil  by  such  slight  partitions,  and  the  de¬ 
flection  from  what  is  right  is  so  easy,  that  even 
undertakings  which  should  seem  most  exempt 
from  danger  are  yet  insecure  in  their  conduct, 
and  uncertain  in  their  issue.  Writing  a  soundly- 
religious  book  might  seem  to  put  in  the  claim 
of  an  exempt  case ;  but  does  experience  prove 
that  the  exemption  is  infallible  ?  The  employ¬ 
ment  is  good,  the  motive  is  likely  to  be  pure ; 
the  work  may  be  unexceptionable  in  its  ten¬ 
dency,  and  useful  in  its  consequences.  But  is 
it  always  beneficial  to  the  writer  in  the  propor¬ 
tion  in  which  he  intends  it  to  be  profitable  to 
the  reader  ?  Even  if  the  reader,  is  his  own  im¬ 
provement  always  the  leading  aim  ?  Does  a  criti¬ 
cal  spirit  never  diminish  the  benefit  which  the 
book  was  calculated  to  convey  ?  If  he  is  con¬ 
vinced  by  the  more  essential  truths  it  imparts, 
is  not  some  trivial  disagreement  of  opinion,  in  a 
matter  on  which  persons  may  differ  without  any 
charge  against  the  piety  of  either,  made  to  de¬ 
feat  all  the  ends  of  improvement !  Is  not  an  in¬ 
significant,  perhaps  an  ill  founded  objection, 
suffered  to  invalidate  the  merit  of  the  whole 
work  I  Is  not  this  eagerly  detected  fault  tri¬ 
umphantly  kept  in  the  fore-ground,  while  all 
that  is  valuable  is  overlooked  and  its  efficacy 
defeated ;  the  criticism  being  at  once  intended 
to  give  prominence  to  the  error  of  the  writer 
and  the  sagacity  of  the  critic?  Another  reader 
is  probably  searching  for  brilliancy  when  he 


should  be  looking  for  truth,  or  he  is  only  seek¬ 
ing  a  confirmation  of  his  own  opinions,  when 
he  should  have  been  looking  for  their  correction. 

As  to  the  writer,  is  he  not  in  danger  of  being 
absorbed  in  the  mechanical  part  of  his  work, 
till  religious  composition  dwindles  into  a  mere 
secular  operation  ?  May  he  not  be  diverted 
from  his  main  object  by  an  over-attention  to 
elegance,  to  correctness,  to  ornament; — all 
which  indeed  are  necessary ;  for  if  he  would 
benefit  ho  must  be  read,  if  he  would  be  read 
he  must  please,  if  he  would  please  he  must 
endeavour  to  excel ; — but  may  he  not,  in  tak¬ 
ing  some,  take  too  much  pains  to  please,  and 
so  become  less  solicitous  to  benefit,  to  the  injury 
both  of  his  reader  and  himself?  May  not  the 
very  lopping  and  pruning  his  work,  the  flowers 
which  he  is  anxiously  sticking  into  it,  the  little 
decorations  with  which  he  is  setting  off  those 
parts  which  he  fears  may  be  thought  dry  and 
dull,  raise  a  sensation  in  his  mind  not  unlike 
that  which  a  vain  beauty  feels  in  tricking  out 
her  person  ?  May  he  not,  by  too  much  con¬ 
fidence  in  his  own  powers,  be  blind  to  errors 
obvious  to  all  but  himself;  or  else  may  he  not 
use  the  file  too  assiduously,  and  by  over-labour 
in  smoothing  the  asperities  of  his  style,  diminish 
the  force  of  his  meaning,  and  polish  honest 
vigour  into  unprofitable  elegance  ? 

Some  indeed  have  been  so  indulgent  to  au¬ 
thors  under  their  many  difficulties,  as  to  allow 
them  a  certain  mixture  of  inferior  excitement, 
as  an  under  help  to  assist  such  motives  as  are 
more  pure.  If  they  did  not  feel  a  little  too  full 
of  their  work,  when  it  was  under  their  hand,  it 
has  been  said,  they  would  not  devote  to  it  the 
full  force  of  their  mind.  This  anxiety,  or 
rather  this  absorption,  it  is  presumed,  lasts  no 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


119 


longer  than  till  the  immediate  object  is  accom¬ 
plished.  It  retreats  indeed,  but  wails  for  the 
.author,  seizes  him  again  with  undiminished 
force  on  his  next  undertaking.  If  he  fancied 
that  his  former  subject  was  all  in  all  while 
■his  mind  was  intent  upon  it,  that  preference, 
like  the  fondness  of  an  animal  for  its  young, 
■which  is  lost  when  they  no  longer  need  its  fos¬ 
tering  care,  is  transferred  to  the  next. 

As  this  ardour  in  a  rightly-turned  mind  will 
not  be  sufficiently  durable  to  ripen  into  vanity, 
but  will  cool  as  soon  as  the  end  for  which  it 
•Tvas  exerted  is  answered  ;  it  will  not  materially 
injure  the  conscientious  writer;  for  he  will 
•probably,  when  the  impetus  is  taken  off,  as 
much  undervalue  his  work,  as  he  had  before 
nyer-rated  it.  But  woefully  deficient  in  hu¬ 
mility  is  that  author,  whose  enthusiasm  does 
not  subside,  when  it  is  no  longer  necessary  to 
lieep  alive  the  spirit  of  his  undertaking !  Con¬ 
victed  indeed  will  he  be  of  vanity,  who  persists, 
'in  thinking  his  work  as  glowing,  as  when,  with 
a  judgment  dazzled  by  his  ardour,  he  viewed  it 
hot,  and  fresh-drawn  from  the  furnace  ! 

But  perhaps  when  a  man  engages  in  any  little 
ser..vice,  if  he  did  not  in  some  degree  exaggerate 
its  value,  in  his  hope  of  its  utility,  he  would 
•want  one  motive  for  attempting  it.  Is  it  not 
therefore  a  smaller  evil  that  he  should  a  little 
magnify  its  importance  to  his  imagination,  than 
that  complete  hopelessness  should  totally  deter 
him  from  all  enterprise  ?  Natural  indolence  is 
in  many,  too  powerful  a  subduer  even  of  re¬ 
ligious  exertion,  to  allow  them  to  work  without 
hope.  If  hope  flatters,  she  at  least  supports; 
thus  something  is  achieved  which  else  would 
not  have  been  done  at  all.  Again,  the  timid 
writer  fbrsees  that  many  objections  may  be 
raised  to  his  work.  This  would  amount  to  a 
disqualifying  dejection,  did  he  not  take  comfort 
in  the  chance  that  his  censors  may  possibly  dis¬ 
agree  among  themselves  as  to  the  points  de¬ 
serving  criticism,  and  that  one  may  even  com¬ 
mend  what  another  condemns.  Thus  his  mind 
is  kept  in  a  just  equilibrium ;  without  the  expec¬ 
tation  of  censure,  he  would  fee  vain ;  without 
some  hope  of  approbation,  even  the  purity  of 
his  intention  might  not  always  secure  him 
from  despondency. 

But  though  no  mixed  motives  or  human  feel¬ 
ings  in  the  author  ought  to  interfere  with  those 
of  the  reader,  who  has  only  to  do  with  the  book, 
and  not  with  the  man,  it  is  of  no  small  moment 
to  himself,  that  both  feelings  and  motives  be 
pure.  It  is  of  the  last  importance  that  he  do 
not  impose  on  himself  the  belief,  that  he  has 
only  the  honour  of  religion  at  heart,  when  lite¬ 
rary  renown,  or  victory  over  an  adversary,  may 
be  the  predominating  principle.  He  will  also 
be  careful  that  his  best  endowments  be  not  con¬ 
verted  into  implements  of  injury ;  he  will  be 
cautious  that  his  learning,  which  is  so  useful  to 
arm  his  zeal,  do  not  help  to  encumber  it ;  that 
his  prudence,  which  is  so  necessary  to  moderate, 
do  not  extinguish  it. 

But  if  he  comes  off  clear  from  these  tempta¬ 
tions,  other  and  greater  lurk  behind.  He  should 
bear  in  mind,  that  in  composing  a  religious 
work  for  the  public,  he  is  producing  the  best 
•part  of  himself :  that  he  is  probably  exhibiting 


himself  to  others  as  much  better  than  he  is ; 
for  whatever  be  the  faults  of  his  own  character, 
it  is  his  bounden  duty  to  conduct  his  reader  to 
the  highest  approach  to  excellence.  Indepen¬ 
dent  of  his  general  defects,  he  is  at  least  carefully 
keeping  out  of  sight  every  vain  thought  which 
may  have  stolen  upon  him  while  writing,  every 
evil  temper  which  may  have  assailed  him,  every 
temptation  to  indulge  too  ardent  a  wish  that  his 
book  may  procure  praise  for  himself,  as  well  as 
benefit  to  his  readers.  To  flatter  himself  inor¬ 
dinately  on  this  head,  as  well  as  in  over-antici¬ 
pating  the  great  effects  ^it  will  produce,  is  not, 
perhaps,  the  smallest  of  his  dangers.  That  very 
self  knowledge  which  he  has  perhaps  been  in¬ 
culcating  on  others,  would  preserve  him  from 
an  undue  estimation  both  of  himself  and  his 
book.  • 

It  was  the  sneer  of  a  witty,  but  discouraging 
satyrist,  that,  ‘  To  mend  the  world ’s  a  vast  de¬ 
sign.’  It  is,  indeed,  a  design  from  which  the 
purity  of  his  motive  may  not  always  secure  the 
humility  of  the  author.  Yet  modestly  to  aim  at 
ameliorating  that  little  portion  of  it  which  lies 
within  his  immediate  sphere,  is  a  duty  out  of 
which  he  should  not  be  laughed  by  wits  and  epi- 
gramatists.  Instead  of  indulging  unfounded 
hopes  of  improbable  effects,  the  Christian  writer 
will  be  humbled  at  the  mortifying  reflection, what 
great  and  extensive  evil  the  most  insignificant 
bad  men  may  effect,  while  so  little  comparative 
good  can  be  accomplished  by  the  best.  But  it  is 
to  be  regretted,  that  even  religion  is  no  sure  pro¬ 
tection  against  the  intrusion  of  vanity,  that  it 
does  not  always  secure  its  possessor  from  over¬ 
rating  his  own  agency,  from  fondly  calculating 
on  the  unknown  benefits  which,  by  his  project¬ 
ed  work,  he  is  preparing  for  mankind.  A  pious 
Welch  minister,  many  years  ago,  being  about 
to  publish  a  sermon,  previously  consulted  the 
writer  of  these  pages  how  many  thousand  copies 
he  ought  to  print.  He  felt  not  a  little  shocked 
at  her  advising  him  to  reduce  his  thousands  to 
hundreds,  scores  she  did  not  dare  advise.  As 
she  had  foreseen,  not  half  a  dozen  were  sold,  ex- 
cept  a  few,  charitably  taken  off  his  hands  by 
his  friends.  At  her  return  soon  after,  from  the 
metropolis,  he  hastened  to  her  with  all  the  ar¬ 
dour  of  impatience,  and  seriously  inquired, 
whether  she  had  observed  any  material  reforma¬ 
tion  at  the  court  end  of  the  town,  since  the  pub¬ 
lication  of  the  discourse. 

Among  the  many  unsuspected  but  salutary 
checks  to  the  vanity  of  a  pious  writer,  it  will 
not  be  the  least,  that  his  very  popularity  may 
make  the  intrinsic  value  of  his  work  questiona¬ 
ble  ;  that  he  may  be  indebted  for  its  favourable 
reception,  not  to  its  excellencies,  but  its  defects, 
not  to  the  deep,  but  to  the  superficial  views  he 
has  taken  of  religion ,  that  it  may  be  more  ac¬ 
ceptable  only  because  it  is  less  searching  ;  that 
if  he  has  pleased,  it  may  be  owing  to  his  having 
been  more  cautious  than  faithful.  If  there  is 
reason  to  suspect  that  success  arises  from  his 
having  skimmed  the  surface  of  truth,  when  he 
ought  to  have  penetrated  its  depths,  that  he  has 
reconciled  the  reader  to  Christianity  and  to  him¬ 
self  by  a  disingenious  discretion,  by  trimming 
between  God  and  the  world,  by  concealing  truths 
he  ought  to  have  brought  forward,  or  by  palliat- 


120 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ing  those  he  durst  not  disavow  :  popularity  thus 
Obtained  will  afford  ground  of  humiliation  rather 
than  of  triumph.  In  avoiding  these,  and  all  si¬ 
milar  errors,  he  will  also  not  fail  to  bear  in  mind, 
that  He  who  gave  the  talents,  gave  also  the 
right  bent  to  the  use  of  them,  and  that,  there¬ 
fore,  he  has  no  more  ground  for  boasting  of  the 
application  than  of  the  possession. 

When  he  is  called  upon  by  the  nature  of  bis 
subject  to  expatiate  strongly  on  this  vice,  or  to 
point  out  the  danger  of  that  error,  does  he  never 
feel  a  sort  of  conscious  superiority  to  certain  in¬ 
dividuals  of  his  acquaintance,  who  may  be  in¬ 
fected  with  either,  and,  for  a  moment,  be  tempt¬ 
ed  to  sit  rather  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner,  than 
in  that  of  the  counsellor  ?  On  such  occasions, 
there  is  nothing  which  he  will  more  carefully 
watch,  than  the  temper  of  HSs'own  mind.  When 
duty  compels  him  to  be  severe  against  any  false 
opinion,  or  wrong  practice,  he  will  be  cautious 
not  to  mix  with  his  just  censure,  any  feeling  of 
disdain,  any  sentiment  of  indignation,  against 
any  individual  whom  he  may  bear  in  mind  ;  nor 
will  he  indulge  the  unworthy  wonder  how  such 
or  such  a  person  will  be  mortified  at  the  expo¬ 
sure  of  a  fault  to  which  he  is  addicted.  Nor  will 
he  harbour  in  his  bosom  an  uncharitable  vehe¬ 
mence  against  those  whom  the  reproof  may 
suit,  nor  a  secret  self-complacent  certainty,  that 
if  any  thing  can  do  them  good,  this  must  do  it ; 
that  though  they  hear  not  Moses  and  the  Pro¬ 
phets,  they  cannot  but  listen  to  his  pointed  ad¬ 
monitions — that  they  can  never  stand  out  against 
such  persuasions  is  he  has  to  offer — never  re¬ 
sist  such  arguments  as  he  has  prepared  for  their 
conviction. 

But  what  is  still  a  more  serious  danger,  has 
he  never  been  tempted  to  overlook  his  own  faults 
while  he  has  been  exposed  to  those  of  others  ; 
and  this,  though  the  failing  he  is  condemning, 
may  be  peculiarly  his  own  ?  With  just  indig¬ 
nation  against  the  offences  he  is  reproving,  has 
he  never  once  forgotten  to  mingle  tender  com¬ 
passion  for  the  offender,  remembering,  that  he 
himself  is  sinful  dust  and  ashes;  that  he  also 
stands  in  need  of  infinite  mercy,  and  has  been 
only  rescued  by  that  mercy  from  being  on  a 
level  with  the  worst  objects  of  his  just  disappro¬ 
bation. 

It  would,  notwithstanding,  be  the  highest  de¬ 
gree  of  unfairness,  to  prefer  a  charge  of  injus¬ 
tice,  hypocrisy,  or  even  inconsistency,  against 
an  author,  because  his  life  in  some  respects,  falls 
short  of  the  strictness  of  his  writings.  It  is  a 
disparity  almost  inseparable  from  this  state  of 
frail  mortality.  He  may  have  fallen  into  errors, 
and  yet  deserve  to  have  no  heavier  charge 
brought  against  him  than  he  has  brought  against 
others.  Infirmity  of  temper,  inequality  of  mind, 
a  heart  though  fearing  to  offend  God,  yet  not 
sufficiently  dead  to  the  world ; — these  are  the 
lingering  effects  of  sin  imperfectly  subdued,  in 
a  heart  which  yet  longs,  prays,  and  labours  for 
a  complete  deliverance  from  all  its  corruptions. 

When  a  pious  writer  treats  on  any  awful  to¬ 
pic,  lie  writes  under  a  solemn  conviction  of  its 
vast  importance ;  he  trembles  at  the  idea  of  not 
being  entirely  faithful,  of  not  being  valiant  for 
the  truth,  of  not  oemc-  nonestiv  erulicif.  of  not 
declaring  tlie  wnoie  counsei  of  Gog,  ills  own 


heart  is  deeply  impressed  with  the  dignity  of 
his  subject,  and  he  deprecates  the  thought  of 
shrinking  from  the  boldest  avowal  of  every  truth, 
or  of  withholding  the  most  powerful  enforce¬ 
ment  to  the  practice  of  every  virtue.  He  is  ap 
prehensive  lest,  on  the  one  hand,  when  he  assails 
vice  or  error,  he  should  appear  to  indulge  a  vio¬ 
lent  or  vindictive  spirit,  and  be  magisterially 
lifting  his  fallible  self  into  the  chair  of  authority; 
lest  his  attack  on  the  vice  might  be  construed 
into  uncharitableness  to  the  man.  On  the  other 
hand,  he  is  fearful  lest  by  being  more  forbearing 
he  should  be  less  upright ;  lest  if  he  tried  to 
soften  he  should  deceive  ;  lest,  by  indulging  too 
much  a  spirit  of  conciliation,  he  should  compro¬ 
mise  truth  for  human  favour. — Honest  though 
imperfect,  sincere  though  fallible,  he  endeavours 
to  bring  his  principles,  his  faith,  and  his  convic¬ 
tions,  into  full  operation  ;  he  warmly  declares 
what  he  cordially  feels,  and  faithfully  testifies 
what  he  firmly  believes. 

But  when  he  comes  to  act,  he  is  sometimes 
brought  to  be  too  keenly  sensible  of  the  very 
fault  in  himself,  against  which  he  has  been  cau¬ 
tioning  others-;  deeply  does  he  lament  that  he 
feels  strong  remains  in  himself  of  that  corruption 
of  which  it  was  not  the  less  his  duty  to  direct 
his  attacks.  Some  temptation  presses  him,  some 
infirmity  cleaves  to  him.  These  unsubdued 
frailties  prove  that  he  is  a  man,  but  they  do  not 
prove  that  he  is  a  hypocrite.  The  truth  is,  the 
religious  writer  is  sometimes  thought  worse  than 
other  men,  because  his  book  was  considered  as 
a  pledge  that  he  should  be  better.  It  was  ex¬ 
pected  that  the  faults  he  described  he  would 
avoid  ;  the  passions  he  had  blamed  he  would 
suppress  ;  the  tempers  he  had  exposed  he  would 
have  subdued.  Perhaps  it  will  commonly  be 
found  that  the  reader  had  expected  too  much  and 
the  writer  had  done  too  little. 

The  writer  on  religious  topics  is  however  the 
person  who  of  all  others  ought  to  watch  himself 
most  narrowly.  He  has  given  a  public  pledge 
of  his  principles.  He  has  held  out  a  rule,  to 
which,  as  others  will  be  looking  with  a  critical 
eye  to  discover  how  far  his  conduct  falls  short 
of  it,  so  he  should  himself  constantly  bear  in 
mind  the  elevation  of  his  own  standard  ;  and  he 
will  be  more  circumspect  from  the  persuasion, 
that  not  only  his  own  character  but  that  of  reli¬ 
gion  itself  will  suffer  by  his  departure  from  it. 
The  consciousness  of  the  inferiority  of  his  prac- 
tice  to  his  principles,  if  those  principles  are  truly 
scriptural,  will  furnish  him  with  new  motives  to 
humility.  The  solemn  dread  lest  this  inconsis¬ 
tency  should  be  produced  against  him  at  the  last 
day,  is  a  fresh  incentive  to  higher  exertions, 
stirs  him  up  to  augmented  vigilance,  quickens 
him  to  more  intense  prayer.  He  experiences  at 
once  the  contradictory  feeling  of  dreading  to  ap¬ 
pear  better  than  he  really  is,  by  the  high  tone 
of  piety  in  his  compositions,  or  of  making  others 
worse  by  lowering  that  tone  in  order  to  bring 
his  professions  nearer  to  the  level  of  his  life. 
Perhaps  the  most  humiliating  moment  he  can 
ever  experience  is,  when  by  an  accidental  glance 
at  some  former  work  he  is  reminded  how  little 
he  himself  has  profited  by  the  very  arguments 
with  which  he  may  have  successfully  combated 
some  error  of  the  reader ;  when  he  feels  how 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


121 


much  his  own  heart  is  still  under  the  dominion 
of  that  wrong  temper  of  which  he  has  forci¬ 
bly  exposed  the  turpitude  to  the  conviction  of 
others. 

There  is,  however,  no  personal  reason  which 
could  ever  justify  his  holding  out  an  inferior 
standard.  If  there  is  any  point  in  which  he 
eminently  excels,  he  has  the  best  of  all  possible 
reasons  for  pressing  it  upon  others — his  own  ex¬ 
perience  of  its  excellence.  If  there  be  any  in 
which  he  unhappily  fails,  he  is  clearly  justified 
in  recommending  it  from  the  humbling  sense  of 
his  own  deficiency  in  it.  Thus  he  will  in  either 
case  enforce  truth  with  equal  energy,  from  causes 
diametrically  opposite.  Is  it  not  then  obvious 
that  as  there  is  no  vanity  in  insisting  on  a  virtue 
because  the  writer  possesses  it,  so  there  is  no 
hypocrisy  in  recommending  a  quality  because 
he  himself  is  destitute  of  it  ? 

But  if,  through  the  so  frequently  alleged  im¬ 
perfection  attached  tohumanity,  Christian  writers 
do  not  always  attain  to  the  excellence  they  sug¬ 
gest,  let  us  not  therefore  infer  that  their  princi¬ 
ples  are  defective,  their  aims  low,  or  their  prac¬ 
tical  attainments  mean.  Let  us  not  suspect 
that  it  is  not  the  endeavour  of  their  life,  as  much 
as  the  desire  of  their  heart,  to  maintain  a  con¬ 
duct  which  shall  not  discredit  their  profession. 
Above  all,  let  us  be  cautious  of  concluding  that 
they  do  not  believe  what  they  teach,  because 
they  have  passions  like  other  men  ;  provided  we 
observe  them  struggling  with  those  passions, 
and  making  a  progress  in  their  conquest  over 
them,  though  that  progress  be  impeded  by  na¬ 
tural  infirmity,  though  it  be  obstructed  by  occa¬ 
sional  irritation.  The  triumphant  detector  of 
the  discordance  between  the  author  and  his  book 
knows  not  the  secret  regrets,  hears  not  the  fer¬ 
vent  prayers,  witnesses  not  the  penitential  sor¬ 
rows,  which  a  deep  sense  of  this  disagreement 
produces  in  the  self-abasing  heart.  To  instance 
in  a  familiar  case  : — In  the  heat  of  conversation 
with  the  autlior,  he  has  probably  marked  an  im¬ 
patient  word,  a  hasty  expression,  a  rash  judg¬ 
ment  ;  these  he  treasures  up,  and  produces 
against  him ;  but  he  does  not  hear,  in  the  writer’s 
nightly  review  of  the  errors  of  that  day,  his  self 
rebuke  for  this  unsubdued  impetuosity,  his  reso¬ 
lutions  against  it,  the  earnest  prayer  which  per¬ 
haps  at  this  moment  is  carrying  forward  the 
gradual  subjugation  of  his  temper. 

Yet  his  reputation  might  suffer  in  another 
way ;  for  if  the  critic  could  hear  these  humbling 
confessions  of  the  writers  in  question,  he  would 
be  ready  to  conclude  that  they  were  ‘  Sinners 
above  all  the  Galileans.’  Whereas  the  truth 
jnost  probably  is,  that  they  are  so  alive  to  the 
perception  of  the  evil  of  their  own  hearts,  that 
things  which  would  be  slight  faults  in  the  esti¬ 
mation  of  the  accuser,  to  them  appear  grave 
offences.  Things  which  they  lament  as  evils 
of  magnitude,  would  to  the  less  tender  con¬ 
science  be  impalpable,  imperceptible.  For  in¬ 
stance, — While  the  caviller  would  call  even  the 
omission  of  prayer  a  venial  fault ;  they  would 
call  a  heartless  prayer  a  sin ;  where  the  one 
would  think  all  was  well  if  the  literal  perform¬ 
ance  had  not  been  neglected,  the  other  would  be 
uneasy  under  the  exterior  observance,  if  he  felt 
that  the  spirit  had  nut  accompanied  the  form. 
VoL.  II 


The  reprover  might  even  accuse  the  serious 
Christian  of  absurdity,  should  be  have  overheard 
him  humbling  himself  for  something  which  was 
obviously  a  virtue.  He  was  not,  however,  so 
preposterously  humble,  as  to  make  the  virtue  the 
ground  of  his  regret — he  was  abasing  himself 
for  some  vanity,  which  like  an  excrescence  had 
grown  out  of  it,  some  inattention  which  like  a 
poison  had  mixed  with  it.  When  a  humble  man 
meditates  on  his  vices,  and  an  irreligious  man 
on  his  virtues,  the  vices  of  the  one  might  be 
sometimes  deemed  as  unsubstantial  as  the  vir¬ 
tues  of  the  other  actually  are. 

The  writer  of  good  hooks,  in  common  with 
other  authors,  is  exposed  to  one  danger  from 
which  other  men  are  exempt,  that  of  being  so 
immediately  the  object  of  his  own  attention. 
This  may  lead  him  to  be  too  full  of  himself.  His 
intellect  is  even  more  constantly  before  his  ej'es 
than  the  form  and  face  of  the  beauty  are  before 
her’s.  But  if  in  this  exercise  he  may  be  tempt¬ 
ed  to  think  too  well  of  his  understanding,  the 
mischief  will  be  eounteracted  by  the  advantage 
whieh  such  a  close  view  may  bring  to  his  heart. 
The  faults  he  reprehends  in  general,  will  bring 
his  own  faults  more  forcibly  before  him,  and  it 
will  be  a  humbling  consideration  which  he  will 
not  fail  to  press  home  on  himself,  to  reflect,  that 
he  is  better  able  to  penetrate  into  the  recesses 
of  the  erring  hearts  of  others,  from  the  sympa¬ 
thies  of  his  own.  Repeated  and  successful  pains 
have  been  taken  by  some  popular  wits,*  in  whom 
levity  has  answered  the  end  of  malice,  to  lower 
the  value  of  pious  instruction,  by  exposing  the 
discrepancy  between  the  exhortation  and  the  ex- 
horter.  They  have  ingeniously  invented  cases 
and  situations  in  which  the  clergyman  is  preach¬ 
ing  powerfully  and  eflicaciously  on  the  duty  of 
submission  to  the  divine  will ;  immediately  after 
which,  they  contrive  to  betray  him  into  a  pa¬ 
roxysm  of  overwhelming  impatience  at  some 
great  domestic  calamity  of  his  own.  This  as  it 
tends  to  make  the  infirmity  of  sincere  Christians 
a  matter  of  triumph,  could  only  have  been  done 
with  a  view  to  make  them  ridiculous ;  a  laugh 
is  cJieaply  though  not  very  honourably  raised, 
and  the  insignificance  or  hollowness  of  religious 
instruction  perhaps  indelibly  stamped  on  the 
mind  of  the  young  reader.  But  supposing  the 
circumstances  to  have  been  real,  ought  the  frail 
affections,  ought  the  conscious  infirmity  of  these 
good  men  to  have  let  them  to  withhold  from 
their  audiences  the  necessity  of  Christian  resig¬ 
nation  ?  Such  instances  of  natural  feeling  in 
certain  stages  of  a  progressive  piety,  neither 
prove  religion  to  be  powerless,  nor  its  professor 
deceitful.  Was  the  fervent,  but  fallible  apostle, 
who  in  a  moment  of  infirmity  denied  his  master, 
a  hypocrite,  when  he  said,  ‘  though  all  the  world 
should  be  offended,  yet  will  not  I  ?’ 

Yet  is  this  captious  spirit  an  additional  reason 
w'hy  the  pious  writer  should  guard  against  ex¬ 
cesses  in  feeling,  which,  if  the  reader  could  wit¬ 
ness,  he  would  exultingly  reiterate  the  vulgar 
but  .melancholy  truism  :  How  much  easier  it  is 
to  preach  than  to  practice  !  How  gladly  would 
he  have  brouglit  the  conduct  to  confront  the 
counsel,  and  have  missed  all  the  benefit  of  the 
discourse,  by  the  disclosure  of  tlie  failing  ! 

*  Goldsmith  '^'ielding,  &c.  &c. 


122 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


But  allowing  the  worst — granting  that  the  i  Do  we  infer  as  a  necessary  consequence,  tha. 
writer  is  not  in  all  points  exemplary ;  if  we  re-  j  their  sentiments  are  sound,  because  their  lives 
solve  never  to  read  a  work  of  instruction  because  were  not  flagitious '( 

the  author  had  faults,  Lord  Bacon’s  inexhausti-  But  though  it  is  an  awful  possibility,  that  the 


hie  mind  of  intellectual  wealth  might  have  still 
lain  unexplored.  Luther,  the  man  to  whom  the 
protestant  world  owes  more  than  to  any  other 
Tiininspircd  being,  might  remain  unread,  because 
he  is  said  to  have  wanted  the  meekness  of  Me- 
lancthon.  Even  the  divine  instructions  conveyed 
in  the  book  of  Ecclesiastes  would  have  been 
written  in  vain. 

It  is  not  necessary  that  the  writer  under  con¬ 
sideration  should,  like  the  sacred  penman,  cri- 
minate  himself.  Their  ingenuous  self-abasement 
added  weight  to  the  truth  of  their  general  testi¬ 
mony,  and  was  doubtless  directed  by  the  holy 
Spirit,  as  well  for  this  purpose,  as  for  the  humi¬ 
liation  of  the  offending  historian.  But  above  all 
it  is  calculated  to  show  that  the  renovation  of 
hearts  so  imperfect  was  the  work  of  the  Spirit 
of  God. 

Though  the  pious  writer  in  these  days  is  not 
called  upon  to  exercise  this  self-disparaging 
egotism,  yet  lot  not  his  silence  on  this  head  be 
attributed  to  a  desire  that  he  may  be  thought  a 
better  man  than  Moses,  who  heroically  perpe¬ 
tuated  the  memory  of  that  offence  which  was  an 
inhibition  to  his  entering  the  land  of  promise — 
nor  than  David,  the  recorder  of  his  own  sins,  the 
enormity  of  which  could  only  be  exceeded  by 
the  intensity  of  his  repentance — nor  than  saint 
Paul,  who  published  himself  to  have  been  a  blas¬ 
phemer  and  a  persecutor.  If  the  best  men 
among  us  have,  through  the  preventing  grace 
of  God,  been  preserved  from  the  signal  offences 
of  prophets  and  apostles,  they  will  themselves 
be  the  foremost  to  acknowledge  how,  beyond  all 
comparison,  they  are  below  them,  in  that  de- 
wotedness  of  spirit,  that  contempt  of  earthly 
things,  and  that  annihilation  of  self,  whicli  so 
eminently  characterized  those  inspired  servants 
of  God. 

But  suppose  we  were  to  go  farther — even  if 
it  could  be  proved  that  some  individual  charge 
liad  not  been  altogether  unfounded.  Even  this 
possible  evil  in  the  man,  would  not  invalidate 
the  truths  he  has  been  teaching.  Balaam,  though 
a  bad  man,  prophesied  truly.  Erasmus,  whose 
piety  is  almost  as  doubtless,  as  his  wit  and  learn¬ 
ing  were  unquestionable,  yet  by  throwing  both 
into  the  right  scale,  was  a  valuable  instrument 
in  effecting  the  great  work  in  whicli  he  was 
concerned.  Erasmus  powerfully  assisted  the 
reformation,  though  it  is  not  quite  so  clear  that 
the  reformation  essentially  benefited  Erasmus. 

If  then  the  writer  advances  unanswerable  ar¬ 
guments  in  the  cause  of  truth,  if  he  impressively 
enforces  its  practical  importance,  his  character, 
even  if  defective,  should  not  invalidate  his  rea¬ 
soning.  Though  we  allow  that  even  to  the 
xeader  it  is  far  more  satisfactory  when  the  life 
illustrates  the  writing,  yet  we  must  never  bring 
the  conduct  of  the  man  as  any  infallible  test  of 
the  truth  of  this  doctrine.  Allow  this,  and  (he 
xeversr’  of  the  proposition  will  be  pleaded  against 
us.  Take  the  opposite  case.  Do  we  ever  pro¬ 
duce  certain  moral  qualities  which  Hobbes, 
Bayle,  Hume,  and  other  sober  sceptics  possess¬ 
ed,  as  arguments  for  adopting  their  opinions  ? — 


same  work  may  at  once  promote  God’s  glory, 
and  prove  a  danger  to  the  instrument  that  pro¬ 
motes  it — that  the  opulence  of  the  very  mind 
which  is  advancing  religion,  may  be  used  by 
the  owner  to  his  hurt — that  he  may  be  so  ab¬ 
sorbed  in  it  as  a  business,  that  he  may  lose  sight 
of  his  end — that  he  may  neglect  personal,  while 
he  is  advancing  public  religion— or  be  so  anxi¬ 
ous  for  the  success  of  his  work,  that  he  cannot 
commit  the  event  to  heaven :  let  us  thankfully 
profit  by  the  truths  he  teaches  :  bless  God  that 
he  has  been  useful  to  us ;  and  pray  that  his  er¬ 
rors  may  not  be  imputed  to  him. 

Many  a  sincere  Christian  will  confess  that 
when  he  is  writing  in  an  animated  strain  in  the 
cause  of  religion,  there  are  moments  in  which, 
from  imbecility  of  mind  or  infirmity  of  body,  or 
failure  of  animal  spirits,  while  he  is  promoting 
the  spiritual  interests  of  others,  he  is  inwardly 
lamenting  his  own  deadness  to  the  very  things 
on  which  he  is  insisting.  He  however  perse¬ 
veres  ;  like  the  array  of  Gideon,  ‘  faint  yet  pur¬ 
suing,’  he  suffers  not  the  feeling  to  obstruct  the 
act,  till,  as  a  reward  for  his  perseverance,  the 
act  brings  back  the  feeling.  Were  it  suspected 
that  some  of  his  most  approved  pages  were 
written  under  this  declension  of  zeal,  what  a 
clamour  would  be  raised  against  his  inconsist¬ 
ency,  when  his  merit — if  we  dare  use  the  word 
merit — consists  in  overcoming  tho  languor  of 
his  spirit,  and  in  acting  as  if  he  felt  it  not.  His 
depression  may  in  fact  have  been  augmented  by 
his  humility.  He  has  trembled  lest  the  solemnity 
with  which  he  has  been  calling  upon  others, 
should  not  stir  up  his  own  feelings  ;  lest  the  ar¬ 
guments  which  were  intended  to  alarm  the 
reader,  should  leave  his  own  heart  cold  and  un- 
aftected. 

While  it  is  of  the  nature  of  scientific  princi¬ 
ples  to  adapt  themselves  only  to  one  particular 
bent  of  mind,  and  of  the  inventive  powers  to  ad¬ 
dress  persons  of  imagination  only  :  it  is  the 
character  of  Christianity,  and  should  be  the  aim 
of  the  Christian  writer,  to  accommodate  their 
instructions  to  every  class  of  society,  to  every 
degree  of  intellect,  to  every  quality  of  mind,  U> 
every  cast  of  temper.  Christianity  does  not  in¬ 
terfere  with  any  particular  form  of  study,  any 
political  propensity,  any  professional  engage¬ 
ment,  any  legitimate  pursuit.  It  claims  to  in¬ 
corporate  itself  with  the  ideas  of  every  intelli¬ 
gent  mind  which  lies  open  to  receive  it;  it  infuses 
itself,  when  not  repelled,  into  the  character  of 
every  individual,  as  it  originally  assimilated  it¬ 
self  to  that  of  every  government,  without  sacri¬ 
ficing  any  thing  of  its  specific  quality,  without 
requiring  any  mind  of  a  peculiar  make  for  its 
reception. 

Without  altering  its  properties  by  any  infu¬ 
sions  of  his  own,  a  judicious  writer  will  always 
consider  how  he  may  render  it  most  acceptable 
to  the  capacity  of  the  general  recipient.  To 
exclude  reason  from  religion,  he  knows  is  not 
the  way  to  attract  argumentative  men  (o  inquire 
into  its  truth  ; — to  exclude  elegance  from  its  ex¬ 
hibition,  is  not  tho  probable  method  to  invite 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


123 


men  of  taste  to  speculate  on  its  beauty.  If  how¬ 
ever  the  writer  possess  little  of  the  graces  which 
embellish  truth,  if  he  cannot  adorn  it  with  those 
charms  which,  though  they  add  nothing  to  its 
lustre,  yet  attract  to  its  contemplation ;  still 
plain  sense  and  unaffected  piety  may  contribute 
to  the  production  of  a  work  which  may  prove 
useful  to  a  large  and  valuable  proportion  of 
readers.  But  here  if  genius  is  not  essential, 
good  taste  is  never  to  be  dispensed  with.  A 
sound  judgment  will  be  requisite  to  prevent 
piety  from  being  repulsive  to  readers  who  have 
been  accustomed  to  view  other  intellectual  sub¬ 
jects  exhibited  in  all  the  properties  of  which 
they  are  severally  susceptible.  Let  them  not 
see  a  subject  of  this  transcendent  importance, 
injured  by  any  debasing  mixture,  disfigured  by 
any  coarseness  of  language,  nor  degraded  by 
any  vulgar  associations. 

On  the  other  hand,  while  some  object  so  stre- 
nuously  against  the  introduction  of  the  affec¬ 
tions  into  religion,  what  are  we  to  understand 
from  it,  but  that  in  the  opinion  of  the  objectors, 
a  man  will  write  the  better  because  he  does  not 
feel  his  subject, — that  he  will  teach  religion 
more  safely  to  others,  from  not  having  felt  its 
influence  on  his  own  heart, — that  he  will  make 
a  deeper  impression  by  writing  from  books  than 
from  himself,  or  rather  that  making  an  impres- 
sion  at  all  is  a  dangerous  thing, — that  it  is  of 
the  nature  of  enthusiasm,  proceeding  from  it, 
and  productive  of  it ! — that  therefore  it  is  better 
that  the  reader  should  not  be  impressed,  but 
only  informed. 

But  the  sound  and  sober  Christian  takes  the 
best  precaution  against  infusing  a  fanatical  spi¬ 
rit  by  not  possessing  it.  He  cannot  communi¬ 
cate  the  distemper  of  which  he  is  not  sick.  He 
cautiously  avoids  it  on  a  double  ground.  He 
knows  that  enthusiasm  and  superstition  are  not 
only  mischievous  in  their  nature,  but  that  they 
furnish  the  profane  with  a  plausible  argument 
agamst  religion  itself.  He  remembers,  and  ap¬ 
plies  the  observation,  that  to  some  pagan  poets, 
especially  Lueretius,  these  errors  supplied  Athe¬ 
ism  with  her  most  powerful  arms.  But  though 
he  allows  that  enthusiasm  is  dangerous,  he  con¬ 
tinues  to  write  like  one  who  knows  that  it  is 
not  the  exclusive  danger  of  the  age ;  like  one 
who  is  convinced  that  frenzy  is  not  the  only  dis¬ 
temper  in  our  spiritual  bills  of  mortality  :  like 
one  whose  heart  is  warmed,  not  by  animal  pul¬ 
sation,  but  by  those  quickening  oracles  of  truth, 
which  carry  in  them  ‘  the  demonstration  of  the 
Spirit  and  of  power;’  like  one  who  feels  that  re¬ 
ligion  is  not  a  misleading  fire,  but  an  animating 
principle  which  at  once  enlarges  his  views,  ele¬ 
vates  his  aims,  and  ennobles,  his  character. 

But  to  return  to  the  reader.  If  we  had  no 
higher  reason  to  aim  at  improvement  in  piety, 
one  would  almost  think  that  the  mere  feelings 
of  gratitude  and  good-nature  might  tempt  to 
show  our  affection  to  our  pious  benefactors,  by 
profiting  from  (heir  exhortations,  their  councils, 
their  persuasions.  It  might  almost  touch  a  heart 
dead  to  superior  considerations,  to  reflect  how 
many  departed  worthies  have  wasted  their 
strength,  as  to  us,  in  vain.  Among  the  witnesses 
who  will  appear  against  us  in  the  groat  day  of 
account,  they  will  stand  the  foremost  Let  us 


tremble  as  we  figure  to  ourselves  ouf  unwilling 
accusers  in  that  band  of  holy  men,  who  earnestly 
sought  to  draw  us,  not  to  themselves,  but  to 
those  treasures  of  inspiration,  of  which  they 
were  the  faithful  expositors ;  to  the  Prophets 

and  Apostles, - ‘  to  Jesus  the  mediator  of 

the  new  covenant,  and  to  God  the  judge  of 
all.’ 

And  is  it  not  a  cruel  return  to  refuse  those 
who  still  meekly  wait  the  effect  of  their  labours 
upon  earth,  the  honest  gratification  of  seeing 
that  we  have  derived  some  little  advantage  from 
their  exertions  ?  Let  us  show  them  that  they 
have  not  differed  up  the  fervent  prayers  which 
doubtless  accompanied  their  unwearied  labours 
to  no  end.  While  so  many  saints  are  now  re¬ 
joicing  in  heaven,  in  the  society  of  those  v.'hom 
their  holy  labours  were  made  instrumental  in 
bringing  thither  ;  let  us  not  give  those  who  are 
still  zealously  devoting  their  talents  to  the  same 
glorious  purpose  upon  earth,  sad  cause  to  lament 
the  total  inefficacy  of  their  endeavours — to  re¬ 
gret  that  they  are  sent  to  them  who  will  not 
hear,  or  who  remain  as  if  they  had  not  heard — 
to  suspect  that  if  we  do  give  them  a  patient 
hearing,  it  is  for  the  sake  of  their  style,  their 
rhetoric,  their  good  taste  ;  but  that  when  their 
eloquence  opposes  our  corruptions,  when  their 
arguments  cross  our  inclinations,  when  their 
persuasions  trench  upon  our  passions,  or  their 
remonstrances  interfere  with  our  vanity,  we  are 
insensible  to  the  voice  of  the  charmer  ;  or  if  we 
forgive  their  piety  for  the  sake  of  their  talents, 
we  seldom  go  further  than  forgiveness. 

CHAP.  II. 

On  Providence. 

It  is  not  easy  to  conceive  a  more  deplorable 
state  of  mind,  than  to  live  in  a  disbelief  of  God’s 
providential  government  of  the  world.  To  be 
threatened  with  troubles,  and  to  see  no  power 
which  can  avert  them ;  to  be  surrounded  with 
sorrows,  and  discern  no  hand  which  can  redress 
them  ;  to  labour  under  oppression  or  calumny, 
and  believe  there  is  no  friend  to  relieve,  and  no 
judge  to  vindicate  us ;  to  live  in  a  world,  of 
which  wo  believe  its  ruler  has  abdicated  the 
throne,  or  delegated  the  direction  to  chance  ;  to 
suspect  that  he  has  made  over  the  triumph  to 
injustice,  and  the  victory  to  impiety  ;  to  suppose 
that  we  are  abandoned  to  the  casualties  of  na¬ 
ture,  and  the  domination  of  wickedness  ;  to  be- 
hold  the  earth  a  scene  of  disorder,  with  no  su¬ 
perintendent  to  regulate  it ;  to  hear  the  storms 
beating,  and  see  the  tempests  spreading  desola- 
tion  around,  with  no  influence  to  direct,  and  no 
wisdom  to  control  thfem  :  all  this  would  render 
human  life  a  burden  intolerable  to  human  feel¬ 
ing.  Even  a  heathen,  in  one  of  those  glimpses 
of  illumination  which  they  seemed  occasionally 
to  catch,  could  say,  it  would  not  be  worth  while 
to  live  in  a  world  which  was  not  governed  by  Pro 
vidence. 

But,  as  soon  as  we  clearly  discern  the  mind 
which  appoints,  and  the  hand  which  governs, 
all  events,  we  begin  to  see  our  way  through 


124 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


them :  as  soon  as  we  are  brought  to  recognize 
God’s  authority,  and  to  confide  in  his  goodness, 
we  can  say  to  our  unruly  hearts,  what  he  said 
to  the  tempestuous  waves.  Peace,  be  still. 
Though  all  is  perplexity,  we  know  who  can  re- 
duce  confusion  into  order  :  once  assured  of  the 
protection  of  the  Supreme  Intelligence,  we  shall 
possess  our  souls  in  patience,  and  resign  our 
will  with  submission.  As  soon  as  this  convic¬ 
tion  is  fully  established,  we  become  persuaded 
that  a  being  of  infinite  love  would  never  have 
placed  us  in  a  scene  beset  with  ^o  many  trials, 
and  exposed  to  so  many  dangers,  had  he  not  in¬ 
tended  them  as  necessary  materials  by  which, 
under  his  guidance,  we  are  to  work  out  our 
future  happiness  ; — as  so  many  wdrnings  not  to 
set  up  our  rest  here ; — as  so  many  incentives  to 
draw  us  on  in  pursuit  of  that  better  state  to 
which  eternal  mercy  is  conducting  us  through 
this  thorny  way. 

To  keep  God  habitually  in  view,  as  the  end 
of  all  our  aims,  and  the  disposer  of  all  events — 
to  see  him  in  all  our  comforts,  to  admire  the  be¬ 
nignity  with  which  he  imparts  them — to  adore 
the  same  substantial,  though  less  obvious  mercy, 
in  our  afflictions — to  acknowledge  at  once  the 
unwillingness  with  which  he  dispenses  our  tri¬ 
als,  and  the  necessity  of  our  suffering  them — to 
view  him  in  his  bounties  of  creation,  with  a  love 
which  makes  every  creature  pleasant — to  re¬ 
gard  him  in  his  providential  direction  with  a 
confidence  which  makes  every  hardship  support¬ 
able — to  observe  the  subserviency  of  events  to 
his  eternal  purposes  :  all  this  solves  difficulties 
otherwise  insuperable,  vindicates  the  divine  con¬ 
duct,  composes  the  intractable  passions,  settles 
the  wavering  faith,  and  quickens  the  too  reluc¬ 
tant  gratitude. 

The  fabled  charioteer,  who  usurped  his  fa¬ 
ther’s  empire  for  a  day,  is  not  more  illustrative 
of  their  presumption,  who,  virtually  snatching 
the  reins  of  government  from  God,  would  involve 
the  earth  in  confusion  and  ruin,  than  the  denial 
which  the  ambitious  supplicant  received  to  his 
mad  request,  is  applicable  to  the  goodness  of 
God  in  refusing  to  delegate  his  power  to  his 
creatures  :  My  son,  the  very  tenderness  I  show 
in  denying  so  ruinous  a  petition,  is  the  purest 
proof  that  I  am  indeed  thy  father. 

Sounds  to  which  we  are  accustomed,  we  fancy 
have  a  definite  sense.  But  we  often  fancy  it 
unjustly ;  for  familiarity  alone  cannot  give 
meaning  to  what  is  in  itself  unintelligible.  Thus 
many  words,  without  any  determinate  and  pre¬ 
cise  meaning,  pass  current  in  common  dis¬ 
course.  Some  talk  of  those  chimerical  beings, 
nature,  fate,  chance,  and  necessity,  as  positively 
as  if  they  had  a  real  existence,  and  of  almighty 
power  ai.d  direction  as  if  they  had  none. 

In  speaking  of  ordinary  events  as  fortuitous, 
or  as  natural,  we  dispossess  Providence  of  one 
half  of  his  dominion.  We  assign  to  him  the 
credit  of  great  and  avowedly  supernatural  ope¬ 
rations,  because  we  know  not  how  else  to  dis¬ 
pose  of  them.  For  instance  :  We  ascribe  to  him 
power  and  wisdom  in  the  creation  of  the  world, 
while  we  talk  as  if  we  thought  the  keeping  it  in 
order  might  be  effected  by  an  inferior  agency. 
We  sometimes  speak  as  if  we  assigned  the  go¬ 
vernment  of  the  world  to  two  distinct  beings : 


whatever  is  awful  only,  and  out  of  the  common 
course,  we  ascribe  to  God,  as  revolutions,  volca¬ 
noes,  earthquakes.  We  think  the  dial  of  Ahaz 
going  backward,  the  sun  stationary  on  Gibeon, 
marvels  worthy  of  Omnipotence  :  but  when  we 
stop  here,  it  is  not  virtually  saying,  that  to 
maintain  invariable  order,  unbroken  regularity, 
perpetual  uniformity,  and  systematic  beauty  in 
the  heavens  and  the  earth,  does  not  exhibit 
equally  striking  proofs  of  infinite  superintend¬ 
ence. 

Many  seem  to  ascribe  to  chance  the  common 
circumstances  of  life,  as  if  they  thought  it  would 
be  an  affront  to  the  Almighty  to  refer  them  to 
him ;  as  if  it  were  unbecoming  his  dignity  to 
order  the  affairs  of  beings  whom  he  thought  it 
no  derogation  of  that  dignity  to  create.  It  looks 
as  if,  while  we  were  obliged  to  him  for  making 
us,  we  would  not  wish  to  encumber  him  with 
the  care  of  us.  But  the  gracious  Father  of  the 
universal  family  thinks  it  no  dishonour  to  watch 
over  the  concerns,  to  supply  the  wants,  and  dis¬ 
pose  the  lot  of  creatures  who  owe  their  exist¬ 
ence  to  his  power,  and  their  redemption  to  his 
mercy.  He  did  not  create  his  rational  subjects 
in  order  to  neglect  them,  or  to  turn  them  over 
to  another,  a  capricious,  an  imaginary  power. 

We  do  not  it  is  true,  so  much  arraign  his  ge¬ 
neral  providence,  as  his  particular  appointments. 
We  will  allow  the  world  to  be  nominally  his,  if 
he  will  allow  us  our  opinion  in  respect  to  his 
management  of  certain  parts  of  it.  Now,  that 
he  should  not  put  forth  the  same  specific  energy 
individually  to  direct  as  to  create,  is  supposing 
an  anomaly  in  the  character  of  the  all-perfect 
God. — Whatever  was  his  design  in  the  forma¬ 
tion  of  the  world  and  its  inhabitants,  the  same 
reason  would  beyond  a  doubt,  influence  him  in 
their  superintendence  and  preservation. — David, 
in  describing  the  simple  grandeur  of  omnipotent 
benignity,  sets  us  a  beautiful  pattern.  He  does 
not  represent  the  belief  of  God’s  providential 
care  as  an  effort,  but  describes  our  continual 
sustenance  as  the  necessary  unlaboured  effect 
of  infinite  power  and  goodness.  He  openeth 
his  hand,  and  Jilleth  all  things  living  with  plen¬ 
teousness  ;  thus  making  our  blessings  rather,  as 
it  were,  a  result  than  an  operation. 

And  as  we  are  not  under  the  divided  control 
of  a  greater  and  a  subordinate  power,  so  neither 
are  we,  as  the  Persian  mythology  teaches,  the 
subjects  of  two  equal  beings,  each  of  whom  dis¬ 
tributes  respectively  good  and  evil  according  to 
his  peculiar  character  and  province.  Nor  are 
we  the  sport  of  the  conflicting  atoms  of  one 
school,  nor  of  the  fatal  necessity  of  another. 
There  is  one  omnipotent,  omniscient,  perfect, 
supreme  Intelligence,  who  disposes  of  every  per¬ 
son  and  of  every  thing  according  to  the  counsel 
of  his  own  infinitely  holy  will.  ‘  The  help  that 
is  done  upon  earth,  God  doth  it  himself.’  The 
comprehensive  mind,  enlightened  by  Christian 
faith,  discovers  the  same  harmony  and  design 
in  the  course  of  human  events,  as  the  philoso¬ 
pher  perceives  in  the  movements  of  the  material 
system. 

Without  a  thorough  conviction  of  this  most 
consolatory  doctrine,  what  can  we  make  of  the 
events  which  are  now  passing  before  our  eyes  ? 
What  can  we  say  to  the  perple.xed  state  of  an 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


125 


almost  desolated  world  ?  There  is  no  way  of 
disentangling  the  confusion  but  by  seeing  God 
in  every  thing.  Not  to  adore  his  providence  as 
having  some  grand  scheme  which  he  is  carrying 
on,  some  remote  beneficial  end  in  view,  some 
unrevealed  design  to  accomplish,  by  means  not 
only  inscrutable,  but  seemingly  contradictory, 
is  practical  atheism.  To  contemplate  the  events 
which  distract  the  civilized  world,  the  tyranny 
which  tears  up  order  and  morality  by  the  roots ; 
to  behold  the  calamities  of  some,  the  crimes  of 
others — such  blackness  gathering  over  the  heads 
of  some  countries,  such  tempests  bursting  over 
those  of  others — these  scenes  must  subvert  the 
faith,  must  extinguish  the  hope,  of  all  who  do 
not  firmly  believe  that  the  same  power  which 
‘  stilleth  the  raging  of  the  sea  and  the  noise  of 
the  waves,’  can  in  his  own  good  time  also  still 
the  madness  of  the  people ;  will  in  his  appointed 
season  enable  us  to  say,  ‘  And  where  is  the  fury 
of  the  oppres.sor  ?’  He  may,  and  we  know  not 
how  soon,  enable  us' to  ask,  ‘  Where  is  the  man 
that  made  the  earth  to  tremble — that  did  shake 
kingdoms — that  made  the  world  a  wilderness 
that  destroyed  the  cities  thereof — that  opened 
not  the  house  of  his  prisoners  V  Yes — disor¬ 
ganized  as  the  state  of  the  world  appears  to  be, 
let  us  be  assured  that  it  is  not  turned  adrift,  that 
things  are  not  left  to  go  on  at  random.  Though 
the  people  are  rebellious,  the  Sovereign  has  not 
renounced  his  dominion  over  them.  Tire  most 
oppressive  and  destructive  agents  are  his  myste¬ 
rious  ministers :  they  are  carrying  on,  though 
unconsciously,  his  universal  plan — a  plan,  which 
though  complicated  is  consistent ;  though  ap¬ 
parently  disorderly  will  be  found  finally  harmo¬ 
nious. 

In  some  pieces  of  mechanism  we  have  observed 
different  artists  employed  in  different  branches 
of  the  same  machinery  ;  in  this  division  of  la¬ 
bour,  each  man  performs  his  allotted  portion,  in 
utter  ignorance  perhaps,  not  only  of  the  portions 
assigned  to  the  others,  but  also  of  the  ultimate 
application  of  his  own.  Busy  in  executing  his 
single  pin,  or  spring,  or  wheel,  it  is  no  part  of 
his  concern  to  understand  the  work  assigned  to 
others,  still  less  to  eomprehend  the  scheme  of 
the  master.  But  though  the  workman  is  igno¬ 
rant  how  the  whole  is  to  be  arranged,  the  ma¬ 
chine  would  have  been  ineomplete  without  his 
seemingly  inconsiderable  contribution.  In  the 
mean  time,  the  master  unites,  by  apt  junctures 
and  articulations,  parts  which  were  not  known 
to  bo  susceptible  of  connexion  ;  combines  the  se¬ 
parate  divisions  without  difficulty,  because  the 
several  workmen  liave  only  been  individually 
helping  to  accomplish  the  original  plan  which 
had  previously  existed  in  his  inventive  mind. 

The  prescience  of  God  is  among  his  peculiar¬ 
ly  incommunicable  attributes.  Happy  is  it  for 
us  indeed  that  it  is  as  incommunicable,  for  if 
any  portion  of  it  were  imparted  to  us,  how  in¬ 
conceivably  would  the  distress  of  human  life  be 
aggravated  !  But  if  we  allow  his  omniscience, 
we  cannot  doubt  his  Providence.  He  would  not 
foresee  contingencies,  for  which  he  could  not 
provide.  His  attributes  are  in  fact  so  inter¬ 
woven  that  it  is  impossible  to  separate  them. 
His  omniscience  foresees,  his  understanding, 
which  is  infinite,  arranges,  his  sovereignty  de¬ 


crees,  his  omnipotence  executes  the  purposes  of 
his  will. — His  wisdom  may  see  some  thing's  to 
be  best  for  a  while  to  answer  certain  temporary 
purposes,  which  would  not  be  good  for  a  conti- 
nuance.  When  the  present  appointment  shall 
have  answered  the  end  to  which  it  was  deter¬ 
mined,  a  new  one,  to  which  that  was  prepara¬ 
tory,  takes  place.  The  two  arrangements  may 
appear  to  us  not  to  be  of  a  piece,  to  be  even  con 
tradictory ;  while  yet  this  determination  and 
this  succession  are  perfectly  consistent  in  the 
mind  of  a  being  who  sees  all  things  at  once,  and 
calls  things  that  are  not  as  though  they  were 
God’s  views  of  all  men  and  all  events  through¬ 
out  all  ages,  is  one  clear,  distinct,  simultaneous 
view.  Infinite  knowledge  takes  in  present,  past, 
and  future,  in  one  comprehensive  survey,  pierces 
through  all  distance  at  a  glance,  and  collects  all 
ages  into  the  focus  of  the  existing  moment. 

Once  thoroughly  grounded  and  established  m 
this  faith  and  sense  of  the  divine  perfections,  we 
shall  never  look  upon  any  thing  to  be  so  mon¬ 
strous  or  so  minute,  so  insignificant  or  so  ex- 
horbitant,  as  to  be  out  of  the  precincts  and  con¬ 
trol  of  eternal  Providence.  We  shall  never  re¬ 
duce,  if  the  allusion  be  foi^ven,  the  powers  of 
omnipotence  to  a  level  with  that  of  some  Indian 
rajah  who  has  a  territory  too  unwieldy  for  his 
management,  or  of  an  emperor  of  China  who  has 
more  subjects  than  one  monarch  can  govern. 

We  ask  why  evil  rulers  are  permitted  ? — We 
answer,  though  rather  mechanically,  our  own 
question,  by  acknowledging  that  they  are  the 
appointed  scourges  of  divine  displeasure.  Yet 
God  does  not  delegate  his  authority  to  the  op¬ 
pressor,  though  he  employs  him  as  his  instru¬ 
ment  of  correction;  he  still  keeps  the  reins  in 
his  own  hand.  And  besides  that  an  offending 
world  stood  in  need  of  the  chastisement,  these 
black  instruments  who  are  thus  allowed  to  ra¬ 
vage  the  earth,  may  be,  in  the  scheme  of  Provi- 
dence,  unintentionally  preparing  the  elements 
of  moral  beauty.  When  divine  displeasure  has 
made  barren  a  fruitful  land  ‘  for  the  wickedness 
of  them  that  dwell  therein,’  the  ploughshare  and 
the  harrow,  which  are  sent  to  tear  up  the  un¬ 
productive  soil,  know  not  that  they  are  providing 
for  the  hand  of  the  sower,  who  is  following  their 
rude  traces  in  order  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  future 
riches  and  fertility. 

Or  take  the  conflagration  of  a  town. — They 
whose  houses  are  burnt,  are  objects  of  our  ten- 
derest  commiseration.  The  scene,  if  we  beheld 
it,  would  alike  excite  our  terror  and  our  pity. 
But,  after  we  have  mourned  over  the  devasta¬ 
tion,  and  seen  that  despair  is  fruitless,  at  length 
necessity  impels  to  industry  ;  we  see  a  new  and 
fairer  order  of  things  arise ;  the  convenience, 
symmetry,  and  beauty  which  spring  out  of  the 
ashes  make  us  eventually  not  only  cease  to  re¬ 
gret  the  deformity  and  unsightliness  to  which 
they  have  succeeded,  but  almost  reconcile  us 
to  the  calamity  which  has  led  to  the  improve¬ 
ment. 

Often  have  the  earthquake,  tlie  hurricane,  the 
bolt  of  heaven,  kindling  and  throwing  far  and 
wide  its  baleful  light  on  this  earthly  stage,  real¬ 
ized  in  their  ultimate  effects  this  image.  And 
we  are  reminded  of  a  future  general  conflagra¬ 
tion,  *  when  the  elements  shall  molt  with  fervent 


136 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Feat,  and  the  earth  itself  shall  be  burned  up,’ 
which  is  to  prove  only  the  signal  and  the  pre¬ 
paratory  scene  for  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth 
wherein  dwelleth  righteousness.  Let  us,  in 
every  stage  leading  to  this  final  ‘  restitution  of 
all  things,’  wait  with  patience  for  its  sure  com¬ 
pletion,  Let  us,  in  the  mean  time,  give  credit 
to  the  great  Author  of  the  book  of  Fate  for  the 
consistency  of  its  catastrophe  ! 

When  we  peruse  the  compositions  of  a  human 
author,  w’e  look  for  unity  and  consistency  in  his 
whole  plan  ;  we  expect  connexion  and  relation 
between  its  several  parts,  and  an  entireness  in 
the  general  combination.  We  are  not  so  much 
delighted  with  a  fine  passage  incidentally  intro¬ 
duced,  a  short  episode,  of  which  we  discern  at 
once  the  rise  and  the  end,  and  take  in  all  the  in¬ 
cidents  and  beauties  at  a  single  glance,  as  we 
are  with  the  judgment  which  discovers  itself  in 
the  distribution  of  the  whole  work,  and  the  skill, 
not  without  difficulty  discerned,  which  arranges, 
connects,  and,  as  it  were,  links  together  the  se¬ 
veral  divisions.  Yet  do  we  not  sometimes  pre¬ 
sume  to  insinuate  as  if  the  great  Author  of  all 
created  nature  cannot  reduce  the  complexity  of 
its  parts  into  one  cotftstent  whole  ?  Do  we  not 
intimate  objections  as  if  there  were  no  concert, 
no  agreement  in  the  works  of  the  Almighty 
mind  ?  Do  not  the  same  persons  who  can  speak 
in  raptures  of  a  perfect  poem,  a  perfect  scheme 
of  reasoning,  a  perfect  plan  in  architecture,  yet 
presume  to  suspect  that  the  concerns  of  the  uni¬ 
verse  are  carried  on  with  less  system,  and  on 
a  more  imperfect  design,  than  the  rude  sketches 
of  a  frail  creature,  who  is  crushed  before  the 
moth  ? 

But  if  we  go  so  far  as  to  leave  to  God  the  di¬ 
rection  of  the  natural  world,  because  we  know 
not  well,  after  all,  to  whom  else  to  commit  its 
management,  yet  we  frequently  make  little  scru¬ 
ple  to  take  the  government  of  the  moral  world 
into  our  own  hands.  If  we  consent  to  his  ruling 
matter,  we  reluctantly  allow  that  he  governs 
mind.  We  reason  as  if  we  suspected  that  the 
passions  of  men  lay  beyond  his  controul,  and 
that  their  vices  have  overturned  his  dominion. 
But  we  should  particularly  call  to  mind  what  is 
the  daily  language  of  our  lips,  not  only  that  His 
is  ‘  the  kingdom,’  but  that  the  ‘  power’  is  the 
source,  and  ‘  the  glory’  the  result  of  his  admi¬ 
nistration.  He  does  not,  it  is  true,  by  an  arbi¬ 
trary  compulsion  of  men’s  minds,  rob  them  of 
that  freedom  by  which  they  offend  him,  nor  by 
a  force  on  their  liberty,  prevent  those  sins  and 
follies  which,  if  he  arbitrarily  hindered,  he  would 
convert  rational  beings  into  mechanical  ones ; 
but  he  turns  their  sins  and  follies  to  such  uses, 
that  while  by  the  voluntary  commission  of  them 
they  arc  bringing  down  destruction  on  their  own 
heads,  they  are  not  impeding  his  purposes. 

Nor  does  Providence,  in  his  wide  arrange¬ 
ments,  exclude  the  operation  of  subordinate 
causes  and  motives,  but  allows  them  to  assist  the 
greater,  and  thereby  to  work  his  will ;  as  subal¬ 
terns  in  the  battle  contribute  severally  their  share 
to  the  victory,  while,  like  those  inferior  causes, 
they  are  compe'led  to  keep  their  ranks,  and  not 
to  aspire  to  the  command.  As  we  have  a  higher 
end,  we  must  have  a  Supreme  direction  to  our 
aims.  Yet  a  lower  end  is  so.metimes  made  a 


means  to  a  higher,  and  assists  its  object  without 
usurping  its  place.  Some  who  begin  by  abstain¬ 
ing  from  evil,  or  set  about  doing  good  from  a 
principle  not  entirely  pure,  are  graciously  led  to 
the  principle  by  doing  or  forbearing  the  action ; 
and  are  finally  landed  at  the  higher  point,  from 
beginnings  far  below  those  at  which  we  might 
rashly  have  asserted  they  could  only  set  out  with 
any  hope  of  success. 

Though  this  may  not  very  frequently  occur, 
yet  as  it  is  by  means  God  works,  rather  than  by 
miracles ;  and  as  the  w'orld  does  not  overflow 
with  real  piety,  what  a  chaos  would  this  earth 
become,  if  God  did  not  permit  inferior  motives 
to  operate  to  a  certain  degree  for  the  general 
good  !  Many  whom  the  utmost  stretch  of  cha¬ 
rity  cannot  induce  us  to  believe  that  they  are 
acting  from  the  purest  principles,  are  yet  con. 
tributing  to  the  comfort  and  good  order  of  socie¬ 
ty.  Though  they  are  sober  only  from  a  regard 
to  their  health,  yet  their  temperance  affords  a 
good  example  ;  though  they  are  prudent  from  no 
higher  motive  than  the  love  of  money,  yet  their 
frugality  keeps  them  within  the  same  bounds  as 
if  they  were  influenced  by  a  better  motive 
though  they  may  be  liberal  only  to  raise  their 
reputation,  yet  their  liberality  feeds  the  hungry ; 
though  they  are  public-spirited  merely  from  am¬ 
bition,  yet  their  patriotism,  by  rousing  the  spirit 
of  the  country,  saves  it.  If  such  right  actions, 
performed  from  such  low  motives,  can  look  for 
no  future  retribution ; — if,  being  done  without 
reference  to  the  highest  end,  they  do  not  advance 
the  eternal  interests  of  the  doer,  nor  the  glory 
of  God,  they  are  yet  his  instruments  for  pro¬ 
moting  the  good  of  others,  both  by  utility  and 
example.  On  this  ground  we  may  be  thankful 
that  there  is  so  much  refinement,  generosity,  and 
politeness  among  the  higher  orders  of  society, 
while  we  confess  that  tear  away  the  action  from 
its  motive,  sunder  their  virtue  from  its  legiti¬ 
mate  reference,  the  act  and  the  virtue  lose  their 
present  character  and  their  ultimate  reward. 

The  means  by  which  an  infinitely  wise  God 
often  promotes  the  most  important  plans,  are 
apt  illustrations  of  the  blindness  and  obliquity 
of  man’s  judgment.  May  we  be  allowed  to  of¬ 
fer  an  instance  or  two,  in  which  human  wisdom 
would  probably  have  taken  a  course,  in  the  ap¬ 
pointment  of  instruments  and  events,  directly 
opposite  to  that  pursued  by  infinite  wisdom  ? 
What  earthly  judge,  if  he  had  been  questioned 
as  to  means  likely  to  produce  one  of  the  strong¬ 
est  evidences  of  the  truth  of  Christianity  to  un¬ 
believers,  but  would  have  named  an  agreement 
between  Jews  and  Christians,  as  its  fullest  cor¬ 
roboration  ?  If  we  ourselves  had  an  important 
cause  depending — for  instance,  the  ascertaining 
our  right  to  a  litigated  estate  ; — If  the  success 
of  the  trial  depended  on  the  testimony  of  the 
witnesses,  and  on  the  authenticity  of  our  titled 
deeds,  whose  testimony  should  we  endeavour  to 
obtain  ;  into  whose  hands  should  we  wish  our¬ 
selves  to  be  committed  ?  According  to  all  hu¬ 
man  prudence  should  we  not  desire  witnesses 
who  had  no  known  hostility  to  us ;  should  we  not 
object  to  a  jury  of  avowed  enemies  ;  and  should 
we  not  refuse  to  lixlge  our  records  in  tne  hands 
of  our  opponents  ? 

But  His  wisdom,  in  whose  sight  ours  is  folly, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


12” 


has  seen  fit  to  make  one  of  the  most  striking 
proofs  of  the  truth  of  Christianity  depend  on  the 
living  miracle  of  the  enmity  of  the  Jews  ;  ‘  to 
them  also  were  committed  the  oracles  of  God,’ 
so  that  to  both  their  ancient  testimony  and  their 
present  opposition  we  are  to  look  for  the  most 
striking  proofs  of  a  religion  they  hold  with  per¬ 
petual  hatred.  And  now  that  Christianity  is 
actually  made  to  stand  upon  such  evidence,  what 
test  can  be  more  satisfactory  ?  Reason  itself 
owns  its  validity  ;  for  what  collusion  can  now  be 
charged  upon  the  concurrent  witnesses  of  Chris¬ 
tianity,  when  each  party  in  court  is  decidedly 
at  variance  with  the  other  ?  Who  can  ration¬ 
ally  question  the  strength  of  that  title  which  is 
contained  in  their  genuine  archives — that  evi¬ 
dence  resulting  from  their  hereditary  denial  of 
facts,  of  which  they  persist  to  reverence  the  pre¬ 
dictions  ?  Where  can  we  more  confidently  look 
for  the  truth  of  a  religion  they  detest,  than  to 
the  verifications  conferred  on  it  by  their  original 
history,  their  irreversible  antipathy  their  actual 
condition,  and  existing  character  7 

To  venture  another  specimen.  If  we  had 
presumed  to  point  out  instruments  for  the  de¬ 
struction  of  Jerusalem,  we  should  probably  have 
thought  none  so  appropriate  as  Constantine  ;  we 
might  have  supposed  the  first  Christian  emperor 
would  have  been  the  fittest  avenger  of  the  Re¬ 
deemer’s  blood.  Omniscience  selected  for  the 
awful  retribution  a  pagan  prince,  a  virtuous  one 
it  is  true,  but  one  who  seems  to  have  no  personal 
interest  in  the  business,  one  to  whom  Jews  and 
Christians,  as  such,  were  alike  indifferent.  While 
this  utter  desolation  was  the  obvious  accomplish¬ 
ment  of  a  prophecy,  which  w’as  to  be  a  lasting 
evidence  of  the  truth  of  our  religion,  the  choice 
of  the  destroyer  was  one  of  those  ‘  secret  things 
which  belong  to  God,’  and  is  only  to  be  alleged 
as  a  proof  that  ‘  his  ways  are  not  our  ways.’ 

We  will  advert  to  another  event,  the  most  im¬ 
portant  since  the  incarnation  of  him  whose  pure 
worship  it  has  restored — the  reformation.  This 
occurrence  is  a  peculiarly  striking  instance  of 
our  ignorance  of  the  operations  of  supreme  wis¬ 
dom,  and  of  the  means  which,  to  our  short  sight, 
seem  fit  or  unfit  for  the  accomplishment  of  his 
purposes.  If  ever  the  hand  of  providence  was 
conspicuous  as  the  meredian  sun,  it  was  so  in 
this  mighty  work — it  was  so  in  the  selection  of 
apparently  discordant  instruments — it  was  so, 
in  over-ruling  the  designs  of  some,  to  a  purpose 
opposite  to  their  intention,  in  making  the  errors 
of  others  contribute  to  the  general  end.  If  this 
grand  scheme  had  been  exposed  to  our  review 
for  advice,  if  we  had  been  eonsulted  in  its  forma¬ 
tion  and  its  progress,  how  should  we  iiave  criti¬ 
cised  both  the  plan  and  its  conductors  ?  How 
should  we  have  censured  some  of  the  agents  as 
inadequate,  condemned  others  as  ill  chosen,  re¬ 
jected  one  as  unsuited,  another  as  injurious ! 
One  critic  would  have  insisted  that  the  vehe¬ 
mence  of  Luther  would  mar  any  enterprise  it 
might  mean  to  advance ;  that  so  impetuous  a 
projector  would  inevitably  obstruct  the  establish¬ 
ment  of  a  religion  of  meekness.  Another  would 
have  pronounced,  that  among  the  human  facul¬ 
ties,  wit  was,  of  all  others,  the  least  likely  to  as¬ 
sist  the  cause  of  piety  ;  yet  did  Erasmus,  by  his 
exouisite  satires  on  the  ignorance  and  supersti¬ 


tion  of  the  priests,  as  completely  contradict  th 
opinion,  as  Luther,  by  his  magnanimity  nji '  e~ 
roic  perseverance,  triumphantly  overtui  ihe 
other.  This  inconsiderate,  blustering  Henry, 
the  human  counsellor  would  have  said,  will  ruin 
the  cause,  by  uniting  his  hostility  to  the  reform¬ 
ers,  with  his  inconsistent  resistance  to  the  papal 
power ;  and  yet  this  cause,  his  very  perverseness 
contributed  to  promote.  Another  censor  would 
have  been  quite  certain  that  the  timid  policy  and 
cautious  feeling  of  Charles  the  Wise  would  in¬ 
fallibly  obstruct  those  measures  which  they  were 
actually  tending  to  advance.  Who  among  us, 
if  his  opinion  had  been  asked,  would  not  have 
fixed  on  the  pontiff  of  Rome  and  the  emperor  of 
the  Turks,  as  the  two  last  human  beings  to  be 
selected  for  promoting  the  reformed  religion  ? 
Who  would  have  ventured  to  assert  that  the  mo¬ 
ney  raised  by  indulgences,  through  the  profli¬ 
gate  venality  of  Leo,  for  building  St.  Peter’s  in 
his  own  metropolis,  was  actually  laying  the  foun¬ 
dation  of  every  protestant  church  in  Britain — in 
Europe — in  the  world  ?  Who  could  have  pre¬ 
dicted,  that  the  Imperial  Mussulman,  in  banish, 
ing  learning  from  his  dominions,  was  preparing, 
as  if  by  concert,  an  overwhelming  antagonist  to 
the  sottish  ignorance  of  the  monks  ?  All  these 
things,  separately  considered,  wo,  in  our  captious 
wisdom,  should  have  pronounced  calculated  to 
produce  effects  directly  contrary  to  the  actual 
result ;  yet  these  ingredients,  which  had  no  na¬ 
tural  'affinity,  amalgamated  by  the  Almighty 
hand,  were  made  to  accomplish  one  of  the  most 
important  works  that*  infinite  wisdom,  working 
by  human  means,  has  ever  effected. 


CHAP.  III. 

Practical  uses  of  the  doctrine  of  Providence. 

We  do  not  sufficiently  make  the  doctrine  of 
Providence  a  practical  doctrine. — That  the  pre¬ 
sent  dark  dispensations  which  afflict  the  earth 
are  indications  of  Almighty  displeasure  few  dis¬ 
pute  ;  but  having  admitted  the  general  fact,  who 
almost  does  not  ascribe  the  cause  of  offence  to 
others  ?  How  few  consider  themselves  as  aw¬ 
fully  contributing  to  draw  down  the  visitation  ! 
We  look  with  an  exclusive  eye  to  the  abandoned 
and  the  avowedly  profligate,  and  ascribe  the 
whole  weight  of  the  divine  indignation  to  their 
misdeeds.  But  we  fbrget  that  when  a  sudden 
tempest  threatened  destruction  to  the  ship  going 
to  Tarshish,  in  which  there  was  only  Jonah  who 
feared  God,  those  who  inquired  into  the  cause 
of  the  storm,  found  Him  to  be  the  very  man.  The 
cause  of  the  present  desolating  storm,  as  a  pious 
divine  observed  of  that  which  darkened  his  day, 
may  as  probably  be  the  offences  of  professing 
Christians,  as  the  presumptuous  sins  of  the  bolder 
transgressor.  This  apprehension  should  set  us 
all  on  searching  our  hearts,  for  we  cannot  re- 
pent  of  the  evil  of  which  we  are  not  conscious. 
It  should  put  us  upon  watching  against  negli¬ 
gence  ;  it  should  set  us  upon  distrusting  a  false 
security,  upon  examining  into  the  ground  of  our 
confidence.  No  dependence  on  the  goodness  of 
our  spiritual  condition,  no  trust  in  our  exactneis 


128 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


in  some  peculiar  duties,  no  fancied  superiority 
of  ourselves,  to  others,  no  exemption  from  gross 
and  palpable  disorders,  should  soothe  us  into  a 
belief  that  we  have  no  coneern  in  the  visitation. 
Throwing  off  their  own  guilt  upon  others  was 
the  second  sin  of  the  first  offenders. 

Another  practical  use  of  the  doctrine  of  Pro¬ 
vidence  is,  to  enable  us  to  maintain  a  composed 
frame  of  spirit  under  his  ordinary  dispensations. 
If  we  kept  up  a  sense  of  God’s  agency  in  com¬ 
mon  as  well  as  in  extraordinary  occurrences — ‘ 
if  we  were  practically  persuaded  that  nothing 
happens  but  by  divine  appointment,  it  might 
still  those  fluctuations  of  mind,  quiet  those  un¬ 
certainties  of  temper,  conquer  that  unreasonable 
exaltation  or  depression,  which  arise  from  our 
not  habitually  reflecting  that  all  things  are  de¬ 
termined  in  number,  or  weight,  or  measure,  by 
infinite  love.  If  we  acted  under  the  full  convic¬ 
tion  that  he  who  first  set  the  world  in  motion 
governs  every  creature  in  it — that  we  do  not 
take  our  place  upon  that  stage  in  space,  or  that 
period  in  time,  which  we  choose,  but  where  and 
when  He  pleases ;  that  it  is  he  who  ‘  ordereth 
the  bounds  of  our  habitation,  and  fixeth  our  lot 
in  life,’  we  should  not  only  contemplate  with 
sober  awe  the  strange  events  of  the  age  in  which 
we  may  be  living,  but  cheerfully  submit  to  our 
individual  difliculties,  as  arising  from  the  same 
predisposition  of  causes.  Our  neglecting  to  cul¬ 
tivate  the  train  of  thought  may  account  for  those 
murmurs  which  arise  in  our  hearts,  both  for  the 
public  calamities  of  the  world,  and  the  private 
vexations  of  life. 

If  we  took  God  into  the  account,  we  should 
feel  that,  as  rational  subjects  of  his  moral  go¬ 
vernment,  we  are  bound  to  submit  to  it :  we 
should  not  indulge  discontent  and  resentment  at 
events  which  we  should  then  allow  were  either 
by  his  appointment  or  permission,  as  we  now 
acknowledge  in  the  more  extraordinary  cases. 
But  how  few  are  there  who  think  themselves 
obliged  to  endure  without  repining,  the  eSects 
of  accident,  or  the  provocation  of  men  ?  and  this 
is  because  they  see  only  the  proximate  cause, 
and  do  not  perceive  that  God  is  the  grand  effi¬ 
cient.  In  our  difficulties,  if  the  sense  of  his  pre¬ 
sence  were  as  strongly  impressed  upon  us  as  the 
trial  is  powerfully  felt,  it  would  make  the  heart 
strong,  and  render  the  temptation  feeble.  Nor 
would  it  only  strengthen  us  under  temptation, 
but  sustain  us  under  affliction  ;  we  should  be¬ 
come  both  humble  by  correction,  and  patient 
under  it ;  we  should  be  grateful  in  prosperity, 
without  being  elated  by  it.  A  deep  conviction 
of  God’s  authority  over  us  and  his  property  in 
us,  would  also  make  us  kind  to  others  as  an  ac¬ 
knowledgment  that  all  is  his.  The  very  heathen 
entertained  some  sense  of  his  sovereignty  ;  they 
acknowledged  at  least  their  victories  to  proceed 
from  him,  when  they  dedicated  their  spoils  to 
the  deliverer. 

If  we  maintained  this  constant  sense  of  his 
providential  government,  we  should  be  more  in¬ 
stant  in  prayer,  we  should  more  fervently  sup¬ 
plicate  him  in  our  distresses,  and  more  devoutly 
adore  him  for  his  mercies.  The  recognition  of 
liis  sovereignty  infers  the  duty  of  prayer  to  him, 
f  implicit  trust  in  him,  of  unqualified  submis- 
oion  to  him ;  for  the  same  argument  which  proves 


that  he  should  govern,  makes  it  right  that  we 
should  obey  ;  and  the  avowal  of  that  obedience 
is  alike  consistent  with  the  character  of  the  sub¬ 
ject,  and  the  claims  of  the  sovereign.  Thus 
used,  there  is  no  consolation  to  an  afflicted  world 
like  that  which  is  derived  from  the  position  con¬ 
tained  in  the  proclamation  of  the  imperial  peni¬ 
tent  of  Babylon,  ‘  that  the  most  High  ruleth  in 
the  kingdoms  of  men ;’  that  he  ruleth  not  by  an 
arbitrary  will,  but,  to  borrow  the  emphatic  lan¬ 
guage  of  the  Apocalypse,  by  the  perfections  of 

THE  MIND  THAT  HATH  WISDOM. 

But,  as  we  seem  virtually  to  divide  the  aflairs 
of  the  world  into  two  portions,  we  talk  as  if  we 
did  not  think  certain  ordinary  trials  considera¬ 
ble  enough  to  come  from  God,  nor  of  course  to 
require  that  we  should  meet  them  with  temper. 
Under  these,  therefore,  we  make  ourselves  what 
amends  we  can  for  the  vexation  of  trials  more 
severe,  by  indulging  fretfulness,  secure  of  impu¬ 
nity.  But  let  us  be  assured  of  these  two  things, 
if  it  be  a  trial  at  all  it  comes  from  God,  if  it  dis¬ 
turb  our  peace,  however  trivial  in  itself,  it  is  not 
small  to  us,  and  therefore  claims  submission. 

It  is  worth  our  observation  that  they  who  are 
ready  to  quarrel  with  Omnipotence  for  the  in- 
fliction  of  pain  and  suffering,  poverty  and  dis¬ 
tress,  seldom  arraign  him  for  their  intellectual 
or  moral  deficiencies.  Most  men  are  better  sa¬ 
tisfied  with  their  allotment  of  capacity  than  of 
health ;  of  virtue  than  of  riches ;  of  skill  than 
of  power.  We  seldom  grudgingly  compare  our 
mental  endowments  with  those  of  others  who 
are  obviously  more  highly  gifted,  while  we  are 
sufficiently  forward  to  repine  at  their  superiority 
in  worldly  advantages.  Though  too  sensibly  alive 
to  the  narrower  limits  in  which  our  fortune  is 
confined,  we  do  not  lament  our  severer  restric¬ 
tions  in  the  article  of  personal  merit.  In  the 
latter  instance  vanity  supports  as  completely  as 
in  the  former  envy  disturbs. 

Most  of  the  calamities  of  human  life  originate 
with  ourselves.  Even  sickness,  shame,  pain, 
and  death  were  not  originally  the  infliction  of 
God.  But  out  of  many  evils,  whether  sent  us 
by  his  immediate  hand,  or  brought  on  us  by  our 
own  faults,  much  eventual  good  is  educed  by 
Him,  who  by  turning  our  suffering  to  our  be¬ 
nefit,  repairs  by  grace  the  evils  produced  by  sin. 
Without  being  the  author  of  evil,  the  bare  sug¬ 
gestion  of  which  is  blasphemy,  he  converts  it  to 
his  own  glory,  by  causing  the  effects  of  it  to 
promote  our  good.  If  the  virtuous  suffer  from 
the  crimes  of  the  wicked,  it  is  because  their  im¬ 
perfect  goodness  stood  in  need  of  chastisement. 
Even  the  wicked,  who  are  suffering  by  their  own 
sins,  or  the  sins  of  each  other,  are  sometimes 
brought  back  to  God  by  mutual  injuries,  the 
sense  of  which  awakens  them  to  compunction 
for  their  own  offences.  God  makes  use  of  the 
faults  even  of  good  men  to  show  them  their  own 
insufficiency,  to  abase  them  in  their  own  eyes, 
to  cure  them  of  vanity  and  self-dependence.  He 
makes  use  of  their  smaller  failings,  to  set  them 
on  the  watch  against  great  ones ;  of  their  im¬ 
perfections,  to  put  them  on  their  guard  against 
sins  ;  of  their  faults  of  inadvertency,  to  increase 
their  dread  of  such  as  are  wilful.  This  super¬ 
induced  vigilance  teaches  them  to  fear  all  the 
resemblances,  and  to  shun  all  the  approaches  to 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


129 


8>n,  It  is  a  salutary  fear,  which  keeps  them 
from  using  all  tho  liberty  they  have ;  it  leads 
them  to  avoid  not  only  what  is  decidedly  wrong, 
hut  to  stop  short  of  what  is  doubtful,  to  keep 
clear  of  what  is  suspicious :  well  knowing  the 
thin  partitions  which  separate  danger  from  de¬ 
struction.  It  teaches  them  to  watch  the  bud¬ 
dings  and  germinations  of  evil,  to  anticipate  the 
pernicious  fruit  in  the  opening  blossom. 

The  weakness  and  inactivity  of  our  faith  ex¬ 
pose  us  to  continual  distrust.  When  we  our¬ 
selves  are  idle,  we  are  disposed  to  suspect  that 
the  Omnipotent  is  not  at  work. — That  process 
which  we  do  not  see,  we  are  too  much  inclined 
to  suspect  is  not  going  on.  From  this  unhallowed 
egotism,  where  we  are  not  the  prime  movers, 
we  fancy  that  all  stands  still.  The  various  parts 
of  the  scheme  of  Providence  are  sometimes  con¬ 
nected  by  a  thread  so  fine  as  to  elude  our  dim 
sight ; — but,  though  it  may  be  so  attenuated  as 
to  be  invisible,  it  is  never  broken  off.  The  plan 
is  carrying  on,  and  the  work  perhaps,  about  to 
be  accomplished,  while  we  are  accusing  the 
Great  Artificer,  as  if  he  were  capable  of  neglect, 
or  liable  to  error.  But  if,  after  tracing  Provi¬ 
dence  through  many  a  labyrinth,  we  seem  to 
lose  sight  of  him  :  if,  after  having^  lost  our  clue, 
wc  are  tempted  to  suspect  that  this  operation  is 
suspended,  or  that  his  agency  has  ceased,  he  is 
working  all  the  time  out  of  sight — he  is  pro¬ 
ceeding,  if  the  comparison  may  be  allowed,  like 
the  fabled  Arethusia,  whose  stream  having  dis¬ 
appeared  in  the  place  to  which  it  had  been  fol¬ 
lowed  up,  is  still  making  its  way  under  ground  ; 
though  we  are  not  cured  of  our  incredulity,  till 
we  again  discover  him,  bursting  forth  like  the 
same  river,  which,  having  pursued  its  hidden 
passage  through  every  obstruction,  rises  once 
more  in  all  its  beauty  in  another  and  unexpected 
place. 

But  even  while  we  are  rebelling  against  his 
dispensations,  we  are  taking  our  hints  in  the 
economy  of  public  and  private  life,  from  the 
economy  of  Providence  in  the  administration  of 
the  world.  We  govern  our  country  by  laws 
emulative  of  those  by  which  he  governs  his  crea¬ 
tures  :  we  train  our  children  by  probationary 
discipline,  as  he  trains  his  servants.  Penal  laws 
in  state,  like  those  of  the  divine  Legislator,  in¬ 
dicate  no  hatred  to  those  to  whom  they  are  pro¬ 
claimed,  for  every  man  is  at  liberty  not  to  break 
them ;  they  are  enacted  in  the  first  instance  for 
admonition  rather  than  chastisement,  and  serve 
as  much  for  prevention  as  punishment.  The 
discipline  maintained  in  all  well  ordered  fami¬ 
lies  is  intended  not  only  to  promote  their  virtue, 
but  their  happiness.  The  intelligent  child  per¬ 
ceives  his  fatlier’s  motive  for  restraining  him, 
till  the  act  of  obedience  having  induced  the  ha¬ 
bit,  and  both  having  broken  in  his  rebellious 
will,  he  loves  the  parent  the  more  for  the  re¬ 
straint;  on  tho  other  hand,  the  mismanaged  and 
ruined  son  learns  to  despise  tho  father,  who  has 
given  him  a  license  to  which  he  has  discern¬ 
ment  enough  to  perceive  he  owes  tho  miseries 
consequent  upon  his  uncurbed  appetites. 

It  is  however  to  bo  lamented,  that  this  great 
doctrine  of  God’s  universal  superintendanco  is 
not  only  madly  denied,  or  inconsistently  ovor- 
’ooked  by  one  class  of  men,  but  is  foolishly  per- 
VoL.  II.  I 


verted,  or  fanatically  abused  by  another.  With¬ 
out  entering  upon  the  wide  field  of  instances, 
we  shall  confine  our  remarks  to  two  that  are  the 
most  common.  First,  the  fanciful,  frivolous,  and 
bold  familiarity  with  which  this  supreme  dicta¬ 
tion  and  government  are  cited  on  the  most  tri¬ 
vial  occasions,  and  adduced  in  a  manner  disho¬ 
nourable  to  infinite  wisdom,  and  derogatory  to 
supreme  goodness.  The  persons  who  are  guilty 
of  this  fault  seem  not  to  perceive,  that  it  is  not 
more  foolish  and  presumptuous  to  deny  it  alto¬ 
gether  than  to  expect  that  God’s  particular  Pro¬ 
vidence  will  interpose,  in  order  to  dave  their  ex¬ 
ertions,  or  excuse  their  industry.  For  though 
Providence  directs  and  assists  virtuous  endea¬ 
vours,  he  never,  by  superseding  them,  encou¬ 
rages  idleness,  or  justifies  presumption. 

The  highly  censurable  use  to  which  some 
others  convert  this  divine  agency,  is,  when  not 
only  the  pretence  of  trusting  Providence  is  made 
the  plea  for  the  indolent  desertion  of  their  own 
duty ;  but  an  unwarrantable  confidence  in  pro¬ 
vidential  leadings  is  adopted  to  excuse  their  own 
imprudence.  Great  is  the  temerity,  when  Pro¬ 
vidence  is  virtually  reproached  for  the  ill  suc¬ 
cess  of  our  affairs,  or  pleaded  as  an  apolog}'  for 
our  own  wilfulness,  or  as  a  vindication  of  our 
own  absurdity  in  the  failure  of  some  foolish 
plan,  or  some  irrational  pursuit.  We  have  no 
right  to  depend  on  a  supernatural  interposition 
to  help  us  out  of  difficulties  into  which  we  have 
been  thrown  by  our  misconduct,  or  under  dis¬ 
tresses  into  which  we  have  been  plunged  by  our 
errors.  God,  though  he  knows  the  prayers 
which  we  may  offer,  and  accepts  the  penitence 
which  we  feel,  will  not  use  his  power  to  correct 
our  ill-judged  labours,  any  otherwise  than  by 
making  us  smart  for  their  consequences. 

The  power  of  God  as  it  is  not  an  idle,  so  it  is 
not  a  solitary  prerogative.  It  is  indeed  an  at¬ 
tribute  in  constant  exercise  ;  it  is  not  kept  for 
state,  but  use ;  not  for  display,  but  exercise ; 
and  as  it  is  infinite,  one  half  of  the  concerns  of 
tlie  universe  are  not,  as  we  intimated  before, 
suspended,  because  he  is  superintending  the- 
other  half.  He  is  perpetually  examining  the 
chronicles  of  human  kind,  and  inspecting  the 
register  of  human  actions — not  like  the  King  of 
the  Palace  of  Shushan,*  because  ‘  he  cannot 
rest,’  for  Omniscience  never  slumbers  or  sleeps 
— nor  like  him  to  repair  the  wrongs  of  one  man 
whose  services  had  remained  unrequited,  but 
that,  ‘  beholding  the  evil  and  the  good,’  no  ser¬ 
vices  may  go  unnoticed  and  unrecompensed, 
from  the  earliest  offspring  of  pious  Abel,  to  the 
latest  oblation  of  faith  in  the  end  of  time. 

This  view  of  things,  and  it  is  the  view  which 
the  enlightened  Christian  takes,  tends  to  correct 
his  anger  against  second  causes,  and  affords 
him  such  an  assurance  that  every  occurrence 
will  be  over-ruled  by  everlasting  love  for  his 
eventual  good — inspires  him  with  such  holy  con¬ 
fidence  in  the  promises  of  the  Gospel,  that  lie 
acquires  a  repose  of  spirit,  not  merely  from  com¬ 
pelled  submission  to  authority,  but  from  rational 
acquiescence  in  goodness.  Ho  feels  that  his 
confirme.t  belief  in  this  universal  agency  is  the 
only  thing  that  can  set  his  heart  at  rest,  still  its 

•  Ahasuerua— Esther,  chap,  vi 


r 


130 


/ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


perturbations,  moderate  its  impatience,  soothe 
its  terrors,  confirm  its  faith,  preserve  its  peace, 
or,  when  it  has  suffered  a  momentary  suspen¬ 
sion,  restore  it. 

Nor  does  God  exercise  his  Providence  alone, 
either  in  signal  instances  of  retribution  or  in 
the  hidden  consolations  of  the  believer;  but 
those  secret  stings  of  conscience  which  goad 
and  lacerate  every  guilty  individual  in  any  cri¬ 
minal  pursuit — that  lurking  discontent  which 
gives  the  lie  to  flattery,  and  mingles  the  note  of 
discord  with  the  music  of  acclamation — that  un¬ 
prompted  misery  of  feeling  which  infuses  worm¬ 
wood  into  his  sweetest  pleasure,  proceeds  from 
the  same  providential  infliction. 

Some  men  seem  to  admit  a  Providence  on  a 
scale  which  expands  their  ideas,  but  fancy  it  an 
affront  to  conceive  of  Him  on  one  which  they 
think  contracts  them.  If  they  allow  that  he 
takes  a  sweeping  view  of  nations,  yet  they  im¬ 
ply  that  it  would  be  too  minute  an  exercise  of 
his  superintendence  to  inspect  individuals.  The 
truth  is,  as  we  intimated  before,  men  are  too 
much  disposed  to  frame  their  conceptions  of 
God  by  the  limited  powers  and  capacities  of  hu¬ 
man  greatness.  They  observe,  that  a  king  who 
controls  the  aflTairs  of  a  vast  empire  cannot  pos¬ 
sibly  inspect  the  concerns  of  every  private  fa¬ 
mily,  much  less  of  every  single  subject.  This 
limited  capacity  they  unconsciously,  yet  irreve¬ 
rently  transfer  to  the  King  of  kings. — But  as  no 
concern  is  so  vast  as  to  encumber  Omnipotence, 
so  none  is  too  diminutive  to  escape  the  eye  of 
Omniscience.  There  is  no  argument  for  a  ge¬ 
neral,  but  is  also  an  argument  for  a  particular 
•Providence,  unless  we  can  prove  that  the  whole 
is  not  made  up  of  parts ;  that  generals  are  not 
composed  of  particulars ;  that  nations  are  not 
compounded  of  families ;  that  societies  are  not 
formed  of  individuals;  that  chains  are  not  com¬ 
posed  of  links;  that  sums  are  not  made  up  of  units; 
that  the  interests  of  a  community  do  not  grow 
out  of  the  well-being  of  its  members.  The  in¬ 
terests  of  a  particular  member,  indeed,  may 
sometimes  appear  to  suflTer  from  that  which  pro¬ 
motes  the  general  good,  yet  he,  by  whose  law 
the  individual  may  seem  to  be  injured,  has 
means  of  remuneration  or  of  comfort  which  may 
prevent  the  sufferer  from  being  ultimately  a 
loser.  If,  as  we  are  assured,  upon  God’s  author¬ 
ity,  that  our  tears  are  treasured  up  by  him,  will 
not  their  appropriate  consolation  be  also  provid¬ 
ed  ? — Though  He  whose  footsteps  are  not  known, 
may  act  in  some  instances  in  a  manner  incom¬ 
prehensible  to  us,  yet  if  we  allow  that  he  acts 
wisely  and  holily  in  cases  which  we  do  compre¬ 
hend,  we  should  give  him  credit  in  the  obscure 
and  impenetrable  cases,  for  he  can  no  more  act 
contrary  to  his  attributes  in  the  one  instance 
than  in  the  other. 

Every  intelligent  being,  therefore,  should  look 
up  to  divine  Providence,  not  only  as  engaged  in 
the  government  and  disposal  of  states,  but  as 
exercised  for  his  individual  protection,  peace, 
and  comfort; — should  look  habitually  to  Him 
who  confers  favour  without  claim,  and  happiness 
without  merit ;  to  him  whose  veracity  fulfils  all 
the  promises  which  his  goodness  has  made — to 
Him  whose  pity  commiserates  the  afflicted, 
vhose  bounty  supplies  the  indigent,  whoso  long 


suffering  bears  with  the  rebellious,  whose  love 
absolves  the  guilty,  whose  mercy  in  Christ  Je¬ 
sus  accepts  the  penitent.  Such  is  the  fulness 
of  that  attribute  which  we  sum  up  in  a  single 
word,  the  goodness  of  God.  It  is  this  goodness 
which  influences  his  other  attributes  in  our  fa¬ 
vour,  attributes  which  would  else  necessarily 
act  against  creatures  at  once  sinful  and  impo 
tent.  It  makes  that  wisdom  which  sees  our 
weakness  strengthen  uS,  and  that  power  which 
might  overwhelm  us,  act  for  our  preservation 
Without  this  goodness,  all  his  other  perfections 
would  be  to  us  as  the  beauties  of  his  natural 
creation  would  be,  if  the  sun  were  blotted  from 
the  firmament — they  might  indeed  exist,  but 
without  this  illuminating  and  cherishing  prin¬ 
ciple,  as  we  should  neither  have  seen  nor  felt 
them,  so  to  us  they  could  not  be  said  to  he. 

Some  Christians  seem  to  view  the  Almighty 
as  encircled  with  no  attribute  but  his  sovereign¬ 
ty.  God,  in  establishing  his  moral  government, 
might  indeed  have  acted  solely  by  his  sovereign¬ 
ty.  He  might  have  pleaded  no  other  reason  for 
our  allegiance  but  his  absolute  dominion.  He 
might  have  governed  arbitrarily,  without  ex¬ 
plaining  the  nature  of  his  requisitions.  He 
might  have  reigned  over  us  as  a  king,  without 
endearing  himself  to  us  as  a  father.  He  might 
have  exacted  fealty,  without  the  offer  of  remu¬ 
neration.  Instead  of  this,  while  he  maintained 
his  entire  title  to  our  obedience,  he  mitigates 
the  austerity  of  the  command  by  the  invitations 
of  his  kindness,  and  softens  the  rigour  of  au¬ 
thority  by  the  allurement  of  his  promises.  la 
holding  out  menaces  to  deter  us  from  disobedi¬ 
ence,  he  balances  them  with  the  offered  pleni¬ 
tude  of  our  own  felicity,  and  thus  instead  of  ter¬ 
rifying,  attracts  us  to  obedience.  If  he  threatens, 
it  is  that  by  intimidating  he  may  be  spared  the 
necessity  of  punishing  ;  if  he  promises — it  is 
that  we  may  perceive  our  happiness  to  be  bound 
up  with  our  obedience.  Thus  his  goodness  in¬ 
vites  us  to  a  compliance,  which  his  sovereignty 
might  have  demanded  on  the  single  ground  that 
it  was  his  due.  Whereas  he  seems  almost  to  wave 
our  duty  as  a  claim,  as  if  to  aSbrd  us  the  merit 
of  a  voluntary  obedience ;  though  the  very  will 
to  obey  is  his  gift,  he  promises  to  accept  it  as  if 
it  were  our  own  act.  He  first  inspires  the  de¬ 
sire  and  then  rewards  it.  Thus  his  power,  if 
we  rtiay  hazard  the  expression,  gives  place  to 
his  goodness,  and  he  presses  us  by  tenderness 
almost  more  than  he  constrains  us  by  authority. 
He  even  condescends  to  make  our  happiness  no 
less  a  motive  for  our  duty  than  his  injunctions ; 
hear  his  affectionate  apostrophe — ‘  Oh  that  thou 
hadst  hearkened  to  my  commandments,  then 
had  thy  peace  been  as  a  river  !’ 

It  was  that  his  goodness  might  have  the  pre¬ 
cedency  of  his  Omnipotence  that  he  vouchsafed 
to  give  the  law  in  the  shape  of  a  covenant.  He 
stooped  to  enter  into  a  sort  of  reciprocal  en¬ 
gagement  with  his  creatures, — he  condescended 
to  stipulate  with  the  work  of  his  hands  .'  But 
the  consummation  of  his  goodness  was  reserved 
for  his  work  of  Redemption.  Here  he  not  only 
performed  the  office,  but  assumed  the  name  of 
Love  ;  a  name  with  which,  notwithstanding  all 
his  preceding  wonders  of  Providence  and  Grace, 
he  was  never  invested  till  after  the  completion 


1 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


131 


of  this  ]?ist,  greatest  act: — an  a^t  towards  his 
pardoned  rebels,  not  only  of  indemnity  but  pro¬ 
motion  ; — an  act  which  the  angels  desire  to 
scrutinize,  and  which  man  will  never  fully  com¬ 
prehend  till  he  enters  on  that  beatitude  to  which 
it  has  introduced  him. 


CHAP.  IV 

“  Thy  will  be  done." 

To  desire  to  know  the  Divine  will  is  the  first 
duty  of  a  being  so  ignorant  as  man ;  to  endea¬ 
vour  to  obey  it  is  the  moat  indispensable  duty 
of  a  being  at  once  so  corrupt  and  so  dependent. 
The  Holy  Scriptures  frequently  comprise  the 
essence  of  the  Christian  temper  in  some  short 
aphorism,  apostrophe,  or  definition.  The  essen¬ 
tial  spirit  of  the  Christian  life  may  be  said  to 
be  included  in  this  one  brief  petition  of  the 
Christian’s  prayer,  ‘  thy  will  be  done  just  as 
he  distinguishing  characteristic  of  the  irreli- 
ious  may  be  said  to  consist  in  following  his  own 
will. 

There  is  a  haughty  spirit  which  though  it 
will  not  complain,  does  not  care  to  submit. 
It  arrogates  to  itself  the  dignity  of  enduring, 
without  any  claim  to  the  meekness  of  yielding. 
Its  silence  is  stubbornness,  its  fortitude  is  pride ; 
ts  calmness  is  apathy  without,  and  discontent 
within.  In  such  characters,  it  is  not  so  much 
he  will  of  Cod  which  is  the  rule  of  conduct,  as 
the  scorn  of  pusillanimity.  Not  seldom  indeed 
the  mind  puts  in  a  claim  for  a  merit  to  which  the 
nerves  could  make  out  a  better  title.  Y et  the 
suffering  which  arises  from  acute  feelings  is  so 
far  from  deducting  from  the  virtue  of  resigna¬ 
tion,  that,  when  it  does  not  impede  the  sacrifice, 
it  enhances  the  value.  True  resignation  is  the 
hardest  lesson  in  the  whole  school  of  Christ.  It 
is  the  oftenest  taught  and  the  latest  learnt.  It 
is  not  a  task  which,  when  once  got  over  in  some 
particular  instance,  leaves  us  master  of  the  sub¬ 
net.  The  necessity  of  following  up  the  lesson 
we  have  begun,  presents  itself  almost  every  day 
m  some  new  shape,  occurs  under  some  fresh 
iriodification.  The  submission  of  yesterday  does 
not  exonerate  us  from  the  resignation  of  to-day. 
The  principle,  indeed,  once  thoroughly  wrought 
into  the  soul,  gradually  reconciles  us  to  the  fre¬ 
quent  demand  for  its  exercise,  and  renders  every 
succesive  call  more  easy. 

Wo  read  dissertations  on  this  subject,  not 
only  with  the  most  entire  concurrence  of  the 
judgment,  but  with  the  most  apparent  acqui¬ 
escence  of  the  mind.  We  write  essays  upon  it 
in  the  hour  of  peace  and  composure,  and  fancy 
that  what  we  have  discussed  with  so  much  ease 
and  self-complacence,  in  favour  of  which  we  offer 
.‘JO  many  arguments  to  convince,  and  so  many 
motives  to  persuade,  cannot  be  very  difficult  to 
practise.  But  to  convince  the  understanding 
and  to  correct  the  will  is  a  very  different  under¬ 
taking  ;  and  not  lees  difficult  when  it  comes  to 
our  own  case  than  it  was  in  the  case  of  those 
for  whom  we  have  been  so  coolly  and  dogmati¬ 
cally  prescribing.  It  is  not  till  we  practically 
find  how  slowly  our  own  arguments  produce 


any  effect  on  ourselves  that  we  cease  .a  marvel 
at  their  inefficacy  on  others.  Tlw  sick  physician 
tastes  with  disgust  the  bitterness  of  the  draught, 
to  the  swallowing  of  which  he  wondered  the 
patient  had  felt  so  much  repugnance ;  and  the 
reader  is  sometimes  convinced  by  the  argu¬ 
ments  which  fail  of  their  effect  on  the  writer, 
when  he  is  called,  not  to  discuss,  but  to  act,  not 
to  reason,  but  to  suffer.  The  theory  is  so  just 
and  the  duty  so  obvious,  that  even  bad  men  as¬ 
sent  to  it ;  the  exercise  so  trying  that  the  best 
men  find  it  more  easy  to  commend  the  rule  than 
adopt  it.  But  he  who  has  once  gotten  engraved, 
not  in  his  memory’  but  in  his  heart,  this  di¬ 
vine  precept,  thy  wtll  be  done,  has  made  a 
proficiency  which  will  render  all  subsequent 
instruction  comparatively  easy. 

Though  sacrifices  and  oblations  were  offered 
to  God  under  the  law  by  his  own  express  ap¬ 
pointment,  yet  he  peremptorily  rejected  them 
by  his  prophets,  when  presented  as  substitutes 
instead  of  signs.  Will  he,  under  a  more  perfect 
dispensation,  accept  of  any  observances  which 
are  meant  to  supersede  internal  dedication — of 
any  offerings  unaccompanied  by  complete  de¬ 
sire  of  acquiescence  in  his  will  ?  ‘  My  son,  give 
me  thine  heart,’  is  his  brief  but  imperative  com¬ 
mand.  But  before  we  can  be  brought  to  com¬ 
ply  with  the  spirit  of  this  requisition,  God  must 
enlighten  our  understanding  that  our  devotion 
may  be  rational,  he  must  rectify  our  will  that 
it  may  be  voluntary,  he  must  purify  our  heart 
that  it  may  be  spiritual. 

Submission  is  a  duty  of  such  high  .and  holy 
import  that  it  can  only  be  learnt  of  the  Great 
Teacher.  If  it  could  have  been  acquired  by 
mere  moral  institution,  the  wise  sayings  of  the 
ancient  philosophers  would  have  taught  it.  But 
their  most  elevated  standard  was  low:  their 
strongest  motives  were  the  brevity  of  life,  the 
instability  of  fortune,  the  dignity  of  suffering 
virtue,  things  within  their  narrow  sphere  of 
judging ;  things  true  indeed  as  far  as  they  go, 
but  a  substratum  by  no  means  equal  to  the 
superstructure  to  be  built  on  it.  It  wanted 
depth,  and  strength,  and  solidity  for  the  pur¬ 
poses  of  support.  It  wanted  the  only  true  basis, 
the  assurance  that  God  orders  all  things  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  purposes  of  his  will  for  our  final  good ; 
it  wanted  that  only  sure  ground  of  faith  by  which 
the  genuine  Christian  cheerfully  submits  in 
entire  dependance  on  the  promises  of  the  gospel. 

Nor  let  us  fancy  that  we  are  to  be  languid  and 
inactive  recipients  of  the  divine  dispensations. 
Our  own  souls  must  be  enlarged,  our  own  views 
must  bo  ennobled,  our  own  spirit  must  be  dila¬ 
ted.  An  inoperative  acquiescence  is  not  all  that 
is  required  of  us  :  and  if  we  must  not  slacken 
our  zeal  in  doing  good,  so  we  must  not  be  re¬ 
miss  in  opposing  evil,  on  the  flimsy  ground  that 
God  has  permitted  evil  to  infest  the  world.  If 
it  be  his  will  to  permit  sin,  it  is  an  opposition  to 
his  will  when  we  do  not  labour  to  counteract  if. 
This  surrender  therefore,  of  our  will  to  that  of 
God,  takes  in  a  large  sweep  of  actual  duties,  as 
well  as  the  whole  compass  of  passive  obedience. 
It  involve*  doing  as  well  as  suffering,  activity 
as  well  as  acquiescence,  zeal  as  well  as  forbear¬ 
ance.  Yet  the  concise  petition  daily  slips  off 
the  tongue  without  our  reflecting  on  the  weight 


132 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.] 


of  the  obligation  we  are  imposing  on  ourselves. 
We  do  not  consider  the  extent  and  consequences 
of  the  prayer  we  are  offering,  the  sacrifices,  the 
trials,  the  privations  it  may  involve,  and  the 
large  indefinite  obedience  to  all  the  known  and 
unknown  purposes  of  infinite  wisdom  to  vi^hich 
we  are  pledging  ourselves. 

There  is  no  case  in  which  we  more  shelter 
ourselves  in  generalities.  Verbal  sacrifices  cost 
little,  cost  nothing.  The  familiar  habit  of  re- 
Teating  the  petition  almost  tempts  us  to  fancy 
that  the  duty  is  as  easy  as  the  request  is  short. 
We  are  ready  to  think  that  a  prayer  rounded 
off  in  four  monosyllables  can  scarcely  involve 
duties  co-extensiv0  with  our  whole  course  of 
being ;  that,  in  uttering  them,  we  renounce  all 
right  in  ourselves,  that  we  acknowledge  the 
universal  indefeasible  title  of  the  blessed  and 
only  poteniale ;  that  we  make  over  to  him  the 
right  to  do  in  us,  and  with  us,  and  by  us,  what¬ 
ever  he  sees  good  for  ourselves,  whatever  will 
promote  his  glory,  though  by  means  sometimes 
as  incomprehensible  to  our  understanding,  as 
unacceptable  to  our  will,  because  we  neither 
know  the  motive,  nor  perceive  the  end.  These 
simple  w'ords  express  an  act  of  faith  the  most 
sublime,  an  act  of  allegiance  the  most  unquali¬ 
fied  ,•  and,  while  they  make  a  declaration  of 
entire  submission  to  a  Sovereign  the  most  abso¬ 
lute,  they  are,  at  the  same  time,  a  recognition 
of  love  to  a  Father  the  most  beneficent. 

We  must  remember,  that  in  offering  this 
pra}mr,  we  may  by  our  own  request,  be  offering 
io  resign  what  we  most  dread  to  lose,  to  give 
up  w'hat  is  dear  to  us  as  our  own  soul ;  we  may 
be  calling  on  our  heavenly  Father  to  withhold 
what  we  are  most  anxiously  labouring  to  attain, 
and  to  withdraw  what  we  are  most  sedulously 
endeavouring  to  keep.  We  are  solemnly  re¬ 
nouncing  our  property  in  ourselves,  we  are 
distinctly  making  ourselves  over  again  to  Him 
whose  we  already  are.  We  specifically  en¬ 
treat  him  to  do  with  us  what  ho  pleases,  to 
mould  us  to  a  conformity  to  his  image,  without 
which  we  shall  never  be  resigned  to  his  will. 
In  short,  to  dispose  of  us  as  his  infinite  wisdom 
sees  best,  however  contrary  to  the  scheme  which 
our 'blindness  has  laid  down  as  the  path  to  un¬ 
questionable  happiness. 

To  render  this  trying  petition  easy  to  us,  is 
one  great  reason  why  God  by  such  a  variety  of 
providences,  afllicts  and  brings  us  low.  He 
knows  that  we  want  incentives  to  humility, 
even  more  than  incitements  to  virtuous  actions. 
He  shows  us  in  many  ways,  that  self-sufficiency 
and  happiness  are  incompatible,  that  pride  and 
peace  are  irreconcilable ;  that,  following  our 
own  way,  and  doing  our  own  will,  which  we 
consider  to  be  of  the  very  essence  of  felicity,  is 
in  direct  opposition  to  it. 

‘  Christiatiity,’  says  bishop  Horsely,  ‘  involves 
many  paradoxes,  but  no  contradictions.’  To  bo 
able  to  say  with  entire  surrender  of  the  heart. 
Thy  will  be  done,’  is  the  true  liberty  of  the 
children  of  God,  that  liberty  with  which  Christ 
has  made  them  free.  It  is  a  liberty,  not  which 
delivers  us  from  restraint,  but  which,  freeing  us 
from  our  subjection  to  the  senses,  makes  us  find 
no  pleasure  but  in  order,  no  safety  but  in  the 
obedience  of  an  intelligent  being  to  his  rightful 


Lord.  In  delivering  us  from  the  heavy  bondage 
of  sin,  it  transfers  us  to  the  ‘easy  yoke  of 
Christ,’  from  the  galling  slavery  of  the  world  to 
the  ‘light  burden’  of  him  who  overcame  it. 

This  liberty  in  giving  a  true  direction  to  tho 
affections,  gives  them  amplitude  as  well  as  ele¬ 
vation.  The  more  unconstrained  the  will  be 
comes,  the  more  it  fixes  on  the  object ;  once 
fixed  on  the  highest,  it  does  not  use  its  liberty 
for  versatility,  but  for  constancy,  not  for  change, 
but  for  fidelity,  not  for  wavering,  but  adherence. 

It  is,  therefore,  no  less  our  interest,  than  our 
duty,  to  keep  the  mind  in  an  habitual  posture 
of  submission.  ‘  Adam,’  says  Dr.  Hammond, 

‘  after  his  expulsion,  was  a  greater  slave  in  tho 
wilderness  than  he  had  been  in  the  inclosure.’ 
If  the  barbarian  ambassador  came  express  to 
the  Romans  to  negotiate  from  his  country  for 
permission  to  be  their  servants,  declaring,  that 
a  voluntary  submission  even  to  a  foreign  power 
was  preferable  to  a  wild  and  disorderly  freedom, 
well  may  the  Christian  triumph  in  the  peace 
and  security  to  be  attained  by  a  complete  sub¬ 
jugation  to  Him  who  is  emphatically  called 
the  God  of  order. 

A  vital  faith  manifests  itself  in  vital  acts- 
‘  Thy  will  bo  done,’  is  eminently  a  practical  pe¬ 
tition.  The  first  indication  of  the  gaoler’s 
change  of  heart  was  a  practical  indication.  He 
did  not  ask,  ‘  Are  there  few  that  be  saved,’  but 
‘  What  shall  I  do  to  be  saved  V  The  fiist  symp¬ 
tom  St.  Paul  gave  of  his  conversion,  was  a  prac- 
tical  symptom :  ‘  Lord,  what  wilt  thou  have  me  t» 
do?’  He  entered  on  his  new  course  with  a  total  re¬ 
nunciation  of  his  own  will.  It  seemed  to  this 
great  Apostle,  to  be  the  turning  point  between 
infidelity  and  piety,  whether  he  should  follow 
his  own  will  or  the  will  of  God.  He  did  not 
amuse  his  curiosity  with  speculative  questions. 
His  own  immediate  and  grand  concern  engross¬ 
ed  his  whole  soul.  Nor  was  his  question  a  mere 
hasty  effusion,  an  interrogative  springing  out 
of  that  mixed  feeling  of  awe  and  wonder  whick 
accompanied  his  first  overwhelming  convictions. 
It  became  the  abiding  principle  which  governed 
his  future  life,  which  made  him  in  labours  more 
abundant.  Every  successive  act  of  duty,  every 
future  sacrifice  of  ease,  sprung  from  it,  was  in-  • 
fluenced  by  it.  His  own  will,  his  ardent,  im¬ 
petuous,  fiery  will,  was  not  merely  subdued,  it 
was  extinguished.  His  powerful  mind  indeed 
lost  none  of  its  energy,  but  his  proud  heart  re¬ 
linquished  all  its  independence. 

We  allow  and  adopt  t.he  term  devotion  as  an 
indispensable  part  of  religion,  because  it  is  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  limited  to  the  act ;  but  devotedness, 
from  which  it  is  derived,  does  not  meet  with 
such  ready  acceptation,  because  this  is  a  habit, 
and  an  habit  involves  more  than  an  act ;  it 
pledges  us  to  consistency,  it  implies  fixedness 
of  character,  a  general  confirmed  state  of  njind, 
a  giving  up  what  we  are,  and  have,  and  do,  to 
God.  Devotedness  does  not  consist  in  the 
ength  of  our  prayers,  nor  in  the  number  of  our 
good  works,  for,  though  these  are  the  surest 
evidences  of  piety,  they  are  not  its  essence. 
Devotedness  consists  in  doing  and  suffering, 
bearing  and  forbearing  in  the  way  which  God 
prescribes.  The  most  inconsiderable  duty  per¬ 
formed  with  alacrity,  if  it  oppose  onr  own  inrii 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAIfNAH  MORE. 


133 


nation ;  the  most  ordinary  trial  met  with  a  right 
spirit;  is  more  acceptable  to  him  than  a  greater 
effort  of  our  own  devising.  We  do  not  commend 
a  servant  for  his  activity,  if  ever  so  fervently 
exercised,  in  doing  whatever  gratilies  his  own 
fancy  ;  we  do  not  consider  his  performance  as 
obedience,  unless  his  activity  has  been  exercised 
in  doing  what  we  required  of  him.  Now,  how 
can  we  insist  on  his  doing  what  contradicts  his 
own  humour,  while  we  allow  ourselves  to  feel 
repugnance  in  serving  our  heavenly  Master, 
when  his  commands  do  not  exactly  fall  in  with 
our  own  inclination  ? 

We  must  also  give  God  leave,  not  only  to  take 
his  own  way,  but  his  own  time.  The  appoint¬ 
ment  -jf  seasons,  as  well  as  of  events,  is  his. 
‘  He  waits  to  be  gracious.’  If  he  delays,  it  is 
because  we  are  not  yet  brought  to  that  state 
which  fits  us  for  the  grant  of  our  request.  It  is 
not  he  who  must  be  brought  about,  but  we  our¬ 
selves.  Or,  perhaps,  he  refuses  the  thing  we 
ask,  in  order  to  give  us  a  better.  We  implore 
success  in  an  undertaking,  instead  of  which,  he 
gives  us  content  under  the  disappointment.  We 
ask  for  the  removal  of  pain  ;  he  gives  us  patience 
under  it.  We  desire  deliverance  from  our  ene¬ 
mies  ;  he  sees  that  we  have  not  yet  turned  their 
enmity  to  our  improvement,  and  he  will  bring 
us  to  a  better  temper  by  further  exercise.  We 
desire  him  to  avert  some  impending  trial,  instead 
of  averting  it,  he  takes  away  its  bitterness  ;  he 
mitigates  what  we  believed  would  be  intolerable, 
by  giving  us  a  right  temper  under  it.  How,  then, 
can  we  say  he  has  failed  of  his  promise,  if  he 
gives  something  more  truly  valuable  than  we 
had  requested  at  his  hands  ? 

Some  virtues  are  more  called  out  in  one  con¬ 
dition  of  life,  and  some  in  another.  The  exer¬ 
cise  of  certain  qualities  has  its  time  and  place  ; 
but  an  endeavour  after  conformity  to  the  image 
of  God,  which  is  best  attained  by  submission  to 
his  will,  is  of  perpetual  obligation.  If  he  does 
not  require  all  virtues  under  all  circumstances, 
there  is  no  state  or  condition  in  which  he  does 
not  require  that  to  which  our  church  perpetually 
calls  us,  ‘  an  humble,  lowly,  penitent,  and  obe¬ 
dient  heart.’  We  may  have  no  time,  no  capa¬ 
city,  no  special  call  for  deeds  of  notorious  useful¬ 
ness  ;  but  whatever  be  our  pursuits,  engagements, 
or  abilities,  it  will  intrench  on  no  time,  require 
no  specific  call,  interfere  with  no  duty,  to  sub¬ 
due  our  perverse  will.  Though  the  most  severe 
of  all  duties,  it  infringes  on  no  other,  but  will  be 
the  more  effectually  fulfilled  by  the  very  diffi¬ 
culties  attending  on  other  pursuits  and  engage¬ 
ments. 

We  are  so  fond  of  having  our  own  will,  that 
jf  is  astonishing  we  do  not  oftener  employ  it  for 
our  own  good  ;  for  our  inward  peace  is  augment¬ 
ed  in  exact  proportion  as  our  repugnance  to  the 
Divine  will  diminishes.  Were  the  conquest 
over  the  one  complete,  the  enjoyment  of  the  other 
would  be  perfect.  But  the  Holy  Spirit  does  not 
assume  Ids  emphatical  title,  the  coMFOiiTF.a,  till 
his  previous  offices  have  operated  on  the  heart, 
ill  he  has  ‘reproved  us  of  sin,  df  righteousness, 
of  judgment.’ 

God  makes  use  of  methods  inconceivable  to 
■as,  to  bring  ps  to  the  submission  which  we  are 
more  ready  to  request  with  our  lips,  than  to  de¬ 


sire  with  our  hearts.  By  an  imperceptible  ope¬ 
ration  he  is  ever  at  work  for  our  good  ;  he  pro¬ 
motes  it  by  objects  the  most  unlikely.  He  em¬ 
ploys  means  to  our  shallow  views  the  most  im¬ 
probable  to  effect  his  own  gracious  purposes.  In 
every  thing  he  evinces  that  his  thoughts  are  not 
as  our  thoughts.  He  overrules  the  opposition 
of  our  enemies,  the  defection  of  our  friends,  the 
faults  of  our  children — the  loss  of  our  fortune  ae 
well  as  the  disappointments  attending  its  pos¬ 
session — the  unsatisfactoriness  of  pleasures  as 
well  as  the  privation — the  contradiction  of  our 
desires — the  failure  of  plans  which  we  thought 
we  had  concerted,  not  only  with  good  judgment 
but  pure  intentions.  He  makes  us  sensible  of 
our  faults  by  the  mischiefs  they  bring  upon  us  ; 
and  acknowledges  our  blindness  by  extracting 
from  it  consequences  diametrically  opposite  to 
those  which  our  actions  were  intended  to  pro 
duce. 

Our  love  to  God  is  stamped  with  the  same  im 
perfection  with  all  our  other  graces.  If  we  love 
him  at  all,  it  is  as  it  were  traditionally,  heredi¬ 
tary,  professionally  ;  it  is  a  love  of  form  and  not 
of  feeling,  of  education  and  not  of  sentiment,  of 
sense  and  not  of  faith.  It  is  at  best  a  submis¬ 
sion  to  authority,  and  not  an  effusion  of  volunta¬ 
ry  gratitude,  a  conviction  of  the  understanding, 
and  not  a  cordiality  of  the  affections.  We  rather 
assume  we  have  this  grace  than  actually  possess 
it,  we  rather  take  it  for  granted  on  unexamined 
grounds,  than  cherish  it  as  a  principle  from  which 
whatever  good  we  have  must  proceed,  and  from 
which,  if  it  does  not  proceed,  the  principle  does 
not  exist. 

Surely,  says  the  oppugners  of  divine  Provi¬ 
dence  in  considering  the  calamities  inflicted  on 
good  men,  if  God  loved  virtue,  he  would  not  op¬ 
press  the  virtuous.  Surely  Omnipotence  may 
find  a  way  to  make  his  children  good,  without 
making  them  miserable.  But  have  these  casu¬ 
ists  ever  devised  a  means  by  which  men  may  be 
made  good  without  being  made  humble,  or  hap* 
py,  without  being  made  holy,  or  holy  without 
trials  ?  Unapt  scholars  indeed  we  are  in  learn¬ 
ing  the  lessons  taught !  But  the  teacher  is  not 
the  less  perfect  because  of  the  imbecility  of  his 
children. 

If  it  be  the  design  of  Infinite  Goodness  to  dis¬ 
engage  us  from  the  world,  to  detach  us  from 
ourselves,  and  to  purify  us  to  himself,  the  puri¬ 
fication  by  sufferings  seems  the  most  obvious 
method.  The  same  effect  could  not  be  any 
otherwise  produced,  except  by  miracles,  and 
God  is  an  economist  of  his  means  in  grace  as 
well  as  in  nature.  He  deals  out  all  gifts  by 
measure.  His  operation  in  both  is  progressive. 
Successive  events  operate  in  one  case  as  time 
and  age  in  the  other.  As  suns  and  showers  so 
gradually  mature  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  that  the 
growth  is  rather  perpetual  than  perceptible,  so 
God  commonly  carries  on  the  work  of  renova¬ 
tion  in  the  heart  silently  arid  slowly,  by  means 
suitable  and  simple,  though  to  us  imperceptible, 
and  sometimes  unintelligible.  Were  the  plans 
more  obvious,  and  the  process  ostensible,  there 
would  be  no  room  loll  for  the  operations  of  faith, 
no  call  for  the  exercise  of  patience,  no  demand 
for  the  grace  of  humility.  The  road  to  perfec¬ 
tion  IS  tedious  and  suffering,  steep  and  rugged  • 


134 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


our  impatience  would  leap  over  all  the  inter¬ 
vening  space  which  keeps  us  from  it,  rather 
than  climb  it  by  slow  and  painful  steps.  We 
would  fain  be  spared  the  sorrow  and  shame  of 
our  own  errors,  of  all  their  vexatious  obstruc¬ 
tions,  all  their  dishonourable  impediments.  VVe 
would  be  completely  good  and  happy  at  once 
without  pasaing  through  the  stages  and  grada¬ 
tions  which  lead  to  goodness  and  happiness. 
We  require  an  instantaneous  transformation 
which  costs  us  nothing  ;  the  Spirit  of  God  works 
by  a  gradual  process  which  costs  us  much.  We 
would  combine  his  favour  with  our  self-indul¬ 
gence  ;  we  would  be  spared  the  trials  he  has  ap¬ 
pointed  without  losing  the  felicity  he  has  pro¬ 
mised.  We  complain  of  the  severity  of  the  ope¬ 
ration,  but  the  operation  would  not  be  so  severe, 
if  the  disease  did  not  lie  so  deep. 

Besides,  the  afflictions  which  God  appoints, 
are  not  seldom  sent  to  save  us  from  those  we 
should  bring  on  ourselves,  and  which  might 
have  added  guilt  to  misery. — He  threatens,  but 
it  is  that  he  may  finally  save.  If  ‘  punishment 
is  his  strange,’  it  is  also  his  necessary  ‘  works.’ 
Even  in  the  sorest  affliction,  the  loss  of  those  we 
love,  there  may  be  a  mercy  impenetrable  to  us. 
— God  has,  perhaps,  laid  up  for  us  in  heaven 
that  friend  whom  he  might  have  lost  in  eternity, 
had  he  been  restored  to  our  prayers  here.  But 
if  the  affliction  be  not  improved,  it  is,  indeed  un¬ 
speakable  heavy.  If  the  loss  of  our  friend  does 
not  help  to  detach  us  from  the  world,  we  have 
the  calamity  v/ithout  the  indemnification ;  we 
are  deprived  of  our  treasure  without  any  advan¬ 
tage  to  ourselves.  If  the  loss  of  him  we  loved 
does  not  make  us  more  earnest  to  secure  our 
salvation,  we  may  lose  at  once  our  friend  and 
our  soul. — To  endure  the  penalty  and  lose  the 
profit,  is  to  be  emphatically  miserable. 

Sufferings  arc  the  only  relics  of  the  true  cross, 
and  when  Divine  grace  turns  them  to  our  spiri¬ 
tual  good,  they  almost  •  perform  the  miracles 
which  blind  superstition  ascribes  to  the  false 
one.  God  mercifully  takes  from  us  what  we 
have  not  courage  to  offer  him  ;  but  if,  when  he 
resumes  it,  he  sanctifies  the  loss,  let  us  not  re¬ 
pine.  It  was  his  while  it  was  ours.  He  was  the 
proprietor  while  we  wore  the  possessors. 

Though  we  profess  a  general  readiness  to 
submit  to  the  Divine  will,  there  is  nothing  in 
which  we  are  more  liable  to  illusion.  Self-love 
is  a  subtle  casuist.  We  invent  distinctions.  We 
too  critically  discriminate  between  afflictions 
which  proceed  more  immediately  from  God,  and 
disappointments  which  come  from  the  world. 
To  the  former  we  acknowledge,  in  words  at 
least,  our  willingness  to  submit.  In  the  latter, 
though  equally  his  dispensation,  we  seem  to  feel 
justified  in  refusing  to  acquiesce.  God  does  not 
desire  us  to  inflict  punishments  on  ourselves,  he 
only  expects  us  to  bear  with  patience  those  he 
inflicts  on  us,  whether  they  come  more  imme¬ 
diately  from  himself  or  through  the  medium  of 
his  creatures. 

Love  being  the  root  of  obedience,  it  is  no  test 
of  that  obedience,  if  we  obey  God  only  in  things 
which  do  not  cross  our  inclinations,  while  we 
disobey  him  in  things  that  are  repugnant  to 
them.  Not  to  obey  except  when  it  costs  us  no¬ 
thing  is  rather  to  please  ourselves  than  God,  for 


it  is  evident  we  should  disobey  him  in  these  also 
if  the  allurement  were  equally  powerful  in  these 
cases  as  in  the  others.  We  may,  indeed,  plead 
an-  apology  that  the  command  we  resist  is  of 
less  importance  than  that  with  which  we  com¬ 
ply  ;  but  this  is  a  false  excuse,  for  the  aulhoritjr 
which  enjoins  the  least,  is  the  same  with  that 
which  commands  the  greatest ;  and  it  is  the  au¬ 
thority  by  which  we  are  to  submit,  as  much  as 
to  the  command. 

There  is  a  passage  in  St.  Luke  which  does 
not  seem  to  be  always  brought  to  bear  on  this 
point  as  fully  as  it  ought :  ‘  unless  a  man  for 
sake  all  that  he  hath,  he  cannot  be  ray  disciple.' 
This  does  not  seem  to  be  quite  identical  with 
the  command  in  another  place,  that  a  man  should 
‘  sell  all  that  he  has,’  &.c.  When  the  Christian 
world  indeed  was  in  its  infancy,  the  literal  re¬ 
quisition  in  both  cases  was  absolutely  necessary. 
But  it  appears  to  be  a  more  liberal  interpreta¬ 
tion  of  the  command,  as  ‘  forsaking,’  all  that  we 
have,  extends  to  a  full  and  entire  consecration 
of  ourselves  to  God,  a  dedication  without  reserve, 
not  of  fortune  only,  but  of  every  desire,  every 
faeulty,  every  inclination,  every  talent ;  a  resig¬ 
nation  of  the  whole  will,  a  surrender  of  the  whole 
soul.  It  is  this  surrender  wdiich  alone  sanctifies 
our  best  actions.  It  is  this  pure  oblation,  this 
offering  of  unshared  affection,  this  unmaimed 
sacrifice,  which  is  alone  acceptable  to  God, 
through  that  full,  perfect,  and  sufficient  sacra- 
fice,  oblation,  and  satisfaction  made  for  the  sins 
of  the  whole  world.  Our  money  he  will  not  ac¬ 
cept  without  our  good  will,  our  devotions  with¬ 
out  our  affections,  our  services  without  our 
hearts.  Like  the  prevaricating  pair,  whose  du¬ 
plicity  was  punished  by  instant  death,  whatever 
we  keep  baek  will  annihilate  the  value  of  what 
we  bring,  It  will  be  nothing  if  it  be  not  alt  * 


CHAP.  V. 

On  Parable. 

It  is  obvious,  that  the  reason  w'hy  mankind, 
in  general,  are  so  much  delighted  with  allegory 
and  metaphor,  is,  because  they  are  so  propor¬ 
tioned  to  our  senses,  those  first  inlets  of  ideas. 
Ideas  gained  by  the  senses  quickly  pass  into  the 
region  of  the  imagination ;  and  from  thence, 
more  particularly  the  illiterate  and  uninformed, 
fetch  materials  for  the  employment  of  their  rea 
son. 

Little  reaches  the  understanding  of  the  mass 
but  through  this  medium.  Their  minds  are  not 
fitted  for  the  reception  of  abstract  truth.  Dry 
argumentative  instruction,  therefore,  is  not  pro¬ 
portioned  to  their  capacity;  the  faculty  by  which 
a  right  conclusion  is  drawn,  is,  in  them  the  most 
defective;  they  rather  feel  strongly  than  judge 
accurately  :  and  their  feelings  are  awakened  by 
the  impression  made  on  their  senses. 

The  connexion  of  these  remarks  with  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  instruction  by  parable,  is  obvious.  It  is 
the  nature  of  parable  to  open  the  doctrine  which 
it  professes  to  conceal.  By  engaging  attention 

*  Acts,  chap,  v. 


riliS.  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


135 


and  exciting'  curiosity,  it  developes  truth  with 
more  effect  than  by  a  more  explicit  exposition. 
By  laying  hold  on  the  imaginations,  parable  in¬ 
sinuates  itself  into  the  affections,  and,  by  the  in¬ 
tercommunication  of  the  faculties,  the  under¬ 
standing  is  made  to  apprehend  the  truth  which 
was  proposed  to  the  fancy. 

There  is  commonly  found  sufficient  rectitude 
of  judgment  in  the  generality  to  decide  fairly  on 
any  point  within  their  reach  of  mind,  if  the  de¬ 
cision  neither  opposes  their  interest  nor  inter¬ 
feres  with  their  prejudice.  If  you  can  separate 
the  truth  from  any  personal  concern  of  their  own, 
their  verdict  will  probably  be  just :  but  if  their 
views  are  clouded  by  passion,  or  biassed  by  self¬ 
ishness,  that  man  must  possess  a  more  than  or¬ 
dinary  degree  of  integrity  who  decides  against 
himself  and  in  favour  of  what  is  right. 

In  the  admirably  devised  parable  of  Nathan, 
David’s  eager  condemnation  of  the  unsuspected 
offender  is  a  striking  instance  of  the  delusion 
of  sin  and  the  blindness  of  self-love.  He  who 
had  lived  a  whole  year  in  the  unrepented  com¬ 
mission  of  one  of  the  blackest  crimes  of  the  de¬ 
calogue,  and  who  to  secure  to  himself  the  ob¬ 
ject  for  which  he  had  committed  it,  perpetrated 
another  almost  more  heinous,  and  that  with  an 
hypocrisy  foreign  to  his  character,  could  in  an 
instant  denounce  death  on  the  imaginary  offend¬ 
er  for  a  fault  comparatively  trifling.  The  vehe¬ 
mence  of  his  resentment  even  overstepped  the 
limits  of  his  natural  justice,  in  decreeing  a  pu¬ 
nishment  disproportioned  to  the  crime,  while  he 
remained  dead  to  his  own  deep  delinquency.  A 
pointed  parable  instantly  surprised  him  into  the 
most  bitter  self-reproach.  A  direct  accusation 
might  have  inflamed  him  before  he  was  thus 
prepared ;  and,  in  the  one  case,  he  might  have 
punished  the  accuser,  by  whom,  in  the  other,  he 
w'as  brought  to  the  deepest  self-abasement.  The 
prudent  prophet  did  not  rashly  reproach 'the 
king  with  the  crime  he  wished  him  to  condemn, 
but  placed  the  fault  at  such  a  distance,  and  in 
such  a  proper  point  of  view,  that  he  first  pro¬ 
cured  his  impartial  judgment,  and  afterwards 
his  self-condemnation.  An  important  lesson,  not 
only  to  the  offender,  but  to  the  reprover. 

He  ‘  who  knew  what  was  in  man,’  and  who 
intended  bis  religion,  not  for  a  few  critics  to  ar¬ 
gue  upon,  but  for  a  whole  world  to  act  upon, 
frequently  adopted  the  mode  of  instructing  by 
allegory.  Though  he  sometimes  condescended 
to  unveil  the  hidden  sense,  by  disclosing  the 
moral  meaning,  in  some  short,  but  most  signifi¬ 
cant  comment;  yet  he  usually  left  the  applica¬ 
tion  to  those  whom  he  meant  to  benefit  by  the 
doctrine.  The  truth  which  spoke  strongly  to 
their  prejudices,  by  the  veil  in  which  it  was 
wrapped,  spared  the  shame  while  it  conveyed 
the  instruction,  and  they  probably  found  a  gra¬ 
tification  in  the  ingenuity  of  their  own  solution 
w'hich  contributed  to  reconcile  them  to  the 
sharpness  of  the  reproof. 

The  most  unjust  and  prejudiced  of  the  Jews 
were,  by  this  wise  management  frequently 
drawn  in  to  give  an  unconscious  testimony 
against  themselves ;  this  was  especially  the  case 
in  the  instance  of  the  householder  and  his  ser¬ 
vants.  Had  the  truth  they  wore  led  to  deduce  i 
from  this  parable,  been  presented  in  the  offen¬ 


sive  form  of  a  direct  charge,  it  would  have  fired 
them  with  inexpressible  indignation. 

Christians  who  abound  in  zeal,  but  are  defec¬ 
tive  in  knowledge  and  prudence,  would  do  well 
to  remember,  that  discretion  made  a  remarka¬ 
ble,  though  not  disproportionate  part  of  the  Re¬ 
deemer’s  character  ;  he  never  invited  attack  by 
imprudence,  or  provoked  hostility  by  intemper¬ 
ate  rashness.  When  argument  was  not  listened 
to,  when  persuasion  was  of  no  avail,  when  even 
all  his  miracles  of  mercy  were  misrepresented, 
and  his  divine  beneficence  throwm  away,  so  that 
all  farther  attempts  to  do  good  were  unavailing, 
he  withdrew  to  another  place  ;  there,  indeed,  to 
experience  the  same  malignity,  there  to  exercise 
the  same  compassion. 

The  divine  Aathor  of  our  religion  gave  also 
the  example  of  teaching  not  only  by  parable,  but 
by  simple  propositions,  detached  truths,  pointed 
interrogations,  positive  injunctions,  and  inde¬ 
pendent  prohibitions,  rather  than  by  elaborate 
and  continuous  dissertation.  He  instructed  not 
only  by  consecutive  arguments,  but  by  invita¬ 
tions,  and  dissuasives  adapted  to  the  feelings, 
and  intelligible  to  the  apprehensions  of  his  au¬ 
dience.  He  drew  their  attention  by  popular  il¬ 
lusions,  delighted  it  by  vivid  representations, 
and  fixed  it  by  reference  to  actual  events.  He 
alluded  to  the  Galileans,  crushed  by  the  falling 
tower,  which  they  remembered — to  local  scene¬ 
ry — the  vines  of  Gethsemane,  which  they  beheld, 
while  he  was  descanting  respectively  upon  re¬ 
pentance,  and  upon  himself,  as  the  ‘  true  vine.’ 
By  these  simple,  but  powerful  and  suitable  me¬ 
thods,  he  brought  their  daily  habits,  and  every 
day  ideas,  to  run  in  the  same  channel  with  their 
principles  and  their  duties,  and  made  every  ob¬ 
ject  with  which  they  were  surrounded  contri¬ 
bute  its  contingent  to  their  instruction. 

The  lower  ranks,  who  most  earnestly  sought 
access  to  his  person,  could  form  a  tolerable  ex¬ 
act  judgment  on  the  things  he  taught,  by  the 
aptness  of  his  allusions  to  what  they  saw,  and 
felt,  and  heard.  The  humble  situation  he  as¬ 
sumed,  also,  prevented  their  being  intimidated 
by  power,  or  influenced  bjr  authority.  It  at 
once  made  their  attendance  a  voluntary  act,  and 
their  assent  an  unbiassed  conviction.  'The  ques¬ 
tions  proposed  with  a  simple  desire  of  instruc¬ 
tion,  were  answered  with  condescending  kind¬ 
ness  ;  those  dictated  by  curiosity  or  craft,  w'ere 
repelled  with  wisdom,  or  answered,  not  by  gra¬ 
tifying  importunity,  but  by  grafting  on  the  re¬ 
ply  some  higher  instruction  than  the  inquirer 
had  either  proposed  or  desired.  Where  a  direct 
answer  would,  by  exciting  prejudice,  have  im¬ 
peded  usefulness,  he  evaded  the  particular  ques¬ 
tion  by  enforcing  from  it  some  general  truth. 
On  the  application  of  the  man  whose  brother 
had  refused  to  divide  the  inheritance  with  him 
— in  declining  to  interfere  judicially,  he  gave  a 
great  moral  lecture  of  universal  use  against  ava¬ 
rice,  while  he  prudently  avoided  the  subject  of 
particular  litigation. 

His  answer  to  the  entangling  question,  ‘And 
wlio  is  my  neighbour  ?’  suggested  tlic  instruc¬ 
tive  illustration  of  the  duty  to  a  neighbour,  m 
that  brief,  but  highly  finished  apologue  of  the 
good  Samaritan.  The  Jews,  who  would  never 
have  owned  that  a  Samaritan  was  their  neigh 


136 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


bour,  were,  by  this  pious  management,  drawn 
in  to  acknowledge,  that  every  man,  without  re¬ 
gard  to  country,  who  was  even  of  a  hostile  coun¬ 
try,  if  he  needed  their  assistance,  was  their 
neighbour.  In  this  slight  outline,  three  charac¬ 
ters  are  sketched  with  so  much  spirit  and  dis¬ 
tinctness,  that,  as  Mr.  Boyle  says  of  Scripture 
truths  in  general,  they  resemble  those  portraits, 
whose  eyes,  every  one  who  enters  the  room,  fan¬ 
cies  are  fixed  on  him. 

False  zeal,  which  he  generally  found  associ¬ 
ated  with  pride  and  hypocrisy,  was  almost  the 
only  vice  which  extorted  from  him  unmitigated 
severity :  if  he  sometimes  corrected  presump¬ 
tion  and  repelled  malicious  inquisitiveness,  he 
uniformly  encouraged  distress  to  approach,  and 
penitence  to  address  him.  The  most  indirect 
of  his  instructions  inculcated  or  encouraged 
goodness.  The  most  simple  of  his  reasonings 
were  irrefragable  without'  the  formality  of  syllo¬ 
gism  ;  and  his  brief,  but  powerful  persuasions 
went  straight  to  the  heart,  which  the  most  ela¬ 
borate  discussions  might  have  left  unmoved. — 
Every  hearer,  however  illiterate,  would  at  once 
seize  his  meaning,  except  those  who  found  them¬ 
selves  interested  in  not  understanding  it ;  every 
spectator,  ‘  if  they  believed  not  him,  would  be¬ 
lieve  his  works,’  if  pride  had  not  blinded  their 
eyes,  if  prejudice  had  not  barred  up  their  hearts. 

Thus,  if  in  the  Gospels,  the  great  doctrines 
of  religion  are  not  always  conveyed  in  a  didac¬ 
tic  form,  or  linked  with  logical  arrangement, 
some  important  truth  meets  us  at  every  turn,  is 
held  out  in  some  brief  sentence ;  some  hint  is 
dropped  that  may  awaken,  recal,  quicken,  or 
revive  perpetual  attention.  The  same  spirit 
pervades  every  part;  we  are  reminded  without 
being  fatigued ;  and,  whatever  is  the  point  to 
be  pressed,  some  informing,  alarming,  or  con¬ 
soling  doctrine  is  extracted  from  it,  or  grows 
out  of  it. 

The  Scriptures,  however,  are  so  far  from  set¬ 
ting  aside  the  use  of  reason,  that  all  their  pre¬ 
cepts  are  addressed  to  it.  If  they  are  delivered 
in  a  popular  manner,  and  often  in  independent 
maxims,  or  reason,  by  combining  them  method¬ 
izes  the  detached  passages  into  a  perfect  sys- 
tern ;  so  that  by  a  combination,  which  it  is  in 
the  power  of  every  intelligent  reader  to  make, 
a  complete  rule  of  practice  is  collected.  The 
scattered  precepts  are  embodied  in  examples 
illustrated  by  figures,  and  exemplified  by  para¬ 
bles. — These  always  suppose  the  mind  of  the 
hearer  to  be  possessed  of  a  certain  degree  of 
common  knowledge,  without  which  the  proposed 
instruction  would  be  unintelligible.  For,  if  the 
Gospel  does  not  address  its  disciples  as  if  they 
were  philosophers  and  mathematicians,  it  always 
supposes  them  to  posse.ss  plain  sense  and  ordi¬ 
nary  information ;  to  have  acquaintance  with 
human,  if  not  with  elevated  life.  The  allusions 
and  imagery  with  which  it  abounds  would  have 
been  superfluous  if  the  hearers  had  not  been 
previously  acquainted  with  the  objects  and  cir- 
cumstances  to  which  the  image  is  referred,  from 
which  the  parallel  is  drawn,  to  which  the  allu¬ 
sion  is  mad  ; 

Our  hea?  ;nr/  tV.tnci  in  his  offers  of  illumi¬ 
nation,  d  we  should  open  our  men¬ 

tal  eves  :o  tms  £;u]ioriaduced  light,  williout 


opening  our  understandings  to  natural  and  ra¬ 
tional  information,  but  expects  that  we  should 
apply  the  faculties  bestowed,  to  the  objects  pro 
posed  to  them.  We  put  ourselves,  therefore,  in 
the  fairest  way  of  obtaining  his  assistance,  when 
we  most  diligently  use  all  the  means  and  mate¬ 
rials  he  has  given  us ;  comparing  together  his 
works  and  his  word  ;  not  setting  up  our  under¬ 
standing  against  his  revelation,  but,  with  deep 
humility,  applying  the  one  to  enable  us  to  com¬ 
prehend  the  other ;  not  extinguishing  our  facul¬ 
ties,  but  our  pride ;  not  laying  our  understand¬ 
ing  asleep,  but  casting  it  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 
We  have  dwelt  on  this  point  the  more,  frons 
having  observed,  that  some  religious  p)ersons 
are  apt  to  speak  with  contempt  of  great  natural 
endowments  as  if  they  were  not  the  gift  of  God, 
but  of  some  inferior  pwwer :  the  prudently  pious, 
on  the  other  hand,  while  they  use  them  to  the 
end  for  which  they  were  conferred,  keep  them 
in  due  subordination,  and  restrict  them  to  their 
proper  office.  Abilities  are  the  gift  of  God,  and 
next  to  his  grace,  though  with  an  immense  in¬ 
terval,  his  best  gift ;  but  are  never  so  truly  esti¬ 
mable  as  when  they  are  dedicated  to  promote 
his  glory. 

Our  heavenly  Instructor,  still  more  to  accom¬ 
modate  his  parables  to  the  capacities  of  his  au¬ 
dience,  adopted  the  broad  line  of  instruction 
conveyed  under  a  few  strong  features  of  general 
parallel,  a  few  leading  points  of  obvious  coinci¬ 
dence,  without  attending  to  petty  exactnesses  or 
stooping  to  trivial  niceties  of  correspondence. 
We  are  not,  therefore,  to  hunt  after  minute  re¬ 
semblances,  nor  to  cavil  at  slight  discrepancies. 
Wo  should  rather  imitate  his  example,  by  con¬ 
fining  our  illustration  to  the  more  important 
circumstances  of  likeness  instead  of  raising 
such  as  are  insignificant  into  undue  distinction. 
— This  critical  elaboration,  this  amplifying 
mode,  which  ramifies  a  general  idea  into  all  the 
minutiffi  of  parallel,  would  only  serve  to  divert 
the  attention,  and  split  it  into  so  many  divisions, 
that  the  main  object  would  be  lost  sight  of. 

The  author  once  heard  a  sermon  which  had 
for  its  text  ‘Ye  are  the  salt  of  the  earth.’  The 
preacher,  a  really  good  man,  but  wanting  this, 
discretion,  not  contented  with  a  simple  applica¬ 
tion  of  the  figure,  instead  of  a  general  allusion 
to  the  powerfully  penetrating  and  correcting  na 
turo  of  this  mineral,  instead  of  observing  that 
salt  was  used  in  all  the  ancient  sacrifices,  in¬ 
dulged  himself  in  a  wide  range,  chemical  and 
culinary,  of  all  the  properties  of  salt,  devoting  a 
separate  head  to  each  quality.  A  long  discus¬ 
sion  on  its  antiseptic  properties,  its  solution  and 
neutralization,  led  to  rather  a  luxurious  exhibi¬ 
tion  of  the  relishes  it  communicates  to  various 
viands.  On  the  wliole,  the  discourse  seemed 
better  adapted  fbr  an  audience  composed  of  the 
authors  of  the  Pharmacopoeia,  or  a  society  of 
cooks,  than  for  a  plain  untechnical  congregation. 

But  to  return.  Who  can  reflect  without  ad¬ 
miration  on  the  engaging  variety  with  which 
the  great  Teacher  labours  to  impress  every  im¬ 
portant  truth  ?  Whenever  different  aspects  of 
the  same  doctrine  were  likely  still  more  forcibly 
to  seize  the  attention,  still  more  deeply  to  touch 
the  heart,  still  more  powerfully  to  awaken  the 
conscience,  be  does  not  content  himself  with  a. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


]37 


single  allegory.  lu  his  awful  e.xhibition  of 
the  inestimable  value  of  an  immortal  soul,  he 
does  not  coolly  describe  the  repentance  of  a 
single  sinner  as  viewed  with  complacency  by 
the  highest  order  of  created  intelligences,  but 
as  adding  ‘joy’  to  bliss  already  perfected  in  im¬ 
mortality.  He  does  not  limit  his  instruction  to 
one  metaphorical  illustration  of  the  delight  of 
the  heavenly  hosts,  but  extends  it  to  three, 
finishing  the  climax  by  that  most  endearing  and 
touching  of  all  moral  and  allegorical  pictures, 
the  restoration  pf  the  prodigal  to  his  father’s 
love. 

But  this  triple  use  of  the  same  species  of 
allegory — each  instance  rising  above  the  other, 
in  beauty  and  in  force,  each  adding  fresh  weight 
to  one  momentous  point — he  most  emphatically 
employs  in  the  last  discourse  previous  to  his 
final  suffering ;  wo  mean  in  his  sublime  illustra¬ 
tion  of  the  solemnities  of  the  last  day,  in  three 
successive  parables  all  tending  to  impress  the 
same  awful  truth. 

As  he  well  knew  every  accessible  point  of 
the  human  heart,  so  there  was  none  which  he 
did  not  touch.  But  the  grand  circumstance 
which  carried  his  instruction  so  directly  home  to 
the  hearts  and  consciences  of  men,  was,  that  he 
not  only  taught,  but  ‘  did  all  things  well.’  His 
doctrines  were  so  digested  into  his  life,  his  in¬ 
structions  so  melted  into  his  practice,  that  it 
rendered  goodness  visible  as  well  as  perfect; 
and  these  analogies  and  resemblances  were  not 
only  admirably,  but  uniformly  correspondent. 
He  did  not  content  himself  like  those  heathen 
philosophers,  to  whose  affable  conduct  in  society 
that  of  the  blessed  Redeemer  has  lately  been  so 
impiously  compared,  (though  their  motives  dif¬ 
fered,  as  much  as  the  desire  of  converting  sin¬ 
ners  differs  from  delighting  in  them,)  with  ex¬ 
hibiting  systems  without  morals,  and  a  rule 
without  a  pattern,  but  the  purity  and  perfection 
of  his  divine  character  gave  light  to  knowledge, 
and  life  to  document. 


CHAP.  VI. 

On  the  parable  of  the  Talents. 

Odr  Lord’s  parables  had  been  sometimes  in¬ 
dicative  of  existing  circumstances  ;  sometimes 
predictive  of  events  which  related  to  futurity. 
After  having,  in  his  preceding  allegories,  by 
practical  lessons,  encouraged  the  prepared  and 
exhorted  the  unprepared,  to  look  for  the  king¬ 
dom  of  God,  he  closed  his  parabolical*  instruc¬ 
tions  by  an  awful  exhibition  of  their  fitness  or 
unfitness  for  that  everlasting  kingdom ;  in  which 
he  unfolds  what  their  condition  will  be,  when 
all  mystery,  all  instruction,  all  preparation,  shall 
be  at  an  end ;  when  every  act  of  every  being 
shall  be  laid  as  bare  before  the  eyes  of  the 
whole  assembled  world,  as  it  was  seen  in  its 
commission  by  his,  from  whom  nothing  is  hid. 
The  last  of  these  three  prophetic  scenes  is  in¬ 
deed  not  so  much  a  parable  as  a  picture  ;  not  so 
much  an  allegory  as  a  literal  representation : 
the  solemn  reality  rises  above  all  figure,  and 
♦  See  Matthew  ixv. 


could  never  have  been  so  forcibly  conveyed  as 
by  this  plain,  yet  most  sublime  delineation. 

The  conclusion  immediately  to  be  drawn 
from  the  seeond  of  these  parables,  the  Parable 
of  the  Talents,  is,  that  we  have  nothing  that  is 
properly  our  own,  nothing  that  is  underived 
from  God.  Every  talent  is  a  deposit  placed  in 
our  hands,  not  for  our  exclusive  benefit,  but  for 
the  good  of  others.  Whatever  we  possess  which 
may  either  be  improved  to  God’s  glory  or  per¬ 
verted  to  his  dishonour,  comes  within  the  de¬ 
scription  of  a  talent.  To  use  any  of  our  pos¬ 
sessions,  therefore,  as  if  we  had  an  independent 
right  to  the  disposal  of  them,  is  to  usurp  the  pre¬ 
rogative  of  the  Giver.  Many,  it  is  to  he  feared, 
wilt  wait  till  that  great  disclosing  day  which 
will  throw  a  blaze  of  light  on  alt  motives,  as 
well  as  all  actions,  before  they  will  be  convinced 
of  the  fallacy  of  that  popular  maxim,  that  a 
man  may  do  what  he  will  with  his  own.  He 
has  indeed  a  full  right  to  his  proprietorship  with- 
respect  to  other  men,  but,  with  respect  to  God, 
he  will  find  he  had  no  exclusive  property. 
Whatever  portion  of  his  possessions  conscience 
ought  to  have  turned  over  from  vanity  to  charity, 
from  sensuality  to  piety,  he  may  find  too  late, 
was  not  his  own,  but  his  who  gave  it  him  for 
other  purposes. 

God  proportions  his  requisitions  to  his  gifts. 
The  one  is  regulated  by  the  measure  of  the 
other.  As  duties  and  obligations  are  peculiar 
and  personal,  we  are  not  to  trench  on  the  sphere 
of  others.  It  is  of  our  own  talent,  we  must 
render  our  own  account.  A  capacity,  however 
to  know  our  duty,  and  to  love  and  serve  God,  as 
they  are  indiscriminately  bestowed,  so  the  in¬ 
quiry  into  the  use  made  of  them  will  be  univer¬ 
sal,  while  the  reward  or  punishment  will  be  in¬ 
dividually  assigned. 

Deficiency  and  excess  are  the  Scylla  and 
Charybdis  between  which  we  seldom  steer 
safely.  If  our  talents  are  splendid,  we  are  sub- 
ject  to  err  on  the  side  of  display  ;  if  mean,  to¬ 
tally  to  suppress  their  exercise,  apologizing  for 
our  indolence  by  our  insignificance ;  hut  medi¬ 
ocrity  of  talents  is  as  insufficient  an  excuse  for 
sloth,  as  superior  genius  is  for  vanity.  The 
true  way  would  be,  to  exercise  the  brightest 
faculties  with  humility,  and  the  most  incon¬ 
siderable  with  fidelity.  The  faithful  and  highly 
gifted  servants  in  the  parable,  it  is  apparent, 
were  so  far  from  being  lifted  into  pride,  or  se¬ 
duced  into  negligence,  by  the  greater  impor 
tance  of  the  trust  committed  to  them,  that  they 
considered  the  largeness  of  their  agency  as  an 
augmentation  of  their  responsibility. —  They 
did  the  will  of  their  lord  without  condition¬ 
ing  or  debating.  Their  slothful  associate,  in¬ 
stead  of  doing  it,  contented  himself  with  argu¬ 
ing  about  it.  He  who  disputed  much,  had  done 
nothing :  he  should  have  known  that  Christi¬ 
anity  is  not  a  matter  of  debate,  but  of  obedience. 

Thoro  is  no  one  doctrine  of  Holy  Scripture 
either  insignificant  or  merely  theoretical.  That 
which  the  parable  teaches,  is  liighly  and  special¬ 
ly  practical.  The  instruction  to  be  deduced 
from  it,  is  as  extensive  as  the  gifts  of  God  to  his 
creatures,  as  the  obligations  of  man  to  his  bene¬ 
factor.  It  is  most  especially  practical,  os  it 
designates  this  world  to  be  a  scone  of  business,. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


■:J38 

action,  exertion,  diligence.  It  inculcates  the 
high  and  complicated  duty  of  laying  out  our¬ 
selves  for  the  glory  of  our  Maker,  and  the  ex¬ 
ercise  of  an  implicit  obedience  to  his  will.  God 
has  not  given  us  the  command  to  work,  without 
furnishing  us  with  instruments  with  which  to 
labour,  and  suitable  materials  to  work  upon. 
Our  talents,  such  as  riches,  power,  injluence, 
wisdom,  learning,  time,  are  those  instruments. 
The  wants,  helplessness,  and  ignorance  of  man¬ 
kind,  are  the  objects  to  which  these  instruments 
are  to  be  applied.  These  talents  are  bestowed 
in  various  proportions,  as  to  their  value,  as  well 
as  in  different  degrees,  as  to  the  quantity  and 
number.  He  who  is  favoured  with  more  abun¬ 
dant  endowments,  should  mix  with  his  grati¬ 
tude  for  the  gift,  an  abiding  sense  of  his  own 
greater  accountableness.  He  who  is  slenderly 
furnished,  should  never  plead  that  the  inferiority 
of  his  trust  is  an  excuse  for  his  negligence. 
The  conviction  that  the  Great  Master  will  not 
exact  beyond  the  proportion  of  his  gift,  though 
an  encouragement  to  those  whom  his  provi¬ 
dence  has  placed  in  a  narrow  sphere  of  useful¬ 
ness,  is  no  discharge  from  their  diligence.  Is 
it  reasonable,  that  he  who  has  less  to  do,  should 
therefore  do  nothing .?  When  little  is  expected 
from  us,  not  to  do  that  little  enhances  the  crime  ; 
and  it  aggravates  the  ingratitude,  when  we 
convert  our  master’s  more  moderate  demands 
into  a  pretence  for  absolute  supineness. 

He  who  is  not  called  upon  to  relieve  the  ne¬ 
cessities,  or  to  enlighten  the  ignorance  of  others, 
has  still  a  weighty  work  upon  his  hands :  he 
has  the  care  of  his  own  soul.  If  he  is  de- 
ffeient  in  learning,  and  natural  abilities — if 
he  has  little  credit,  and  less  of  fortune,  he 
probably  has  time ;  he  certainly  has  the  means 
of  religious  improvement ;  so  that,  in  this  land 
of  light  and  knowledge,  especially  now  that 
universal  instruction  is  happily  become  a  na¬ 
tional  care,  there  is  hardly  such  a  thing  as  in¬ 
nocent  ignorance.  Even  of  the  lowest,  of  the 
least,  a  strict  account  will  be  required.  To 
plead  ignorance  where  they  might  have  been 
taught,  indolence  because  they  had  little  to  do, 
and  negligence,  because  not  much  was  ex¬ 
pected,  is  only  treasuring  up  innumerable  rea¬ 
sons  for  aggravating  their  condemnation. 

It  is  remarkable  that  of  the  several  characters 
exhibited  in  the  parable,  the  least  endowed  was 
the  only  one  punished,  his  neglect  being  every 
way  inexcusable.  A  lasting  and  awful  lesson, 
that  no  inferiority  can  claim  exemption  from 
the  general  law  of  duty.  If  the  right  employ¬ 
ment  of  the  gift  is  an  encouragement  to  the 
poorly  endowed,  as  being  easily  exercised  and 
amply  rewarded  ;  its  abuse  is  an  awakening  call 
to  every  one.  For,  it  is  not  fairly  deducible 
from  this  instance,  that  if  of  those  whose  scale 
in  society  is  low,  whoso  intellectual  powers  are 
mean,  or  whose  fortunes  are  narrow  ;  if  even  of 
such,  a  strict  account  will  be  required,  if  even  in 
these,  mere  deficiency  was  so  harshly  reprobated, 
mere  nullity  was  so  severely  punished — a  sen¬ 
tence  of  most  tremendous  import  must  await 
those  who  employ  rank  and  opulence  to  selfih 
and  corrupt  ends,  or  genius  to  pernicious  pur- 
Doses ;  the  one  debasing  their  own  minds  by 
eensuality,  or  corrupting  others  by  examples  of 


vice  and  prodigality ;  and  the  other  devoting  abi, 
litics  so  great,  with  profligacy  so  notorious,  as  to 
appear  little  less  than  ‘  archangel  ruined,’  and 
drawing  inferior  spirits  into  the  destruction  in 
which  they  have  plunged  themselves. 

But  again : — If  these  several  talents,  indivu 
dually  conferred,  when  employed  to  wrong 
purposes,  or  not  employed  at  all,  will  be  rigor¬ 
ously  punished :  what  sentence  have  they  to 
expect,  in  whom  is  centred  the  splendid  con- 
fluence  of  God’s  gifts?  What  will  be  the 
eternal  anathema  pronounced  on  those  who 
possessed  aggregately  talents,  with  every  one 
of  which,  singly  enjoyed,  they  might  have  ren¬ 
dered  the  world  about  them  better  and  happier  ? 
To  reflect  by  whom  they  were  bestowed,  to  what 
end  designed,  how  they  have  been  used,  and 
what  a  reckoning  awaits  them,  form  a  combi¬ 
nation  of  reflections  too  awful  to  be  dwelt  upon. 
From  the  anticipation  of  such  complicated  woe 
we  turn  with  terror.  The  bare  idea  of  a  pun¬ 
ishment  which  shall  always  torment  and  never 
destroy,  is  insupportable.  Yet  how  many  be¬ 
lieve  this  without  being  influenced  by  the  belief! 
How  many,  by  an  unaccountable  delusion,  re¬ 
fuse  to  conform  their  lives  to  the  injunctions  of 
the  gospel,  while  they  put  their  vices  under  the 
protection  of  its  promises. 

The  parable  informs  us,  that  it  was  ‘  after  a 
long  time,’  that  the  Lord  required  the  account ; 
so  long,  that  the  wicked  think  it  will  never 
comei  and  even  the  good  are  apt  to  persuade 
themselves  that  it  will  not  come  soon.  Let  not 
those  however  who  are  sitting  at  ease  in  their 
possessions,  whether  of  nature  or  of  fortune,  to 
speak  after  the  manner  of  men,  fancy  that  the 
reckoning  which  is  delayed  is  forgotten.  The 
more  protracted  the  account,  the  larger  will  be 
the  sum  total,  and,  of  course,  the  more  severe  the 
requsition.  All  delay,  indeed,  is  an  aet  of  mercy  ; 
but  mercy  neglected,  or  abused,  will  enhance 
punishment  in  proportion  as  it  aggravates  guilt. 

It  is  obvious  that  the  servants  in  the  parable 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  attending  to  their  mcr 
eies.  They  seem  never  to  have  been  unmmd 
fill  of  the  exact  value  of  what  had  been  com¬ 
mitted  to  them,  ‘  Lord,  thou  deliveredst  unto  me 
five  talents.’  If  we  do  not  frequently  enume¬ 
rate  the  mercies  of  God  to  us,  we  shall  be  in 
danger  of  losing  sight  of  the  Giver,  while  we 
are  revelling  in  the  gift;  of  neglecting  the  ap¬ 
plication,  and  forgetting  the  responsibility.  We 
should  recollect  that  his  very  employment  of  us 
is  a  high  mark  of  favour ;  the  use  he  condescends 
to  make  of  us  augments  our  debt,  and  whenever 
he  puts  it  in  our  way  to  serve  him,  he  lays  on 
us  a  fresh  obligation,  and  confers  on  us  an  hon¬ 
ourable  distinction. 

Though  he  that  has  most,  and  does  most,  has 
but  ‘  a  few  things,’  yet  his  remuneration  shall 
be  immense.  It  is  his  fidelity,  and  not  his  suc¬ 
cess  ;  his  zeal  in  improving  occasions,  and  not 
the  number  or  greatness  of  the  occasions,  that 
will  be  rewarded.  There  will  be  an  always 
infinite  disproportion  between  the  work  he  has 
done,  and  the  blessing  attending  it. 

The  expostulation  of  the  unprofitable  servant 
presents  an  awful  lesson  against  distrust  in  God, 
and  fallacious  views  of  his  infinitely  perfec 
character.  The  very  motive  this  false  reasoner 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


139 


produces  in  his  own  vindication,  is  the  strongest 
argument  against  him.  If  he  'knew'  that  his 
lord  was  such  a  rigorous  exacter,  that  \yas  the 
very  reason  why  he  should  not  have  given  in 
such  a  negative  account.  ‘  I  knew  thou  wast  a 
hard  master.’  Could  a  weightier  argument  have 
been  advanced  for  a  directly  different  conduct  ? 
Common  prudence  might  have  taught  him  that, 
with  such  a  master,  his  only  security  was  assi¬ 
duous  industry.  The  want  of  love  of  God  was 
at  the  root  of  this,  as  it  is  of  all  sin. 

How  many  ’isten  to  the  sentence  of  this  un- 
worthy  servant !  How  many  allow  the  equity 
of  this  exclusion,  and  yet  how  few,  comparative¬ 
ly,  ask,  with  the  agitated  Apostles ;  ‘  Lord,  is  it 
I  V  This  simple  question,  honestly  put,  anc 
practically  followed  up,  would  render  all  com¬ 
ment  vain,  all  exhortation  superfluous.  This 
self-application  is  the  great  end  of  the  parable, 
the  great  end  of  Scripture,  the  great  end  of 
preaching,  and  the  only  end  of  hearing. 

But  do  not  too  many  of  us,  like  him  we  are  so 
ready  to  condemn,  conceal  our  self-love  under 
the  assumption  of  modesty,  and  indulge  our 
sloth  under  the  humble  pretence  that  we  have 
no  talent  to  exercise  ?  But  .et  us  be  assured  it 
is  the  deadness  of  our  spiritual  affections,  and 
not  our  mean  opinion  of  ourselves,  that  is  the 
real  cause.  The  service  of  God  is  irksome,  be¬ 
cause  his  commands  interfere  with  our  self-in¬ 
dulgence.  Let  the  lowly  Christian  possessed  of 
but  his  single  talent,  cheer  his  fainting  heart  by 
that  beautifully  condescending  plea,  with  which 
the  compassionate  Saviour  vindicated  the  mo¬ 
dest  penitent,  who  had  no  other  way  of  demon¬ 
strating  her  affeetion,  but  by  pouring  perfumes 
on  his  feet — she  hath  done  what  she  could.  A 
tenderness  of  encouragement,  which,  if  we  con¬ 
sider  by  whom  it  was  uttered,  and  to  whom  ad¬ 
dressed,  must  convey  consolation  to  the  heart 
of  the  most  poorly  endowed  and  self-abasing 
Christian. 

In  giving  in  the  final  account  of  the  use  we 
have  made  of  our  talents,  we  shall  not  only  have 
to  reckon,  for  the  Christian  knowledge  we  really 
acquired,  for  the  progress  we  actually  made  in 
piety,  for  the  good  impressions  we  received  or 
communidated,  but  for  the  higher  degrees  of  all 
which  we  might  have  received  or  imparted,  had 
we,  instead  of  squandering  our  talents  on  infe¬ 
rior  objects,  carried  them  to  the  height  of  which 
they  were  susceptible.  Had  we  acted  up  to  our 
convictions,  had  we  pushed  our  advantages  to 
their  possibilities,  had  we  regularly  pursued 
what  we  eagerly  engaged  in,  had  our  progress 
kept  pace  with  our  resolution,  our  attainments, 
with  our  opportunities,  how  much  more  profita¬ 
ble  servants  we  might  have  been !  But  satis¬ 
fied  to  stop  short  of  great  offences,  we  neglect 
to  itnpress  upon  our  consciences  how  large  a 
portion  of  our  reckoning  will  be  of  a  negative 
character. 

From  natural  feeling,  from  inward  conscious¬ 
ness,  from  the  notices  of  reason,  the  traces  of 
hereditary  opinion,  and  the  analogy  of  things, 
independently  of  Revelation,  we  cannot  avoid 
the  belief  that  we  are  accountable  beings.  Our 
notions  of  right  and  wrong,  of  equity  and  judg¬ 
ment,  our  insuppressible  forebodings,  our  fearful 
anticipations,  the  suggestions  of  natural  con¬ 


science,  all  unite  their  several  forces  to  fasten 
on  the  mind  the  belief  that  we  shall  be  called  to 
a  definite  account.  Our  intelligent  nature,  our 
rational  powers,  our  voluntary  agency,  make  us 
suitable  subjects  of  God’s  moral  government. 
His  wisdom,  power,  omniscience,  rectitude  and 
justice  render  him  supremely  fit  to  be  our  final 
judge,  and  the  dispenser  of  our  eternal  awards. 
But  God,  in  his  infinite  goodness,  has  not,  in 
this  most  important  point,  left  us  to  the  bare 
light  of  unassisted  nature ;  he  has  not  left 
us  to  be  tossed  about  without  rudder,  or  com¬ 
pass,  on  the  boundless  ocean  of  harrassing  con¬ 
jecture.  He  has  not  abandoned  us  to  the  alter- 
nation  of  vain  fears  and  unfounded  hopes ;  to  the 
sickly  suggestions  of  a  troubled  fancy,  the  cruel 
uncertainties  of  doubt,  and  the  cheerless  dark¬ 
ness  of  ignorance.  The  expectation  of  a  day  of 
retribution  is  not  the  gloomy  reverie  of  the  su¬ 
perstitious,  nor  the  wild  vision  of'  the  enthusi¬ 
astic.  He  who  cannot  tie  has  solemnly  assured 
us,  that  he  has  appointed  a  day  in  which  he  will 
judge  the  world  by  that  Man  w'hom  he  has  sent, 
Christ  Jesus. 

The  coming  of  this  great  day,  which  nature 
suspected,  and  reason  allowed.  Scripture  con¬ 
firms.  It  will  at  length  arrive.  The  scrutiny 
so  graphically  e.xhibited  by  our  Lord,  will  be 
realized  in  all  its  pomp  of  terrors.  The  sea  shall 
give  up  its  dead,  and  death  and  hell  shall  deli¬ 
ver  up  the  dead  which  are  in  them,  and  every 
man  shall  be  judged  according  to  his  works. 
And  the  dead,  small  and  great  shall  stand  before 
God,  the  judgment  shall  be  set,  and  the  books 
opened,  and  the  dead  shall  be  judged  out  of  those 
things  which  are  written  in  the  books,  accord¬ 
ing  to  their  works. 

This  universal  examination  into  the  human 
character,  this  critical  dissection  of  the  heart  of 
man,  from  the  first  created  being  to  him  who.- 
shall  be  caught  up  alive  in  the  air  at  Christ’s 
second  coming,  shall  infallibly  take  place. 

Blessed  be  Almighty  forbearance,  it  is  still  in 
the  power  of  every  existing  child  of  Adam  to 
lighten  to  himself  his  apprehensions  of  that  day. 
He  may  do  more  ;  he  may  convert  terror  into 
transport,  by  acting  now  as  if  he  really  believed 
it  would  one  day  come ;  by  acting  as  he  shall 
then  wish  he  had  acted.  If  ‘  the  terrors  of  the 
Lord  persuade  men,’  what  effect  should  his  mer¬ 
cy  produce ;  that  mercy  which  has  given  the 
universal  warning  to  the  whole  human  race  in 
three  lionsentaneous  parables,  exhibited  with  a 
spirit  of  truth  more  resembling  historic  narra¬ 
tive,  than  prophetic  anticipation  !  There  is  not 
one  living  being  who  now  reads  this  page  from 
whom  that  day  is  distant ;  to  some  it  must  be 
very  near ;  to  none  perhaps  nearer,  than  to  her 
who  now  tremblingly  presumes  to  raise  the 
warning  voice  ;  to  her,  to  all,  it  is  tremendously 
awful.  Let  none  of  us,  then,  content  ourselves 
with  a  barren  admiration  of  its  solemnities,  as 
if  it  were  an  affecting  scene  of  a  tragedy,  in¬ 
vented  to  move  the  passions  without  rectifying 
them  ;  to  inspire  terror,  without  quickening  re- 
pentance.  Let  us  not  be  struck  by  it  as  with  a 
wonderful  fact  in  history,  which  involves  the  in- 
torost  of  some  one  country  with  which  we  have 
no  particular  concern  ;  or  of  some  remote  cen¬ 
tury  disconnected  with  that  in  which  our  lot  itt 


140 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


cast.  It  is  the  personal,  the  individual,  the  ever¬ 
lasting  concern  of  every  rational  being  through 
all  the  rolls  of  time,  till  time  shall  be  ho  more. 
It  is  the  final,  unalterable  decision  on  the  fate 
of  every  intelligent,  and,  therefore,  every  ac¬ 
countable  creature,  to  whom  God  has  revealed 
his  will ;  to  whom  he  has  sent  his  Son,  to  whom 
he  has  offered  the  aid  of  his  Spirit. 

No  wonder  that  the  universal  administration 
of  final  justice  shall  be  manifested  in  the  most 
awful  pomp  and  splendor — no  wonder  that  it 
will  be  equally  a  scene  of  anguish  and  of  trans¬ 
port  ;  when  it  will,  on  the  one  hand,  as  much 
(^exceed  the  terrors  of  guilt,  as  it  will,  on  the 
other,  transcend  the  hopes  of  faith — when  the 
eternal  Son  of  the  eternal  Father,  in  the  full 
brightness  of  his  glory,  shall  be  the  judge ;  when 
the  whole  assembled  universe  shall  be  the  sub¬ 
jects  of  judgment — when  not  only  the  deeds  of 
every  life,  but  the  thoughts  of  every  heart,  shall 
be  brought  to  light,  when,  if  we  produce  our 
works,  the  recording  book  will  produce  our  mo¬ 
tives — when  every  saint  who  acted  as  seeing 
Him  who  is  invisible,  shall  not  only  see  but 
share  the  glory  in  which  he  trusted  ;  when  the 
hypocrite  shall  behold  him  whom  he  believed 
without  trusting,  and  mocked  without  deceiving; 
when  the  profligate  shall  witness  the  reality  of 
what  he  feared,  and  the  infidel  shall  feel  the 
certainty  of  what  he  denied. 


CHAP.  VII. 

On  influence,  considered  as  a  Talent. 

It  is  at  best  a  selfish  sort  of  satisfaction,  though 
the  poet  calls  it  a  delightful  one,  to  see  others 
tossed  about  in  a  storm,  yihile  we  are  sitting  in 
security,  rejoicing,  not  because  they  are  in  danger, 
but  because  we  are  safe.  Christianity  instructs 
us  to  improve  on  the  sentiment.  It  teaches  us 
to  extract  not  only  comfort  and  gratification  from 
the  comparison  of  our  happier  lot  with  that  of 
the  less  favoured  ;  but  in  making  the  compari¬ 
son,  it  Teminds  us  to  make  it  with  reference  to 
God,  by  emphatically  asking,  ‘  Who  is  it  that 
maketh  us  to  diflTer  V 

But  if  we  look  around,  not  only  on  the  exter¬ 
nal  but  on  the  moral  and  mental  distinctions 
among  mankind,  and  consider  the  ignorance, 
the  miseries,  and  the  vices  of  others  as  a  ground 
for  our  more  abundant  gratitude  ;  what  sort  of 
feeling  will  be  e.xcited  in  certain  persons  by  a 
sight  and  sense  of  those  miseries,  those  vices, 
and  that  ignorance,  of  which  their  own  influence, 
or  example,  or  neglect  has  been  the  cause  ?  If 
we  see  any  unhappy  whom  wo  might  have  re¬ 
lieved,  any  ignorant  whom  we  ought  to  have  in¬ 
structed,  any  corrupt  whose  corruptions  we  never 
endeavoured  to  reform,  but  whom,  perhaps,  we 
have  contributed  to  make  what  they  are  ;  in 
either  of  these  cases,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive 
any  state  of  mind  less  susceptible  of  comfort, 
any  circumstance'  more  calculated  to  excite 
compunction.  These  instances  may  help  men 
to  a  pretty  just  criterion  by  which  to  judge  of 
their  own  character,  since  it  is  certain  they  never 
felt  any  true  gratitude  for  their  own  mercies,  1 


who  can  look  with  indifterence  on  either  the 
temporal  or  spiritual  distresses  of  others.  And 
if  no  one  ever  truly  mourned  for  his  own  sins 
who  can  be  insensible  to  the  sins  of  those  around 
him,  so  no  one  can  be  earnest  to  promote  his  own 
salvation,  who  neglects  any  fair  opening  of  con¬ 
tributing  to  the  salvation  of  others. 

What  an  appalling  reflection  it  is,  that  at  the 
tremendous  bar,  a  being  already  overwhelmed 
with  the  weight  of  his  own  offences,  may  have 
to  sustain  the  addition  of  the  amazing  and  un¬ 
expected  load  of  all  those,  of  which  he  has  been 
the  cause  in  others  !  What  an  awful  contrast 
will  be  presented  to  the  assembled  universe, 
when  certain  commanding  characters  shall  stand 
forth,  burdened  not  only  with  their  personal 
guilt,  nor  even  with  the  sins  of  their  immediate 
connexions,  but  in  a  certain  measure  with  the 
sins  of  their  age  and  country ;  while  others,  who 
devoted  similar  talents  and  influence  to  opposite 
purposes,  shall  appear  gloriously  surrounded 
with  happy  spirits,  of  whose  felicity  they  have 
been  the  instruments ;  their  shining  crowns 
made  brighter  by  imparted  brightness,  by  good¬ 
ness  which  flourished  under  their  auspices,  by 
virtues  which  were  the  effect  of  their  patronage, 
by  piety  which  v;as  the  fruit  of  their  example. 

Influence  is  a  talent  not  only  of  undefinable 
but  of  universal  extent.  Who  is  there  so  insig¬ 
nificant  as  not  to  have  his  own  circle,  greater  or 
smaller,  made  better  or  worse,  by  his  society, 
his  conduct,  his  counsels  ?  That  presumptuous 
but  common  consolation  of  a  dying  bed,  I  have 
done  no  harm  to  any  one,  is  always  the  fallacious 
refuge  of  such  as  have  done  little  or  no  good. 
Man  is  no  such  neutral  being. 

It  is  not  the  design  of  the  present  considera. 
tions  to  insist  so  much  on  the  more  striking  and 
conspicuous  instances  of  misemployed  influence, 
(for  the  ordinary  state  of  life  does  not  incessant¬ 
ly  call  them  into  action,)  as  on  those  overlooked, 
though  not  unimportant  demands  for  its  exertion, 
which  occur  in  the  every-day  transactions  of 
mankind,  more  especially  among  the  opulent  and 
the  powerful. 

Rank  and  fortune  confer  an  influence  the  most 
commanding.  All  objects  attract  the  more  no¬ 
tice  from  being  placed  on  an  eminence,  and  do 
not  excite  the  less  attention,  because  they  may 
deserve  less  admiration.  In  anticipating  the 
scrutiny  that  will  hereafter  be  made  into  the 
manner  in  which  the  rich  and  great  have  em¬ 
ployed  their  influence,  that  powerful  engine  put 
into  their  hands  for  the  noblest  purposes,  may 
we  not  venture  to  wish  they  had  some  disinte¬ 
rested  friend,  less  anxious  to  please  than  to  serve 
them,  who  would  honestly  as  occasion  might 
offer,  interrogate  them  in  a  manner  something 
like  the  following : — 

‘  Allow  me,  as  a  friend  to  your  immortal  in¬ 
terests,  to  ask  you  a  few  plain  questions.  Has 
your  power  been  uniformly  employed  in  discou¬ 
raging  injustice ;  in  promoting  particular  as 
well  as  general  good  ;  in  countenancing  reli 
gious  as  well  ns  charitable  institutions ;  in  pro¬ 
tecting  the  pious,  as  well  as  in  assisting  the  in¬ 
digent  ?  Has  your  influence  been  conscientious¬ 
ly  exerted  in  vindicating  injured  merit;  has  it 
been  employed  in  defending  insulted  worth 
against  the  indolence  of  tlie  unfeeling,  the  scoru 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


141 


of  the  unworthy,  the  neglect  of  the  unthinking  ? 
Has  it  been  exercised  in  patronizing  modest  ge¬ 
nius,  which  would,  without  your  fostering  hand, 
have  sunk  in  obscurity  ? 

‘  Have  you,  in  the  recommendations  which 
have  been  required  of  you,  had  an  eye  to  the 
suitableness  of  the  candidate  for  the  place,  ra¬ 
ther  than  to  a  provision  for  an  unworthy  appli¬ 
cant,  to  the  injury  of  the  office  ?  And  have  you 
honestly  preferred  the  imperative  claims  of  the 
institution  to  the  solicitations,  or  even  to  the 
wants,  of  the  individual  ?  Have  you  never  load¬ 
ed  a  public,  or  injured  a  private  establishment, 
by  appointing  an  unfit  agent,  because  he  was  a 
burden  on  your  own  hands,  or  a  charge  on  your 
own  purse  ?  Have  you  never  promoted  a  servant 
who  bad  “  wasted  your  goods,”  and  with  whom 
you  parted  for  that  very  reason,  to  the  superin¬ 
tendance  of  a  charity,  or  to  the  management  of 
an  office,  where  you  knew  he  would  have  a 
wider  sphere,  and  a  more  uncontrolled  power, 
of  purloining  public  property,  or  wasting  private 
bounty,  than  in  that  from  which  your  prudence 
had  discharged  him  V 

To  rise  a  step  higher : — ‘  Have  you  never,  if 
intrusted  with  a  patronage  over  that  peculiarly 
sacred  office,  “  which  any  one  may  well  trem¬ 
ble  to  give  or  to  receive,”  been  governed  by  a 
spirit  of  nepotism  in  the  disposal  of  it,  which 
you  perhaps  severely  censure  under  a  certain 
other  establishment  most  obviously  corrupt  ? 
Have  you  never  been  engaged  in  promoting 
men,  who,  from  their  destitution  of  principle, 
are  a  dishonour  to  the  profession  in  which  you 
have  been  raising  them,  or,  by  the  want  of  abi- 
‘lities  are  disqualified  for  it?  Have  you  never 
connived  at  the  preferment  of  the  weak  or  wick¬ 
ed,  to  the  exclusion  of  others  whose  virtues  and 
talents  eminently  fitted  them  for  the  situation? 
Or,  have  you,  rather,  strenuously  laboured  to 
fix  the  nieritorious  in  the  place,  they  were  sp 
qualified  to  fill,  while  you  supplied  the  wants  of 
the  undeserving  or  incompetent  relative  out  of 
your  own  purse  ?  And  have  you  habitually 
rnadc  a  conscience  of  recommending'  adequate 
persons  in  preference  to  the  unworthy  and  the 
unfit,  though  the  latter  belonged  to  your  own 
little  senate,  or  swelled  your  own  large  train  ? 

‘  Have  you  habitually  borne  in  mind  that  im¬ 
portant,  but  disregarded,  maxim,  that  what  you 
do  by  another  is  done  by  yourself ;  and  not  only 
caiefully  avoided  oppression  in  your  own  per¬ 
son,  but,  rising  superior  to  that  selfish  indolence, 
the  bane,  the  grave  of  every  nobler  quality,  have 
you  been  careful  that  your  agents  do  not  exer¬ 
cise  a  tyranny  which  you  yourself  abhor,  but 
which  may  be  carried  on  under  your  name  ? 
Your  ignorance  of  such  injustice  will  be  of  little 
avail,  if,  through  supineness,  you  have  sanction¬ 
ed  abuses  which  vigilance  might  have  prevent¬ 
ed,  or  exertion  punished. 

‘  Have  you  unkindly  denied  access  to  your 
presence  to  the  diffident  solicitor,  who  has  no 
oth%r  channel  to  preferment  but  your  favour ; 
and  if  not  able  to  serve  him,  have  you  softened 
your  refusal  by  feelingly  participating  in  his 
disappointment,  instead  of  aggravating  it  by  re¬ 
fusing  to  see  and  soothe  him,  when  you  could 
do  no  more  ?  Have  you  considered  that,  to  listen 
to  wearisome  applications,  and  pertinacious 


claims,  is  among  the  drav/backs  of  comfort  ne¬ 
cessarily  appended  to  your  station  ?  To  examine 
into  interfering  pretensions,  while  it  is  a  duty 
you  owe  to  the  applicant,  is  a  salutary  exercise 
of  patience  to  yourself ;  it  is  also  the  only  cer¬ 
tain  means  you  possess  of  distinguishing  the 
meritorious  from  the  importunate.’ 

We  dwefl  on  this  part  of  the  subject  the  more 
earnestly,  because  it  is  to  be  feared  that  even 
the  tender-hearted  and  the  benevolent,  from  the 
facility  of  a  yielding  temper,  from  weariness  of 
importunit}^,  from  a  wish  to  spare  their  own 
feelings,  as  well  as  from  a  too  natural  desire  to 
get  rid  of  trouble,  are  frequently  induced  to  con¬ 
fer  and  to  refuse  favours,  not  only  against  their 
principles  and  their  judgment,  but  against  their 
will.  Yet  as  no  virtue  is  ever  possessed  in  per¬ 
fection  by  him  who  is  destitute  of  its  opposite. — 
Have  you  been  equally  careful,  never,  for  the 
sake  of  popularity  or  the  love  of  ease,  to  awaken 
false  hopes,  and  keep  alive  false  expectations  in 
vour  retainers,  though  you  knew  you  had  no 
prospect  of  ever  making  them  good  ? — thus  com¬ 
mitting  your  own  honour  for  the  sake  of  swell¬ 
ing  the  catalogue  of  your  dependents ;  and,  by 
insincerity  and  indecision,  feeding  them  with 
delusive  promises,  when  a  firm  negative,  by  ex¬ 
tinguishing  hope,  might  have  put  them  on  a 
more  successful  pursuit. 

Some  striking  instances  of  delicate  liberalitv, 
recorded  of  a  late  lamented  statesman,  have 
shown,  that  it  is  not  too  much  to  expect  from 
human  nature,  that  a  man  should  exert  his  in¬ 
fluence  for  the  benefit  of  another,  even  though 
it  were  to  iiis  own  disadvantage,  and  that  he 
should  be  not  only  willing,  but  desirous,  not  to 
procure  for  himself  the  gratitude  of  the  obliged 
person,  nor  to  obtain  his  admiration  ;  but  would 
be  contented,  that,  while  he  himself  afforded  all 
the  benefit,  an  intervening  agent  should  have 
all  the  credit.  This  disinterestedness  is  among 
the  nicer  criteria  of  a  Christian  spirit. 

While  we  can  with  truth  assign  the  most 
liberal  praise  to  that  spirit  of  charity  which  pre¬ 
eminently  distinguishes  the  present  period,  we 
are  compelled  to  lament  that  justice  is  not  held 
in  equal  estimation  by  some  of  those  who  give 
the  law  to  manners.  This  considerably  dimi¬ 
nishes  their  influence,  because  it  is  the  quality 
which,  of  all  others,  they  most  severely  require 
in  their  dependents,  as  being  that  which  is  most 
immediately  connected  with  their  own  interest. 
And  how  far  from  equitable  is  it,  to  blame  and 
punish  the  statuablo  offence  in  petty  men,  whose 
breach  of  integrity  is  unhappily  facilitated  by 
continual  opportunity,  or  induced  by  the  pres¬ 
sure  of  want,  while  the  rigorous  exacter  of  jus- 
tice  is  as  defective  in  the  practice,  as  he  is  strict 
in  the  requisition  ? 

The  species  of  injustice  alluded  to,  consists 
much  in  that  laxity  of  principle  which  admits 
of  a  scale  of  expense  disproportionate  to  the  for¬ 
tune  :  this  creates  the  inevitable  necessity  of 
remaining  in  heavy  arrears  to  those  who  can 
ill  afford  to  give  long  credit :  in  return,  it  in¬ 
duces  in  the  creditor  the  habit,  and  almost  the 
necessity,  of  enhancing  the  price  of  his  commo¬ 
dity.  The  evil  would  bo  little,  if  the  encroach¬ 
ment  were  only  felt  by  those  whoso  tardy  pay- 
naent  renders  exorbitance  almost  pardonable ; 


143 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


but  others,  who  practise  the  most  exact  justice, 
are  involved  in  the  penalty,  without  partaking 
in  the  offence :  and  the  correct  are  taxed  for  the 
improbity  of  the  dilatory.  This  dilapidating 
habit  leads  to  an  indolence  in  inspecting  ac¬ 
counts  ;  and  the  increasing  unwillingness  to  ex¬ 
amine  into  debts,  increases  the  inability  to  dis¬ 
charge  them ;  for  debts,  like  sins,  become  more 
burdensome  in  proportion  as  people  neglect  to 
-nquire  into  them. — Perhaps  there  is  no  instance 
of  misconduct  which  tends  more  directly  to  di¬ 
minish  influence  than  the  imprudence  of  con¬ 
tracting  debts,  and  the  irregularity  and  conse¬ 
quent  injustice  of  which  it  is  sometimes  unin¬ 
tentionally  the  cause. 

And  here,  if  we  might  be  allowed  a  remark 
somewhat  foreign  to  our  immediate  subject,  it 
may  be  observed,  that  the  low  conception  of  jus¬ 
tice  of  which  we  complain  has  infected  not  only 
morals,  but  religion ;  or  rather,  what  began  in 
our  principle  towards  God,  extends  to  our  prac¬ 
tice  towards  man.  It  is  the  attribute  of  which 
we  make  the  least  scruple  to  rob  the  Almighty; 
for  it  is  a  fashionable,  though  covert,  mode  of 
arraigning  his  justice,  when  we  affect  to  exalt 
his  character  by  representing  him  as  too  merci¬ 
ful  to  punish.  Justice  is  not  only  eminently 
conspicuous  in  her  own  central  station,  but  gives 
life  and  light  to  other  attributes.  By  cutting  off 
superfluous  expenses,  temperance  and  sobriety 
grows  out  of  justice ;  and,  what  is  subtracted 
from  luxury,  is  carried  over  without  additional 
expense,  to  trae  account  of  beneficence. 

The  Holy  Scriptures  lay  down  some  precise 
and  indispensable  rules  for  the  practice  of  jus¬ 
tice,  while  they  leave  great  latitude,  at  least  as 
to  the  selection  of  its  individual  acts,  to  charity. 
Justice  can  be  maintained  only  by  this  distinct 
demand  and  rigid  acquiescence,  while  charity 
would  lose  the  nature  and  quality  of  benevo¬ 
lence,  if  it  were  under  any  such  express  and 
definite  rules.  Charity  may  choose  her  object, 
but  those  of  justice  are  chosen  for  her.  It  was, 
doubtless,  in  mercy,  that  no  absolute  rule  or  li¬ 
mitation  is  made  respecting  charity,  that  we 
might  have  the  gratification  of  a  voluntary  de¬ 
light  in  its  exercise,  for  our  nature  is,  in  this 
respect,  so  kindly  constituted,  that,  in  minds 
not  peculiarly  ill-formed,  tlie  call  to  beneficence 
is  the  call  to  enjoyment. 

But  to  return. — The  influence  of  the  great, 

*  the  observed  of  all  observers,’  descends  into  the 
social  walks  of  life.  The  pinnacle  on  which  they 
stand,  makes  their  most  trivial  actions,  and  even 
words,  objects  of  attention  and  imitation  to  those 
beneath  them.  The  consciousness  of  this  should 
bo  an  additional  motive  for  avoiding,  in  their 
ordinary  conversation,  not  only  what  is  corrupt, 
but  whatever  savours  of  levity  and  imprudence ; 
the  vanity  of  the  little  world  is  ready,  not  from 
mischief,  but  self-importance,  to  convert  the 
thoughtless  slips  of  the  great  into  consequence; 
iheir  most  frivolous  remarks  are  quoted,  merely 
that  the  quoter  may  seize  the  only  occasion  lie 
could  ever  find  of  showing  that  he  has  been  ad¬ 
mitted  to  their  company.  This  harmless  little 
stratagem  holds  out  a  strong  motive  for  those 
whoso  condition  in  life  makes  them  subjects  of 
observation,  occasionally  to  let  fall  something 
.hat  may  be  remembered,  not  merely  because 


they  said  it, but  because  it  was  worth  saying.Thi* 
remark  applies  to  superiority  of  talents,  to  be 
considered  in  our  next  head,  still  more  than  of 
rank. 

As  the  great  and  noble  are  sufficiently  dis¬ 
posed  to  look  with  reverted  eye  back  to  their 
ancestral  honours,  it  were  to  be  wished  that 
they  were  all  as  ready,  as  we  are  happy  to  say 
some  of  them  are,  to  cast  the  same  careful  re¬ 
trospect  to  the  ancient  usages  of  their  illustrious 
houses.  There  was  a  time  when  family  devo¬ 
tion  was  considered  as  a  kind  of  natural  appen¬ 
dage  to  high  rank,  when  domestic  worship  was 
almost  as  inseparably  connected  with  the  aris¬ 
tocracy  as  the  church  with  the  state.  The  cha¬ 
pel  was  as  much  a  part  of  the  splendid  esta¬ 
blishment  as  the  state-room.  When  the  form 
of  piety  was  thus  kept  up,  the  reality  was  more 
likely  to  exist.  Even  the  appearance  was  a  ho¬ 
mage  to  religion,  the  very  custom  was  an  ho¬ 
nourable  recognition  of  Christianity.  But,  in 
the  w'ay  of  influence,  it  must  have  been  of  high 
importance ;  the  domestics  would  have  their 
sense  of  duty  kept  alive,  and  would  with  more 
alacrity  serve  those  who  they  saw  served  God. 
It  was  a  bond  of  political,  as  well  as  of  moral 
union ;  it  was  the  only  occasion  on  which  ‘  the 
rich  and  poor  meet  together.’  There  is  some 
thing  of  a  coalescing  property  in  social  worship. 
In  acknowledging  their  common  dependence  on 
their  common  master,  this  equality  of  half  an 
hour  would  be  likely  to  promote  subordination 
through  the  rest  of  the  day.  Take  it  in  an  in¬ 
ferior  point  of  view,  it  was  a  useful  discipline,  it 
was  a  family  muster-roll,  a  sort  of  domestic  pa¬ 
rade,  which  regularly  brought  the  privates  be¬ 
fore  their  commanding  officers,  and  maintained 
order  as  well  as  detected  absence.  It  was  also 
calculated  to  promote  the  interests  of  the  supe¬ 
riors,  by  periodically  reminding  their  depend¬ 
ants  of  their  duty  to  God,  which  necessarily  in¬ 
volves  every  human  obligation. 

We  come  now  to  speak,  though  cursorily,  of 
another  deposit  of  taJent,  not  less  extensive  in 
its  immediate  effects  and  far  more  important  in 
its  consequences  ;  the  influence  of  Genius  and 
Learning.  As  the  influence  of  well-directed  ta¬ 
lents  is  too  obvious  to  require  animadversion, 
we  shall  confine  our  brief  remarks  to  their  con¬ 
trary  direction. — If  we  could  suppose  the  man 
whose  talents  had,  by  pernicious  principles, 
been  diverted  from  their  right  channel,  to  have, 
at  the  close  of  life,  that  clear  view  of  his  own 
character,  and  the  misapplication  of  his  mental 
powers,  which  will  be  presented  to  him  when 
he  opens  his  eyes  on  eternity,  we  should  wit¬ 
ness  as  complete  a  contrast  with  his  present 
feelings  as  any  two  opposite  descriptions  of  cha¬ 
racter  could  exhibit. 

Of  all  the  various  sentences  to  be  awarded  at 
the  dread  tribunal,  can  imagination  figure  one 
more  severe  than  will  bo  pronounced  against 
the  polluted  and  polluting  wit ;  the  noblest  fa¬ 
culties  turned  into  arms  against  him  who_gave 
them,  the  eloquence  which  would  scarcely  have 
disparaged  the  tongue  of  angels,  converted  to 
the  rhetoric  of  hell  ?  The  mischief  of  a  cor¬ 
rupt  book  is  indefinite,  both  in  extent  and  dura¬ 
tion. — When  the  personal  example  of  the  writer 
has  done  its  worst,  and  has  only  ruined  his 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


14S 


friends  and  neighbours,  the  operation  of  an  un¬ 
principled  work  may  be  just  beginning. — It  is 
a  sin,  the  commission  of  which  carries  in  it 
more  of  the  character  of  its  internal  inspirer 
than  any  other.  It  is  a  crime  not  prompted 
fey  appetite,  kindled  by  passion,  or  provoked  by 
temptation :  but  a  gratuitous,  voluntary,  cold 
blooded  enormity,  the  offspring  of  intellectual 
•wickedness,  the  child  of  spiritual  depravity  ; 
the  deepest  sin  without  the  slightest  excuse. 
Sins  of  surprise  have  infirmity  to  plead,  but,  in 
this  frigid  villany,  the  badness  of  the  motive 
keeps  pace  with  the  turpitude  of  the  act.  The 
intention  is  to  offend  God,  the  project  is  to  ruin 
man  ;  the  aim  is  to  poison  the  temporal  peace, 
the  design  is  to  murder  the  everlasting  hope  of 
all  who  come  in  contact  with  it. 

But  the  exclusive  application  of  talents  to 
subjects  perfectly  unexceptionable,  and  right 
and  valuable,  as  far  as  they  go,  is  sometimes 
an  occasion  in  which  wo  might  mingle  regret 
with  admiration.  We  view  with  reverence  the 
profound  scholar,  a  man,  so  far  from  having  lost 
any  time  in  trifling,  whose  very  amusements 
are  labours,  and  whose  relaxation  is  intensity 
of  thought,  and  sedulity  of  study.  By  unre¬ 
mitting  diligence,  he  has  been  daily  adding 
fresh  stores  to  his  ponderous  mass  of  erudi¬ 
tion,  or  periodically  presenting  new  tomes  to 
the  literary  world,  in  return  for  those  he  has 
rifled.  But,  put  the  case,  that  such  a  man  has 
never  so  much  as  conceived  the  thought  of 
lending  to  religion  his  weight  of  character,  or 
the  influence  of  his  reputation,  by  devoting  some 
little  interval  to  a  moral  or  religious  speculation ; 
has  never  once  entertained  the  idea  of  occasion¬ 
ally  directing  his  treasures  of  learning,  into  any 
channel  which  leads  to  the  country  where  he 
and  his  volumes  together,  the  durable  register 
of  his  life,  are  soon  about  to  land, — who  can 
forbear,  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  possible 
character,  regretting  that  his  too  moderate  am¬ 
bition  should  be  satisfied  with  the  applause  of 
an  age  or  an  island,  without  once  exercising  his 
talents  on  some  topic  which  might  have  includ¬ 
ed  the  concerns  of  his  whole  species,  which 
might  have  embraced  the  interests  of  both 
worlds  ?  Who  can  forbear'  lamenting,  that  he 
has  risen  so  high  without  reflecting  that,  in  a 
moral  sense,  ‘one  step  higher  would  set  him 
highest;’ that  he  should  have  been  contented 
with  the  idolatrous  worship  of  some  pagan  sage 
as  editor  or  annotator ;  and,  for  that  humble 
meed,  to  relinquish  the  duty  of  glorifying  his 
Maker,  by  instructing  his  fellow-creatures  ;  as 
if  that  were  a  less  splendid  object,  an  inferior 
concern  to  be  turned  over  to  inferior  abilities, 
and  to  which  inferior  abilities,  were  adequate  ? 

If  the  awful  apprehension  of  a  future  account 
could,  at  the  close  of  life,  lead  even  the  illus¬ 
trious  Grotius,  who  had  with  equal  ability  cul¬ 
tivated  both  secular  and  sacred  studies,  to  wish 
that  he  could  change  characters  with  a  poor 
pious  peasant,  who  used  to  spend  most  of  his 
time  in  reading  the  Bible  at  his  gate,  what  may 
finally  bo  the  wish  of  those  who,  having  quitted 
a  far  less  useful  life  without  any  such  contrite 
confession,  are  brought  to  witness  at  once  the 
retribution  assigned  to  the  conscientious  use  of 
one  solitary  talent,  and  to  feel  that  awarded  to 


their  own  vast  but  abused  allotment?  TfeaC 
awakening  parable  of  the  Divine  Teacher  which 
presents  so  terrible  a  view  of  the  ‘  great  gulf’ 
which  irrevocably  separated  to  other  neighbours, 
whose  respective  lots  in  worldly  circumstances 
resembled  the  distinctions  of  intellect  in  the 
preceding  instance — that  ‘gulf  v/hich  eternally 
divided  the  holy  beggar  from  the  opulent  sen¬ 
sualist — is  equally  applicable  to  the  present 
case.  If  any  thing  could  deepen  or  widen  a 
barrier  already  hopelessly  impassable,  might  it 
not  be  the  substitution  of  ill-applied  abilities  for 
misemployed  riches  ?* 

An  affecting  thought  involuntarily  fiirces 
itself  upon  us,  on  the  departure  of  distinguished 
genius.  All  those  shining  talents  which  had 
hitherto  loo  exclusively  filled  our  minds,  sink  at 
once  in  our  estimation,  because  we  know  they 
are  now  nothing  to  their  possessor  but  as  they 
were  used,  worse  than  nothing  if  they  were  not 
used  wisely. — In  the  court  where  he  now  stands 
for  trial,  neither  the  cogent  argument  norths 
pointed  wit  can  secure  his  acquittal ;  happy  if 
they  appear  not  strong  evidences  against  it.  The 
qualities  of  his  heart,  which,  perhaps,  dazzled 
by  those  of  his  head,  we  had  not  taken  into  the 
account — his  errors  having  been  lost  in  his 
brightness — now  come  forward  as  the  others 
recede.  Our  feelings  are  solely  occupied  with 
what  may  be  now  available  to  him  to  whom  we 
have  owed  pleasure  or  information.  That  fame 
which  we  lately  thought  so  solid  a  good,  seems 
now  a  painted  cloud  melting  into  air — that 
proud  FOR  EVER  for  which  he  wrote,  seems 
dwindled  to  a  point — that  visionary  immortality 
which  he  had  assigned  as  his  meed,  compared 
with  the  eternity  on  which  he  has  entered,  is 
become  less  than  the  shadow  to  the  substance, 
less  than  the  halo  to  the  sun. 

This  idea  strikes  the  mind  with  peculiar 
force  upon  the  recent  decease  of  two  writers  of 
uncommon  reach  of  thought,  profound  research, 
and  unbounded  philological  learning.  Had 
these  two  eminent  men  been  possessed  of  in¬ 
ferior  minds,  or  a  more  dubious  fame,  their 
death  would  have  sounded  the  signal  of  silence, 
no  less  to  the  moralist  than  to  the  satirist,  as  to 
the  gross  sensuality  and  corrupt  principles  of 
the  one,  the  avowed  atheism  and  profligate  poli- 
ticah doctrines  of  the  other.  As  it  is,  we  can¬ 
not  but  refer  todhem,  though  with  feelings  of 
pungent  regret,  and  only  under  a  strong  sense  of 
the  atonement  which  such  examples  owe  to  the 
world  for  the  mischief  they  do  it,  as  a  melancholy 
illustration  of  some  of  the  preceding  remarks. 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  the  unmixed  commenda¬ 
tion  of  their  talents  and  erudition,  without  the 
gentlest  censure  of  their  principles  and  prac¬ 
tices,  with  which  some  of  our  journals  abound¬ 
ed  on  the  loss  of  these  able  but  unhappy  men, 
might  tend  to  impress  the  ardent  youthful 
student  with  an  over-val nation  of  genius,  un¬ 
sanctified  by  Christian  principles,  of  erudition 
undignified  by  virtuous  conduct. 

Far,  very  far,  from  my  heart  bo  the  unge¬ 
nerous  thought  of  treating  departed  eminence 
with  disrespect,  but  in  analyzing  striking 
characters,  is  it  not  a  duty  to  separate  ‘  the 

*  I.et  no  one  apply  this  to  tlie  great  statesman  of 
irolland. 


144 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


precious  from  the  vile,’  lest  unqualified  admira¬ 
tion,  where  there  is  such  large  room  for  censure, 
should,  while  profusely  embalming  the  dead, 
allure  the  ingenuous  living  to  an  imitation  as 
unlimited  as  the  panegyric  was  undistinguish¬ 
ing  ?* 


CHAP.  VIII. 

On  time,  considered  as  a  Talent. 

Ip  we  already  begin  to  feel  what  a  large  por¬ 
tion  of  life  we  have  improvidently  squandered — 
what  days  and  nights  have  been  suffered  to 
waste  themselves,  if  not  criminally,  yet  incon- 
■isiderately  :  if  not  loaded  with  evil,  yet  destitute 
of  good — how  much  time  has  been  consumed  in 
’worthless  employments,  frivolous  amusements, 
listless  indolence,  idle  reading,  and  vain  imagi¬ 
nations — if  things  already  begin  to  appear 
wrong,  which  we  once  thought  at  least  harm¬ 
less,  though  not  perhaps  useful — what  appear¬ 
ance  will  they  assume  in  that  inevitable  hour 
when  all  things  will  be  seen  in  their  true  light, 
and  appreciated  according  to  their  intrinsic 
value  ?  We  shall  then  feel  in  its  full  force  how 
often  we  neglected  what  we  knew  to  be  our 
duty,  shunned  what  we  were  aware  was  our  in¬ 
terest,  and  declined  what  we  yet  believed  would 
add  to  our  happiness ;  while,  with  perverted 
energy,  we  eagerly  pursued  wha^  we  had  reason 
to  think  was  contrary  to  our  interest,  duty,  and 
happiness.  But  excuses  satisfy  us  now,  to  which 
we  shall  not  then  give  the  hearing  for  a  mo¬ 
ment.  The  thin  disguise  which  the  illusion  of 
the  senses  now  casts  over  vanity,  sloth,  and 
error,  wdll  then  be  as  little  efficient  as  consola- 
tory. 

He  who  carefully  governs  his  mind  will  con¬ 
scientiously  regulate  his  time.  To  him  who 
thqs  accurately  distributes  it,  who’  appropriates 
the  hour  to  its  due  employment,  life  will  never 
seem  tedious,  yet  counted  by  this  moral  arith¬ 
metic  it  will  be  really  long.  If  we  compute  our 
time  as  critically  as  our  other  possessions ;  if 
we  assign  its  proportions  to  its  duties,  though 
the  divisions  will  then  be  so  fully  occupied  that 
they  will  never  drag,  yet  the  aggregate  sum 
will  be  found  sufficiently  long  for  all  the  pur¬ 
poses  to  which  life  is  destined. 

It  is  not  a  little  absurd  that  they  who  most 
wish  to  abolish  time  would  be  the  least  willing 
to  abridge  life.  But  is  it  not  unreasonable  to 
endeavour  to  annihilate  the  parcels  of  which  life 
is  composed,  and  at  ihe  same  time  to  have  a 
dread  of  shrinking  the  stock  ?  They  who  most 
pathetically  lament  the  want  of  time,  are  either 
persons  who  plunge  themselves  into  unnecessary 
concerns,  or  those  who  manage  them  ill,  or 
those  who  do  nothing.  The  first  create  the  de¬ 
ficiency  they  deplore ;  the  second  do  not  so  much 
want  time  as  arrangement ;  the  last,  like  brute 
animals  laden  with  gold,  groan  under  the 
weight  of  a  treasure  of  which  they  make  no  use, 
and  do  not  know  the  value. 

*  To  prevent  any  mistaken  application  of  these  re¬ 
marks  it  may  l»e  proper  to  avow  that  Professor  Person 
and  Mr.  Horne  Touke  are  the  persons  to  whom  they 

lude. 


They  will  never  make  a  right  use  of  time 
who  turn  it  over  to  chance,  who  live  without 
any  definite  scheme  for  its  employment,  or  any 
fixed  object  for  its  end.  Such  desultory  beings 
will  be  carried  away  by  every  trifle  that  strikes 
the  senses,  or  any  whim  that  seizes  the  imagi¬ 
nation.  They  who  live  without  any  ultimate 
point  in  view,  can  have  no  regular  process  in 
the  steps  which  lead  to  it. 

But  though  in  order  to  prevent  confusion,  to 
animate  torpor,  and  tame  irregularity,  it  is 
always  a  duty  to  form  a  plan ;  occasions  will 
arise  when  it  may  be  a  higher  duty  to  break  it 
Both  ourselves  and  our  plans  must  ever  be  kept 
subject  to  the  will  of  a  higher  power.  That  is 
an  ill-regulated  mind  which  wears  life  away 
without  any  settled  scheme  of  action  :  that  is  a 
little  mind  which  makes  itself  a  slave  to  any 
preconceived  rule,  when  a  more  imperative  duty 
may  arise  to  demand  its  infraction.  Providence 
may  call  us  to  some  w'ork  during  the  day  which 
we  did  not  foresee  in  tlie  morning.  Even  a 
good  design  must  be  relinquished  to  make  way 
for  a  belter,  nor  must  we  sacrifice  a  useful  to  a 
favourite  project,  nor  must  we  scruple  to  re¬ 
nounce  our  inclinations  at  the  call  of  duty  or  of 
necessity,  for  God  loves  a  cheerful  doer  as  well 
as  a  ‘  cheerful  giver.’ 

In  our  use  of  time  we  frequently  practise  a 
delusion  which  cheats  us  of  no  inconsiderable 
portion  of  its  actual  enjoyment.  The  now 
escapes  us  while  wo  are  settling  future  points 
not  only  of  business,  of  ease,  or  of  pleasure,  but 
of  benevolence,  of  generosity,  of  piety.  These 
imaginary  points  to  which  we  impatiently 
stretch  forward  in  idea,  we  fix  at  successive  but 
distant  intervals,  endeavouring  by  the  rapid 
march  of  a  hurrying  imagination  to  annihilate 
the  intervening  spaces.  One  great  evil  of  reck¬ 
oning  too  absolutely  on  marked  periods  which 
may  never  arrive,  is,  that,  by  this  absorption  of 
the  mind,  we  neglect  present  duties  in  the  anti¬ 
cipation  of  events  not  only  remote  but  uncer¬ 
tain.  Even  if  the  anticipated  period  does  ar¬ 
rive,  it  is  not  always  applied  to  the  purpose  to 
which  it  was  pledged;  and  the  event  which  was 
to  feel  the  full  weight  of  our  interference  and 
commanding  influenee,  when  it  has  taken  place, 
sinks  into  the  undistinguished  mass  of  time 
and  circumstances.  The  point  which  we  once 
thought,  if  it  ever  could  be  attained,  would  sup¬ 
ply  abundant  matter,  not  only  for  present  duty 
or  pleasure,  but  for  delightful  retrospection, 
loses  itself,  as  we  mingle  with  it,  in  the  com¬ 
mon  heap  of  forgotten  things  ;  and  as  we  recede 
from  it,  merges  in  the  dim  obscure  of  faded  re¬ 
collections.  Having  arrived  at  the  era,  instead 
of  seizing  on  that  present  so  impatiently  desired 
while  it  wss  future,  we  again  send  our  imagina¬ 
tions  out  to  fresh  distances  in  search  of  fresh 
deceits.  While  we  are  pushing  it  on  to  objects 
still  more  remote,  the  large  uncalculaled  spaces 
of  comfort  and  peace,  or  of  languor  and  discon¬ 
tent,  which  fill  the  chasm,  aud  which  we  scarce¬ 
ly  think  worth  taking  into  the  account,  make  up 
far  the  greater  part  of  life. 

All  this  would  be  only  foolish,  and  would 
hardly  deserve  a  harsher  name,  if  these  large 
uncultivatod  wastes,  these  barren  interstices, 
these  neglected  subdivisions^  had  not  all  of 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


145 


heathen.  Sir,  I  am  a  Christian  ;  I  belong  to  the 
church;  I  go  to  church  ;  I  always  drink  pros¬ 
perity  to  the  church.  You  yourself,  as  strict 
as  you  are,  in  never  missing  it  twice  a  day,  are 
not  a  warmer  friend  to  the  church  than  I  am. 

Worthy.  That  is  to  say,  you  know  its  inesti¬ 
mable  value  as  a  political  institution  ;  but  you 
do  not  seem  to  know  that  a  man  may  be  very 
irreligious  under  the  best  religious  institutions; 
and  that  even  the  most  excellent  only  furnishes 
the  means  of  being  religious,  and  is  no  more  re¬ 
ligion  itself  than  brick  and  mortar  are  prayers 
and  thanksgivings.  I  shall  never  think,  how¬ 
ever  high  their  profession,  and  even  however  re¬ 
gular  their  attendance,  that  those  men  truly  re¬ 
spect  the  church,  who  bring  home  little  of  that 
religion  which  is  taught  in  it  into  their  own  fe- 
milies  or  their  own  hearts  ;  or,  who  make  the 
whole' of  Christianity  to  consist  in  a  mere  for¬ 
mal  attendance  there.  Excuse  me  Mr.  Brag- 
well. 

Bragwell.  Mr.  Worthy,  I  am  persuaded  that 
religion  is  quite  a  proper  thing  for  the  poor ; 
and  I  don’t  think  that  the  multitude  can  ever 
be  kept  in  order  without  it ;  and  I  am  a  sort  of 
a  politician  you  know.  We  7nust  have  bits,  and 
bridles,  and  restraints  for  the  vulgar. 

Worthy.  Your  opinion  is  very  just,  as  far  as 
it  goes  ;  but  it  does  not  go  far  enough,  since,  it 
does  not  go  to  the  root  of  the  evil ;  for  while  you 
Value  yourself  on  the  soundness  of  this  principle 
as  a  politician,  I  wish  you  also  to  see  the  reason 
of  it  as  a  Christian  ;  depend  upon  it,  if  religion 
be  good  for  the  community  at  large,  it  is  equally 
good  for  every  family  ;  and  what  is  right  for  a 
family  is  equally  right  for  each  individual  in  it. 
You  have  therefore  yourself  brought  the  most 
unanswerable  argument  why  you  ought  to  be 
religious  yourself,  by  asking  how  we  shall  keep 
others  in  order  without  religion.  For,  believe 
me,  Mr.  Bragwell,  there  is  no  particular  clause 
to  except  you  in  the  Gospel.  There  are  no  ex¬ 
ceptions  there  in  favour  of  any  one  class  of  men. 
The  same  restraints  which  are  necessary  for 
the  people  at  large,  are  equally  necessary  for 
men  of  every  order,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor, 
bond  and  free,  learned  and  ignorant.  If  Jesus 
Christ  died  for  no  one  particular  rank,  class,  or 
community,  then  there  is  no  one  rank,  class,  or 
community,  exempt  from  the  obedience  to  his 
laws  enjoined  by  the  Gospel.  May  I  ask  you, 
Mr.  Bragwell,  what  is  your  reason  for  going  to 
■church  ? 

Bragwell.  Sir,  I  am  shocked  at  jmur  question. 
How  can  I  avoid  doing  a  thing  so  customary 
and  BO  creditable  ?  Not  go  to  church,  indeed ! 
What  do  you  take  me  for,  Mr.  Worthy  ?  I  am 
afraid  you  suspect  me  to  be  a  papist,  or  a  hea¬ 
then,  or  of  some  religion  or  other  that  is  not 
Christian. 

Worthy.  If  a  foreigner  were  to  hear  how  vio¬ 
lently  one  set  of  Christians  in  this  country  often 
speak  against  another,  how  earnest  would  he 
suppose  us  all  to  be  in  religious  matters :  and 
how  astonished  to  discover  that  many  a  man 
has  perhaps  little  otlier  proof  to  give  of  the  sin¬ 
cerity  of  his  own  religion,  except  the  violence 
with  which  lie  hates  the  religion  of  another 
party.  It  is  not  irreligion  which  such  men  hate; 
but  the  religion  of  the  man,  or  the  party,  whom 
Voi,.  I.  K 


we  are  set  against :  now  hatred  is  certainly  no 
part  of  the  religion  of  the  Gospel.  Well,  you 
have  told  me  why  you  go  to  church  ;  now  pray 
tell  me,  why  do  you  confess  there  on  your  bend¬ 
ed  knees,  every  Sunday,  that  ‘  you  have  erred 
and  strayed  from  God’s  ways  ?’ — ‘  that  there  is 
no  health  in  you  ? — ‘  that  you  have  done  what 
you  ought  not  to  do  ? — and  that  you  are  a  mise¬ 
rable  sinner  ?’ 

Bragwell.  Because  it  is  in  the  Common 
Prayer  Book,  to  be  sure ;  a  book  which  I  have 
heard  you  yourself  say  was  written  by  wise  and 
good  men  ;  the  glory  of  Christianity,  the  pillars 
of  the  protestant  ehurch. 

Worthy.  But  have  you  no  other  reason  ? 

Bragwell.  No,  I  can’t  say  I  have. 

Worthy.  When  you  repeat  that  excellent  form 
of  confession,  do  you  really  feel  that  you  are  a 
miserable  sinner  1 

Bragwell.  No,  I  can’t  say  I  do.  But  that  Is 
no  objection  to  my  repeating  it :  because  it  may 
suit  the  cause  of  many  who  are  so.  I  suppose 
the  good  doctors  who  drew  it  up,  intended  that 
part  for  wicked  people  only,  such  as  drunkards, 
and  thieves,  and  murderers  ;  for  I  imagine  they 
could  not  well  contrive  to  make  the  same  prayer 
quite  suit  an  honest  man  and  a  rogue  ;  and  so  I 
suppose  they  thought  it  better  to  make  a  good 
man  repeat  a  prayer  which  suited  a  rogue,  than 
to  make  a  rogue  repeat  a  prayer  which  suited  a 
good  man ;  and  you  know  it  is  so  customary  for 
every  body  to  repeat  the  general  confession,  that 
it  can’t  hurt  the  credit  of  the  most  respectable 
persons,  though  every  respectable  person  must 
know  they  have  no  particular  concern  in  it ;  as 
they  are  not  sinners. 

Worthy.  Depend  upon  it,  Mr.  Bragwell,  those 
good  doctors  you  speak  of,  were  not  quite  of 
your  opinion  ;  they  really  thought  that  what  you 
call  honest  men  were  grievous  sinners  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  sense,  and  that  the  best  of  us  stand  in  need 
of  making  that  humble  confession.  Mr.  Brag¬ 
well  do  you  believe  in  the  fall  of  Adam  ? 

Bragwell.  To  be  sure  I  do,  and  a  sad  thing 
for  Adam  it  was  ;  why,  it  is  in  the  Bible,  is  it 
not  ?  It  is  one  of  the  prettiest  chapters  in  Gene¬ 
sis.  Don’t  you  believe  Mr.  Worthy  ? 

Worthy.  Yes,  truly  I  do.  But  I  don’t  believe 
it  merely  because  I  read  it  in  Genesis ;  though 
I  know,  indeed,  that  I  am  bound  to  believe 
every  part  of  the  word  of  God.  But  I  have  still 
an  additional  reason  for  believing  in  the  fall  of 
the  first  man. 

Bragwell.  Have  you,  indeed  ?  Now,  I  can’t 
guess  what  that  can  be. 

Worthy.  Why,  my  own  observation  of  what 
is  within  myself  teaches  me  to  believe  it.  It  is 
not  only  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis  which  con¬ 
vinces  me  of  the  truth  of  the  fall,  but  also  the 
sinful  inclinations  which  I  find  in  my  own  heart 
coTesponding  with  it.  This  is  one  of  those 
leading  truths  of  Christianity  of  which  I  can 
never  doubt  a  moment :  first  because  it  is  abun¬ 
dantly  expressed  or  implied  in  Scripture;  and 
next,  because  the  consciousness  of  the  evil  na¬ 
ture,  I  carry  about  with  me  confirms  the  doc¬ 
trine  bqyond  all  doubt.  Besides,  is  it  not  said 
in  Scripture,  that  by  one  man  sin  entered  into 
the  world,  and  that  ‘  all  we,  like  lost  sheep,  have 
gone  astray — ‘  that  by  one  man’s  disobedience 


146 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


many  were  made  sinners;’ — and  so  again  in 
twenty  more  places  that  I  could  tell  you  of. 

Bragwell.  Well;  I  never  thought  of  this.  But 
is  not  tliis  a  very  melancholy  sort  of  doctrine, 
Mr.  Worthy  ? 

Worthy.  It  is  melancholy,  indeed,  if  we  stop 
here.  But  while  we  are  deploring  this  sad 
truth,  let  us  take  comfort  from  another,  that  ‘  as 
in  Adam  all  die,  so  in  Christ  shall  all  be  made 
alive.’ 

Bragwell.  Yes;  I  remember  I  thought  those 
very  fine  words,  when  I  heard  them  said  over 
my  poor  father’s  grave.  But  as  it  was  in  the 
burial  of  the  dead,  I  did  not  think  of  taking  it 
to  myself ;  for  I  was  then  young  and  hearty,  and 
in  little  danger  of  dying,  and  I  have  been  so  busy 
ever  since,  that  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  think 
of  it. 

Worthy.  And  yet  the  service  pronounced  at 
the  burial  of  all  who  die,  is  a  solemn  admonition 
to  all  who  live.  It  is  there  said,  as  indeed  the 
Scripture  says  also,  ‘  I  am  the  resurrection  and 
the  life  ;  whosoever  helieveth  in  wie  shall  never 
die,  but  I  will  raise  him  up  at  the  last  day.’ 
Now  do  you  think  you  believe  in  Christ,  Mr. 
Bragwell  ? 

Bragwell.  To  be  sure  I  do ;  why  you  are  al¬ 
ways  fancying  me  an  atheist. 

Worthy.  In  order  to  believe  in  Christ,  wj.e 
must  believe  first  in  our  own  guilt  and  our  own 
unworthiness  ;  and  when  we  do  this  we  shall  see 
the  use  of  a  Saviour,  and  not  till  then. 

Bragwell.  Why,  ali  this  is  a  new  way  of  talk¬ 
ing.  I  can’t  say  I  ever  meddled  with  such  sub¬ 
jects  before  in  my  life.  But  now,  what  do  you 
advise  a  man  to  do  upon  your  plan  of  religion? 

Worthy.  Why  all  this  leads  me  back  to  the 
ground  from  which  wm  set  out,  I  mean  the  duty 
of  prayer ;  for  if  we  believe  that  we  have  an 
evil  nature  within  us,  and  that  we  stand  in  need 
of  God’s  grace  to  help  us,  and  a  Saviour  to  re¬ 
deem  us,  we  shall  be  led  of  course  to  pray  for 
what  we  so  much  need  ;  and  without  this  con¬ 
viction  we  shall  not  be  led  to  pray. 

Bragwell.  Well,  but  don’t  you  think,  Mr, 
Worthy,  that  you  good  folks  who  make  so  much 
of  prayer,  have  lower  notions  than  we  have  of 
the  wisdom  of  the  Almighty?  You  think  hs 
wants  to  be  informed  of  the  thing  you  tell  him  ; 
whereas,  I  take  it  for  granted  that  he  knows 
them  already,  and  that,  being  so  good  as  he  is, 
he  will  give  me  every  thing  he  sees  fit  to  give 
me,  without  my  asking  it. 

Worthy.  God,  indeed,  w’ho  knows  all  things, 
knows  what  we  want  before  we  ask  him  ;  but 
still  has  he  not  said  that,  ‘  with  prayer  and  sup¬ 
plication  we  must  make  known  our  requests  un¬ 
to  him  ?’  Prayer  is  the  way  in  which  God  hath 
said  that  his  favour  must  be  sought.  It  is  tlie 
channel  through  wliich  he  has  declared  it  his 
sovereign  will  and  pleasure  that  his  blessings 
should  be  conveyed  to  us.  What  ascends  up  in 
prayer  descends  to  us  again  in  blessings.  It  is 
like  tlie  rain  which  just  now  fell,  and  which 
had  been  drawn  up  from  the  ground  in  vapours 
to  the  clouds  before  it  descended  from  them  to 
the  earth  in  that  refreshing  shower.  Besides 
prayer  has  a  good  effect  on  our  minds;  it  tends 
to  excite  a  right  disposition  towards  God  in  us, 
and  to  keep  up  a  constant  sense  of  our  depend¬ 


ence.  But  above  all,  it  is  the  way  to  get  tho 
good  things  we  want.  ‘  Ask,’  says  the  Scrip, 
ture,  ‘  and  ye  shall  receive.’ 

Bragwell.  Now,  that  is  the  very  thing  which 
I  was  going  to  deny  :  for  the  truth  is,  men  da 
not  always  get  what  they  ask  ;  I  believe  if  I 
could  get  a  good  crop  for  asking  it,  I  would  pray 
often  er  than  I  do. 

Worthy.  Sometimes,  Mr.  Bragwell,  men  ‘  ask 
and  receive  not,  because  they  ask  amiss ;’ — 
"  they  ask  that  they  may  consume  it  on  their 
lusts.’ — They  ask  worldly  blessings,  perhaps,, 
when  they  should  ask  spiritual  ones.  Now,  the 
latter,  which  are  the  good  things  I  spoke  of,  are 
always  granted  to  those  who  pray  to  God  for 
them,  though  the  former  are  not.  I  have  ob¬ 
served  in  the  case  of  some  worldly  tilings  I 
have  sought  for,  that  the  grant  of  my  prayer 
would  have  caused  tho  misery  of  my  life;  so 
that  God  equally  consults  our  good  in  what  he 
withholds,  and  in  what  he  bestows. 

Bragwell.  And  yet  you  continue  to  pray  on 
I  suppose  ? 

Worthy.  Certainly ;  but  then  I  try  to  mend 
as  to  tho  object  of  my  prayers.  I  pray  for 
God’s  blessing  and  favour,  which  is  better  than 
riches. 

Bragwell.  You  seem  very  earnest  on  this  sub¬ 
ject. 

Worthy.  To  cut  the  matter  short ;  I  ask  then, 
whether  prayer  is  not  positively  commanded  in 
the  Gospel.  When  this  is  the  case,  we  can  never 
dispute  about  the  necessity  or  the  duty  of  a 
thing,  as  we  may  when  there  is  no  such  com¬ 
mand.  Here,  however,  let  me  just  add  also,  that 
a  man’s  prayers  may  be  turned  into  no  small 
use  in  the  way  of  discovering  to  him  whatever 
is  amiss  in  his  life. 

Bragwell.  How  so,  Mr.  Worthy  ? 

Worthy.  Why,  suppose  now,  you  were  to  try 
yourself  by  turning  into  the  shape  of  a  prayer 
every  practice  in  which  you  allow  yourself.  For 
instance,  let  the  prayer  in  the  morning  be  a 
sort  of  preparation  for  the  deeds  of  the  day,  and 
the  prayer  at  night  a  sort  of  retrospeetion  of 
those  deeds.  You,  Mr.  Bragwell,  I  suspect,  are 
a  little  inclined  to  covetousness  ;  excuse  me,  sir. 
Now,  suppose  after  you  have  been  during  a 
whole  day  a  little  too  eager  to  get  rich  ;  suppose, 

I  say,  you  were  to  try  how  it  would  sound  to 
beg  of  God  at  night  on  your  knees,  to  give  you 
still  more  money,  though  you  have  already  so 
much  that  you  know  not  what  to  do  with  it. 
Suppose  you  were  to  pray  in  the  morning,  ‘  O 
Lord,  give  me  more  riches,  though  those  I  have 
are  a  snare  and  a  temptation  to  me ;’  and  ask 
him  in  the  same  solemn  manner  to  bless  all  the 
grasping  means  you  intend  to  make  use  of  in 
the  day,  to  add  to  your  substance  ? 

Bragwell,  Mr.  Worthy,  I  have  no  patience 
with  you  for  thinking  I  could  be  so  wicked. 

Worthy.  Yet  to  make  such  a  covetous  prayer 
as  this  is  hardly  more  wicked,  or  more  absurd, 
than  to  lead  the  life  of  the  covetous,  by  sinning 
up  to  the  spirit  of  that  very  prayer  which  you 
would  not  have  tho  courage  to  put  into  words. 
Still  further  observe  how  it  would  sound  to  con. 
fess  your  sins,  und  pray  against  them  all,  ex¬ 
cept  one  favourite  sin.  ‘  Lord,  do  thou  enable 
me  to  forsake  all  my  sins,  except  the  love  of 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


147 


money  — ‘  in  this  one  thing  pardon  thy  ser¬ 
vant.’ — Or,  ‘  Do  thou  enable  me  to  forgive  all 
who  have  injured  me,  except  old  Giles.’  This 
you  will  object  against,  as  a  wicked  prayer ;  but 
if  wicked  in  prayer,  it  must  be  wicked  in  prac¬ 
tice.  It  is  even  more  shocking  to  make  it  the 
language  of  the  heart,  or  of  the  life,  than  of  the 
lips.  And  yet,  because  you  have  been  used  to 
see  people  act  thus,  and  have  not  been  used  to 
hear  them  pray  thus,  you  are  shocked  at  the 
one,  and  not  shocked  at  the  other. 

Bragwell.  Shocked,  indeed !  Why,  at  this 
fate,  you  would  teach  one  to  hate  one’s  self. 

Worthrj.  Hear  me  out,  Mr.  Bragwell ;  you 
turned  your  good  nephew,  Tom  Broad,  out  of 
doors,  you  know  ;  you  6wned  to  me  it  was  an 
act  of  injustice.  Now,  suppose  on  the  morning 
of  your  doing  so  you  had  begged  of  God,  in  a 
solemn  act  of  prayer,  to  prosper  the  deed  of  cru¬ 
elty  and  oppression,  which  you  intended  to  com¬ 
mit  that  day.  I  see  you  are  shocked  at  the 
thought  of  such  a  prayer.  Well,  then,  would 
not  hearty  prayer  have  kept  you  from  commit¬ 
ting  that  wicked  action  ?  In  short,  what  a  life 
must  that  be,  no  act  of  which  you  dare  beg  God 
to  prosper  and  bless  ?  If  once  you  can  bring 
yourself  to  believe  that  it  is  your  bounden  duty 
to  pyay  for  God’s  blessing  on  your  day’s  work, 
you  will  certainly  grow  careful  about  passing 
Buch  a  day  as  you  may  safely  ask  his  blessing 
upon.  The  remark  may  be  carried  to  sports, 
diversions,  company.  A  man,  who  once  takes 
up  the  serious  use  of  prayer,  will  soon  find  him¬ 
self  obliged  to  abstain  from  such  diversions,  oc¬ 
cupations,  and  societies,  as  he  cannot  reasona¬ 
bly  desire  that  God  will  bless  to  him  ;  and  thus 
he  will  see  himself  compelled  to  leave  off  either 
the  practice  or  the  prayer.  Now,  Mr.  Bragwell, 
I  need  not  ask  you  which  of  the  two  he  that  is  a 
real  Christian  will  give  up,  sinning  or  praying. 

Mr.  Bragwell  began  to  feel  that  he  had  not 
the  best  of  the  argument,  and  was  afraid  he  was 
making  no  great  figure  in  the  eyes  of  his  friend. 
Luckily,  however,  he  was  relieved  from  the  dif¬ 
ficulty  into  which  the  necessity  of  making  some 
answer  must  have  brought  him,  by  finding  they 
were  come  to  the  end  of  their  little  journey  :  and 
he  never  beheld  the  Bunch  of  Grapes,  which 
decorated  the  sign  of  the  Golden  Lion,  with 
more  real  satisfaction. 

I  refer  my  readers  for  the  transactions  at  the 
Golden  Lion,  and  for  the  sad  adventures  which 
afterwards  befel  Mr.  Bragwell’s  family,  to  the 
fifth  part  of  the  History  of  the  Two  Wealthy 
Farmers. 


PART  V. 

THE  GOLDEN  LION. 

Ma.  Bragwell  and  Mr.  Worthy  alighted  at 
the  Golden  Lion.  It  was  market-day  :  the  inn, 
the  yard,  the  town  was  all  alive. — Bragwell  was 
quite  in  his  element.  Money,  company,  and 
good  cheer  always  set  his  spirits  afloat.  He  felt 
himself  the  principal  man  in  the  scene.  lie  had 
three  great  objects  in  view;  the  sale  of  his  land; 
the  letting  Mr.  Worthy  see  how  much  ho  was 
looked  up  to  by  so  many  substantial  people,  and 


the  showing  these  people  what  a  wise  man  his 
most  intimate  friend,  Mr.  Worthy  was.  It  was 
his  way  to  try  to  borrow  a  little  credit  from  every 
person,  and  every  thing  he  was  connected  with, 
and  by  that  credit  to  advance  his  interest  and 
increase  his  wealth. 

The  farmers  met  in  a  large  room  ;  and  while 
they  were  transacting  their  various  concerns, 
those  whose  pursuits  were  the  same,  naturally 
herded  together.  The  tanners  were  drawn  to 
one  corner,  by  the  common  interest  which  they 
took  in  bark  and  hides.  A  useful  debate  was 
carrying  on  at  another  little  table,  whether  the 
practice  of  sowing  wheat  or  of  planting  it  were 
most  profitable.  Another  set  were  disputing 
whether  horses  or  oxen  were  best  for  ploughs. 
Those  who  were  concerned  in  canals,  sought 
the  company  of  other  canallers ;  while  some, 
who  were  interested  in  the  new  bill  for  inclo¬ 
sures,  wisely  looked  out  for  such  as  knew  most 
about  waste  lands. 

Mr.  Worthy  was  pleased  with  all  these  sub¬ 
jects,  and  picked  up  something  useful  on  each. 
It  was  a  saying  of  his,  that  most  men  under¬ 
stood  some  one  thing,  and  that  he  who  was 
wise  would  try  to  learn  from  every  man  some¬ 
thing  on  the  subject  he  best  knew;  but  Mr. 
Worthy  made  a  further  use  of  the  whole.  What 
a  pity  is  it,  said  he,  that  Christians  are  not  so 
desirous  to  turn  their  time  to  good  account  as 
men  of  business  are  !  When  shall  we  see  reli¬ 
gious  persons  as  anxious  to  derive  profit  from 
the  experience  of  others  as  these  farmers'?  When 
shall  we  see  them  as  eager  to  turn  their  time  to 
good  account  ?  While  I  approve  these  men  for 
not  being  slothful  in  business,  let  me  improve 
the  hint,  by  being  also  fervent  in  spirit. 

Showing  how  much  wiser  the  children  of  this 

generation  are  than  the  children  of  Light._ 

When  the  hurry  was  a  little  over,  Mr.  Brag 
well  took  a  turn  on  the  bowling-green.  Mr. 
Worthy  followed  him,  to  ask  why  the  sale  of  the 
estate  was  not  brought  forward.  Let  the  auc¬ 
tioneer  proceed  to  business,  said  he  ;  the  com¬ 
pany  will  be  glad  to  get  home  by  daylight.  I 
speak  mosWy  with  a  view  to  others;  for  I  do  not 
think  of  being  a  purchaser  myself.  I  know  it, 
said  Bragwell,  or  I  would  not  be  such  a  fool  as 
to  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  But  is  it  really 
possible  (proceeded  he,  with  a  smile  of  contempt) 
that  you  should  think  I  will  sell  my  estate 
before  dinner  ?  Mr.  Worthy,  you  are  a  clever 
man  at  books,  and  such  things  ;  and  perhaps 
can  make  out  an  account  on  paper  in  a  hand¬ 
somer  manner  than  I  can.  But  I  never  found 
much  was  to  be  got  by  fine  writing.  As  to 
figures,  I  can  carry  enough  of  them  in  my  head 
to  add,  divide,  and  multiply  more  money  than 
your  learning  will  ever  give  you  the  fingering 
of.  You  may  beat  me  at  a  book,  but  you  are  a 
very  child  at  a  bargain.  Sell  my  land  before 
dinner  indeed  ! 

Mr.  Worthy  was  puzzled  to  guess  how  a  man 
was  to  show  more  wisdom  by  selling  a  piece  of 
ground  at  one  hour  than  another,  ana  desired 
an  explanation.  Bragwell  felt  rather  more  con¬ 
tempt  for  his  understanding  than  ho  had  ever 
done  before.  Look’ee,  Mr.  Worthy,  said  he,  I 
do  not  think  that  knowledge  is  of  any  use  to  % 


148 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


man,  unless  he  has  sense  enough  to  turn  it  to 
account.  Men  are  my  books,  Mr.  Worthy  ;  and 
it  is  by  reading,  spelling,  and  putting  them  to¬ 
gether  to  good  purpose,  that  I  have  got  up  in 
the  world.  I  shall  give  you  a  proof  of  this  to¬ 
day.  These  farmers  are  most  of  them  come  to 
the  Lion  with  a  view  of  purchasing  this  bit  of 
land  of  mine,  if  they  should  like  the  bargain. 
Now,  as  you  know  a  thing  can’t  be  any  great 
bargain  both  to  the  buyer  and  the  seller  too,  to 
them  and  to  me,  it  becomes  me  as  a  man  of 
sense,  who  has  the  good  of  his  family  at  heart, 
to  secure  the  bargain  to  myself.  I  would  not 
cheat  any  man,  sir,  but  I  think  it  fair  enough  to 
turn  his  weakness  to  my  own  advantage ;  there 
is  no  law  against  that,  you  know ;  and  this  is 
the  use  of  one  man’’s  having  more  sense  than 
another.  So,  whenever  I  have  a  piece  of  land  to 
sell,  I  always  give  a  handsome  dinner,  with 
plenty  of  punch  and  strong  beer.  We  fill  up 
the  morning  with  other  business  ;  and  I  care¬ 
fully  keep  back  my  talk  about  the  purchase  till 
we  have  dined.  At  dinner  we  have,  of  course, 
a  slice  of  politics.  This  puts  most  of  us  into  a 
passion,  and  you  know  anger  is  thirsty.  Besides, 
‘  Church  and  King’  naturally  brings  on  a  good 
many  other  toasts.  Now,  as  I  am  master  of  the 
feast,  you  know  it  would  be  shabby  in  me  to 
save  my  liquor  ;  so  I  push  about  the  glass  one 
way,  and  the  tankard  the  other,  till  all  my  com¬ 
pany  are  as  merry  as  kings.  Every  man  is  de¬ 
lighted  to  see  what  a  fine  hearty  fellow  he  has 
to  deal  with,  and  Mr.  Bragwell  receives  a  thou¬ 
sand  compliments.  By  this  time  they  have 
gained  as  much  in  good  humour  as  they  have 
lost  in  sober  judgment,  and  this  is  the  proper 
moment  for  setting  the  auctioneer  to  work,  and 
this  I  commonly  do  to  such  good  purpose,  that 
I  go  home  with  my  purse  a  score  or  two  pounds 
heavier  than  if  they  had  not  been  warmed  by 
their  dinner.  In  the  morning  men  are  cool  and 
suspicious,  and  have  all  their  wits  about  them  ; 
but  a  cheerful  glass  cures  all  distrust.  And, 
what  is  lucky,  I  add  to  my  credit  as  well  as  my 
pocket,  and  get  more  praise  for  my  dinner  than 
blame  for  my  bargain. 

Mr.  Worthy  was  struck  with  the  absurd  va¬ 
nity  which  could  tempt  a  man  to  own  himself 
guilty  of  an  unfair  action  for  the  sake  of  show¬ 
ing  his  wisdom.  He  was  beginning  to  express 
his  disapprobation,  when  they  were  told  dinner 
was  on  table.  They  went  in,  and  were  soon 
seated.  All  was  mirth  and  good  cheer.  Every 
body  agreed  that  no  one  gave  such  hearty  din¬ 
ners  as  Mr.  Bragwell.  Nothing  was  pitiful 
where  he  was  master  of  the  feast.  Bragwell, 
who  looked  with  pleasure  on  the  excellent  din¬ 
ner  before  him,  and  enjoyed  the  good  account 
to  which  he  should  turn  it,  heard  their  praises 
with  delight,  and  cast  an  eye  on  Worthy,  as 
much  as  to  say  who  is  the  wise  man  now. 
Having  a  mind,  for  his  own  credit,  to  make  his 
friend  talk,  he  turned  to  him,  saying,  Mr.  Wor¬ 
thy,  I  believe  no  peo{)le  in  the  world  enjoy  life 
more  than  men  of  our  class.  We  have  money 
and  power,  we  live  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  and 
have  as  good  a  right  to  gentility  as  the  best. 

As  to  gentility,  Mr.  Bragwell,  replied  Wor¬ 
thy,  I  am  not  sure  that  this  is  among  the  wisest 
of  our  pretensions.  But  I  will  say,  that  our’s  is 


a  creditable  and  respectable  business.  In  am 
cient  times,  farming  was  the  employment  of 
princes  and  patriarchs ;  and,  now-a-days,  an 
honest,  humane,  sensible,  English  yeoman,  I 
will  be  bold  to  say,  is  not  only  a  very  useful, 
but  an  honourable  character.  But  then,  he  must 
not  merely  think  of  enjoying  life  as  you  call  it, 
but  he  must  think  of  living  up  to  the  great  ends 
for  which  he  was  sent  into  the  world.  A  wealthy 
farmer  not  only  has  it  in  his  power  to  live  well, 
but  to  do  much  good.  He  is  not  only  the  father 
of  his  own  family,  but  his  workmen,  his  depen¬ 
dants,  and  the  poor  at  large,  especially  in  these 
hard  times.  He  has  it  in  his  power  to  raise  into 
credit  all  the  parish  offices  which  have  fallen 
into  disrepute  by  getting  into  bad  hands ;  and 
he  can  convert,  what  have  been  falsely  thought 
mean  offices,  into  very  important  ones,  by  his 
just  and  Christian  like  manner  of  filling  them. 
An  upright  juryman,  a  conscientious  constable, 
a  humane  overseer,  an  independent  elector,  an 
active  superintendent  of  a  work-house,  a  just 
arbitrator  in  public  disputes,  a  kind  counsellor 
in  private  troubles ;  such  an  one,  I  say,  fills  up 
a  station  in  society  no  less  necessary,  and,  as 
far  as  it  reaches,  scarcely  less  important  than 
that  of  a  magistrate,  a  sheriff  of  a  county,  or 
even  a  member  of  parliament.  That  can  never 
be  a  slight  or  degrading  office,  on  which  the 
happiness  of  a  whole  parish  may  depend. 

Bragwell,  who  thought  the  good  sense  of  his 
friend  reflected  credit  on  himself,  encouraged 
Worthy  to  go  on,  but  he  did  it  in  his  own  vain 
way.  Ay,  very  true,  Mr.  Worthy,  said  he,  you 
are  right;  a  leading  man  in  our  class  ought  to 
be  looked  up  to  as  an  example,  as  you  say  ;  in 
order  to  which,  he  should  do  things  handsomely 
and  liberally,  and  not  grudge  himself,  or  his 
friends,  any  tiling  ;  casting  an  eye  of  compla¬ 
cency  on  the  good  dinner  he  had  provided. 
True,  replied  Mr.  Worthy,  he  should  be  an  ex¬ 
ample  of  simplicity,  sobriety,  and  plainness  of 
manners.  But  he  will  do  well,  added  he,  not  to 
affect  a  frothy  gentility,  which  will  sit  but 
clumsily  upon  him.  If  he  has  money,  let  him 
spend  prudently,  lay  up  moderately  for  his 
children,  and  give  liberally  to  the  poor.  But 
let  him  rather  seek  to  dignify  his  own  station 
by  his  virtues,  than  to  get  above  it  by  his  vanity. 
If  he  acts  thus,  then,  as  long  as  his  country 
lasts,  a  farmer  of  England  will  be  looked  upon 
as  one  of  its  most  valuable  members  ;  nay  more, 
by  this  conduct,  he  may  contribute  to  make 
England  last  the  longer.  The  riches  of  the 
farmer,  corn  and  cattle,  are  the  true  riches  of  a 
nation  ;  but  let  him  remember,  that  though  corn 
and  cattle  enrich  a  country,  nothing  but  justice, 
integrity,  and  religion,  can  preserve  it. 

Here  one  of  the  company,  who  was  known  to 
be  a  man  of  loose  principles,  and  who  seldom 
went  to  public  worship,  said  he  had  no  objec¬ 
tion  to  religion,  and  was  always  ready  to  testify 
his  regard  to  it  by  drinking  church  and  king. 
On  this  Mr.  Worthy  remarked,  that  he  was 
afraid  that  teo  many  contented  themselves  with 
making  this  toast  include  the  whole  of  their  re¬ 
ligion,  if  not  of  their  lojalty.  It  is  with  real 
sorrow,  continued  he,  that  I  am  compelled  to 
observe,  that  though  there  are  numberless 
honourable  instances  to  the  contrary,  yet  I  havo 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


149 


seen  more  contempt  and  neglect  of  Christianity 
in  men  of  iDur  calling,  than  in  almost  any  other. 
They  too  frequently  hale  the  rector  on  account 
of  his  tithes,  to  which  he  has  as  good  a  right  as 
tliey  have  to  their  farms,  and  the  curate  on  ac¬ 
count  of  his  poverty;  but  the  truth  is,  religion 
itself  is  often  the  concealed  object  of  their  dis¬ 
like.  I  know  too  many,  who,  while  they  affect 
a  violent  outward  zeal  for  the  church,  merely 
because  they  conceive  its  security  to  be  somehow 
connected  with  their  own  political  advantages, 
yet  prove  the  hollowness  of  their  attachment,  by 
showing  little  regard  to  its  ministers,  and  less 
to  its  ordinances. 

Young  Wilson,  the  worthy  grazier,  whom 
Miss  Bragwell  turned  off  because  he  did  not  un¬ 
derstand  French  dances,  thanked  Mr.  Worthy 
for  what  he  had  said,  and  hoped  he  should  be 
the  better  for  it  as  long  as  ho  lived,  and  desired 
his  leave  to  be  better  acquainted.  Most  of  the 
others  declared  they  had  never  heard  a  finer 
speech,  and  then,  as  is  usual,  proceeded  to  show 
the  good  effect  it  had  on  them,  by  loose  conver¬ 
sation,  hard  drinking,  and  whatever  could  coun¬ 
teract  all  that  Worthy  had  been  saying. 

Mr.  Worthy  was  much  concerned  to  hear 
Mr.  Bragwell,  after  dinner,  whisper  to  the 
waiter,  to  put  less  and  less  water  into  every 
fresh  bowl  of  punch.  This  was  his  old  way ; 
if  the  time  they  had  to  sit  was  long,  then  the 
punch  was  to  be  weaker,  as  he  saw  no  good 
in  wasting  money  to  make  it  stronger  than  the 
time  required.  But  if  time  pressed,  then  the 
strength  was  to  be  increased  in  due  proportion, 
as  a  small  quantity  must  then  intoxicate  them 
as  much  in  a  short  time  as  would  be  required 
of  a  greater  quantity  had  the  time  been  longer. 
This  was  one  of  Mr.  Bragwell’s  nice  calcula¬ 
tions  ;  and  this  was  the  sort  of  skill  on  which  he 
90  much  valued  himself. 

At  length  the  guests  were  properly  primed 
for  business;  just  in  that  convenient  stage  of 
intoxication  which  makes  men  warm  and  rash, 
yet  keeps  short  of  that  absolute  drunkenness, 
which  disqualifies  for  business,  the  auctioneer 
set  to  work.  All  were  bidders,  and,  if  possible, 
all  would  have  been  purchasers ;  so  happily  had 
the  feast  and  the  punch  operated.  They  bid  on 
with  a  still  increasing  spirit,  till  they  got  so 
much  above  the  value  of  the  land,  that  Brag¬ 
well  Vv'ith  a  wink  and  a  whisper,  said :  Who 
would  sell  his  land  fasting?  Eh !  Worthy  ?  At 
length  the  estate  was  knocked  down,  at  a  price 
very  far  above  its  worth. 

As  soon  as  it  was  sold,  Bragwell  again  said 
softly  to  Worthy,  Five  from  fifty  and  there  re¬ 
main  forty-five.  The  dinner  and  drink  won’t 
cost  mo  five  pounds,  and  I  have  got  fifty  more 
than  the  land  was  worth.  Spend  a  shilling  to 
gain  a  pound  !  This  is  what  I  call  practical 
arithmetic,  Mr.  Worthy. 

Mr.  Worthy  was  glad  to  get  out  of  this  scene  ; 
and  seeing  that  his  friend  was  quite  sober,  he 
resolved  as  they  rode  home,  to  deal  plainly  with 
him.  Bragwell  had  found  out,  among  his  cal¬ 
culations,  that  there  were  some  sins  which  could 
only  be  committed,  by  a  prudent  man,  one  at  a 
time.  For  instance,  he  knew  that  a  man  could 
not  well  get  rich  and  get  drunk  at  the  same  mo¬ 
ment  ;  so  that  he  used  to  practice  one  first,  and 


the  other  after  ;  but  he  had  found  out  that  some 
vices  made  very  good  company  togetlier  ;  thus, 
while  he  had  watched  himself  in  drinking,  lest 
he  should  become  as  unfit  to  sell  as  his  guests 
were  to  buy,  he  had  indulged,  without  mea¬ 
sure,  in  the  good  dinner  he  had  provided.  Mr. 
Worthy,  I  say,  seeing  him  able  to  bear  reason, 
rubuked  him  for  this  day’s  proceedings  with 
some  severity.  Bragwell  bore  his  reproofs  with 
that  sort  of  patience  which  arises  from  an 
opinion  of  one’s  own  wisdom,  accompanied  by  a 
recent  flush  of  prosperity.  He  behaved  with 
that  gay  good  humour,  which  grows  out  of 
united  vanity  and  good  fortune.  You  are  too 
squeamish,  Mr.  Worthy,  said  he,  I  have  done 
nothing  discreditable.  These  men  came  with 
their  eyes  open.  There  is  no  compulsion  used. 
They  are  free  to  bid  or  to  let  it  alone.  I  make 
them  welcome,  and  I  shall  not  be  thought  a 
bit  the  worse  of  by  them  to-morrow,  when  they 
are  sober.  Others  do  it  besides  me,  and  I  shall 
never  be  ashamed  of  any  thing  as  long  as  I  have 
custom  on  my  side. 

Worthy.  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Bragwell,  to  hear 
you  support  such  practices  by  such  arguments. 
There  is  not,  perhaps,  a  more  dangerous  snare 
to  the  souls  of  men  than  is  to  be  found  in  that 
word  CUSTOM.  It  is  a  word  invented  to  reconcile 
corruption  with  credit,  and  sin  with  safety. 
But  no  custom,  no  fashion,  no  combination  of 
men,  to  set  up  a  false  standard  can  ever  make 
a  wrong  action  right.  That  a  thing  is  often 
done,  is  so  far  from  a  proof  of  its  being  right,  that 
it  is  the  very  reason  which  will  set  a  thinking 
man  to  inquire  if  it  be  not  really  wrong,  lest  he 
should  bo  following,  ‘  a  multitude  to  do  evil.’ 
Right  is  right,  though  only  one  man  in  a  thou¬ 
sand  pursues  it;  and  wrong  wiil  be  forever 
wrong,  though  it  be  the  allowed  practice  of  the 
other  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine.  If  this 
shameful  custom  be  really  common,  which  I  can 
hardly  believe,  that  is  a  fresh  reason  why  a  con- 
scientions  man  should  set  his  face  against  it. 
And  I  must  go  so  far  as  to  say  (you  will  excuse 
me  Mr.  Bragwell)  that  I  see  no  great  difference, 
in  the  eye  of  conscience,  whatever  there  may  be 
in  the  eye  of  the  law,  between  your  making  a 
man  first  lose  his  reason,  and  then  getting  fifty 
guineas  out  of  his  pocket,  because  he  has  lost  it , 
and  your  picking  the  fifty  guineas  out  of  his 
pocket,  if  you  had  met  him  dead  drunk  in  his 
way  home  to-night.  Nay,  he  who  meets  a  man 
already  drunk  and  robs  him,  commits  but  one 
sin ;  while  he  who  makes  him  drunk  first  that 
he  may  rob  him  afterwards,  commits  two. 

Bragwell  gravely  replied  :  Mr.  Worthy,  while 
I  have  the  practice  of  people  of  credit  to  sup¬ 
port  me,  and  the  law  of  the  land  to  protect  me, 
I  see  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  any  thing  I  do. 
Mr.  Bragwell,  answered  Worthy,  a  truly  honest 
man  is  not  always  looking  sharp  about  him,  to 
see  how  far  custom  and  the  law  will  bear  him 
out ;  if  ho  be  honest  on  principle,  he  will  consult 
the  law  of  his  conscience,  and  if  he  be  a  Chris¬ 
tian,  he  will  consult  the  written  law  of  God. 
We  never  deceive  ourselves  more  than  when 
we  overreach  others.  You  would  not  allow  that 
you  had  robbed  your  neighbour  for  tlia  world, 
yet  you  are  not  ashamed  to  own  you  have  out¬ 
witted  him.  I  have  road  this  great  truth  in  the 


150 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


works  of  a  heathen^  Mr.  Bragwell,  that  the  chief 
misery  of  man  arises  from  his  not  knowing  how 
to  make  right  calculations. 

Bragwell.  Sir,  the  remark  does  not  belong  to 
me.  I  have  not  made  an  error  of  a  farthing. 
Look  at  the  account,  sir — right  to  the  smallest 
fraction. 

Worthi^.  Sir,  I  am  talking  of  final  accounts  ; 
spiritual  calculations;  arithmetic  in  the  long 
run.  Now,  in  this,  your  real  Christian  is  the 
only  true  calculator ;  he  has  found  out  that  we 
shall  be  richer  in  the  end,  by  denying,  than  by 
indulging  ourselves.  He  knows  that  when 
the  balance  comes  to  be  struck,  when  profit  and 
loss  shall  be  summed  up,  and  the  final  account 
adjusted,  that  whatever  ease,  prosperity,  and  de¬ 
light  we  had  in  this  world,  yet  if  we  have  lost 
our  souls  in  the  end,  we  CEinnot  reckon  that  we 
have  made  a  good  bargain.  We  cannot  pretend 
that  a  few  items  of  present  pleasure  make  any 
great  figure,  set  over  against  the  sum  total  of 
eternal  misery.  So  you  see  it  is  only  for  want 
of  a  good  head  at  calculation  that  men  prefer 
time  to  eternity,  pleasure  to  holiness,  earth  to 
heaven.  You  see  if  we  get  our  neighbour’s 
money  at  the  price  of  our  own  integrity  ;  hurt 
his  good  name,  but  destroy  our  own  souls ;  raise 
our  outward  character,  but  wound  our  inward 
conscience  ;  when  we  come  to  the  last  reckon¬ 
ing,  we  shall  find  that  we  were  only  knaves  in 
the  second  instance,  but  fools  in  the  first.  In 
short,  we  shall  find  that  whatever  other  wisdom 
we  possessed,  we  were  utterly  ignorant  of  the 
skill  of  true  calculation. 

Notwithstanding  this  rebuff,  Mr.  Bragwell 
got  home  in  high  spirits,  for  no  arguments 
could  hinder  him  from  feeling  that  he  had  the 
fifty  guineas  in  his  purse. 

There  is  to  a  worldly  man  something  so  irre¬ 
sistible  in  the  actual  possession  of  present,  and 
visible,  and  palpable  pleasure,  that  he  considers 
it  as  a  proof  of  his  wisdom  to  set  them  in  de¬ 
cided  opposition  to  the  invisible  realities  of 
eternity. 

As  soon  as  Bragwell  came  in,  he  gayly  threw 
the  money  he  had  received  on  the  table,  and 
desired  his  wife  to  lock  it  up.  Instead  of  re¬ 
ceiving  it  with  her  usual  satisfaction,  she  burst 
into  a  violent  fit  of  passion,  and  threw  it  back 
to  him.  You  may  keep  your  cash  yourself, 
said  she.  It  is  all  over — we  want  no  more 
money.  You  are  a  ruined  man!  A  wicked 
creature,  scraping  and  working  as  we  have 
done  for  her  1 — Bragwell  trembled,  but  durst 
not  ask  what  he  dreaded  to  hear.  His  wife 
spared  him  the  trouble,  by  crying  out  as  soon 
as  her  rage  permitted  :  The  girl  is  ruined ; 
Polly  is  gone  off!  Poor  Bragwell’s  heart  sunk 
within  him  ;  he  grew  sick  and  giddy,  and  as  his 
wife’s  rage  swallowed  up  her  grief,  so,  in  his 
grief,  he  almost  forgot  his  anger.  The  purse 
fell  from  his  hand,  and  he  cast  a  look  of  anguish 
upon  it,  finding,  for  the  first  time  that  money 
could  not  relieve  his  misery. 

Mr.  Worthy,  who,  though  much  concerned, 
was  less  discomposed,  now  called  to  mind,  that 
the  young  lady  had  not  returned  with  her  mo¬ 
ther  and  sister  the  night  before :  he  begged 
Mrs.  Bragwell  to  explain  this  sad  story.  She, 
instead  of  soothing  her  husband,  fell  to  reproach¬ 


ing  him.  It  is  all  your  fault,  said  she ;  you 
were  a  fool  for  your  pains. — If  I  had  had  my 
way  the  girls  would  never  have  kept  company 
with  any  but  men  of  substance,  and  then  they 
could  not  have  been  ruined.  Mrs.  Bragwell, 
said  Worthy,  if  she  has  chosen  a  bad  man,  it 
would  be  still  a  misfortune,  even  though  he  had 
been  rich.  O,  that  would  alter  the  case,  said 
she,  a/at  sorrow  is  better  than  a  lean  one.  But 
to  marry  a  beggar !  there  is  no  sin  like  that. 
Here  Miss  Betsey,  who  stood  sullenly  by,  put 
in  a  word,  and  said,  her  sister,  however,  had 
not  disgraced  herself  by  having  married  a  far- 
mer  or  a  tradesman ;  she  had,  at  least,  made 
choice  of  a  gentleman.  What  marriage !  what 
gentleman  !  cried  the  afflicted  father.  Tell  me 
the  worst !  He  was  now  informed  that  his  dar¬ 
ling  daughter  was  gone  off  with  a  strolling 
player,  who  had  been  acting  in  the  neighbouring 
villages  lately. — Miss  Betsey  again  put  in,  say¬ 
ing,  he  was  no  stroller,  but  a  gentleman  in  dis¬ 
guise,  who  only  acted  for  his  own  diversion. 
Does  he  so,  said  the  now  furious  Bragwell, 
then  he  shall  be  transported  for  mine. 

At  this  moment  a  letter  was  brought  him 
from  his  new  son-in-law,  who  desired  his  leave 
to  wait  upon  him,  and  implore  his  forgive¬ 
ness.  He  owned  he  had  been  shopman  to  a 
haberdasher ;  but  thinking  his  person  and  ta¬ 
lents  ought  not  to  be  thrown  away  upon  trade, 
and  being  also  a  little  behindhand,  he  had  taken 
to  the  stage  with  a  view  of  making  his  fortune  : 
that  he  had  married  Miss  Bragwell  entirely  for 
love,  and  was  sorry  to  mention  so  paltry  a 
thing  as  money,  which  he  despised,  but  that  his 
wants  were  pressing  :  his  landlord,  to  whom  he 
was  in  debt,  having  been  so  vulgar  as  to  threaten 
to  send  him  to  prison.  He  ended  with  saying  : 
‘  I  have  been  obliged  to  shock  your  daughter’s 
delicacy,  by  confessing  my  unlucky  real  name  • 
I  believe  I  owe  part  of  my  success  with  her,  to 
my  having  assumed  that  of  Augustus  Frederick 
Theodosius.  She  is  inconsolable  at  this  con¬ 
fession,  which,  as  you  are  now  my  father,  I 
must  also  make  to  you,  and  subscribe  myself, 
with  many  blushes,  by  the  vulgar  name  of  your 
dutiful  son, 

Timothy  Incle.’ 

‘  O !’  cried  the  afilicted  father,  as  he  tore  the 
letter  in  a  rage,  ‘  Miss  Bragwell  married  to  a 
strolling  actor  !  How  shall  I  bear  it  ?’ — ‘  Why, 
I  would  not  bear  it  at  all,’  cried  the  enraged  mo¬ 
ther  ;  ‘  I  would  never  see  her ;  I  would  never 
forgive  her  ;  I  would  let  her  starve  at  the  cor¬ 
ner  of  the  barn,  while  that  rascal,  with  all  those 
pagan,  popish  names,  was  ranting  away  at  the 
other.’ — ‘  Nay,’  said  Miss  Betsey,  ‘  if  he  is  only 
a  shopman,  and  if  his  name  be  really  Timothy 
Incle,  I  would  never  forgive  her  neither.  But 
who  would  have  thought  it  by  his  looks,  and  by 
his  monstrous  genteel  behaviour?  no,  he  never 
can  have  so  vulgar  a  name.’ 

‘Come,  come,’  said  Mr.  Worthy,  ‘were  he 
really  an  honest  haberdasher,  I  should  think 
there  was  no  other  harm  done,  except  the  dis¬ 
obedience  of  the  thing.  Mr.  Bragwell,  this  is 
no  time  to  blame  you,  or  hardly  to  reason  with 
you.  I  feel  for  you  sincerely.  I  ought  not, 
perhaps,  just  at  present,  to  reproach  you  for  the 
mistaken  manner  in  which  you  have  bred  up 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  ISI 


your  daughters,  as  your  error  has  brought  its 
punishment  along  with  it.  You  now  see,  be¬ 
cause  you  now  feel,  the  evil  of  a  false  educa- 
tion.  It  has  ruined  your  daughter ;  your  whole 
plan  unavoidably  led  to  some  such  end.  The 
large  sums  you  spent  to  qualify  them,  as  you 
thought,  for  a  high  station,  only  served  to  make 
them  despise  their  own,  and  could  do  them  no¬ 
thing  but  harm,  while  your  habits  of  life  pro¬ 
perly  confined  them  to  company  of  a  lower  class. 
While  they  were  better  drest  than  the  daughters 
of  the  first  gentry,  they  w  ere  worse  taught  as  to 
Teal  knowledge,  than  the  daughters  of  your 
_ploughmen.  Their  vanity  has  been  raised  by 
excessive  finery,  and  kept  alive  by  excessive 
flattery.  Every  evil  temper  has  been  fostered 
by  indulgence.  Their  pride  has  never  been 
controlled;  their  self-will  has  never  been  sub¬ 
dued  ;  their  idleness  has  laid  them  open  to 
overy  temptation,  and  their  abundance  has  en¬ 
abled  them  to  gratify  every  desire;  their  time, 
that  precious  talent,  has  been  entirely  wasted. 
Every  thing  they  have  been  taught  to  do  is  of 
no  use,  while  they  are  utterly  unacquainted 
with  all  which  they  ought  to  have  known.  I 
deplore  Miss  Polly’s  false  step.  That  she  should 
have  married  a  runaway  shopman,  turned 
stroller,  I  truly  lament.  But  for  what  better 
husband  was  she  qualified  ?  For  the  wife  of  a 
farmer  she  was  too  idle  :  for  the  wife  of  a  trades¬ 
man  she  was  too  expensive :  for  the  wife  of  a 
gentleman  she  was  too  ignorant.  You,  your¬ 
self,  was  most  to  blame.  You  expected  her  to 
act  wisely,  though  you  never  taught  her  that 
fear  of  God  which  is  the  beginning  of  wisdom. 
1  owe  it  to  you,  as  a  friend,  and  to  myself  as 
a  Christian,  to  declare,  that  your  practices  in 
the  common  transactions  of  life,  as  well  as  your 
present  misfortune,  are  almost  the  natural  con¬ 
sequences  of  those  false  principles  which  I  pro¬ 
tested  against  when  you  were  at  my  house.* 
Mrs.  Bragwell  attempted  several  times  to  in¬ 
terrupt  Mr.  Worthy,  but  her  husband  would  not 
permit  it.  He  felt  the  force  of  all  his  friend  said, 
and  encouraged  him  to  proceed.  Mr.  Worthy  thus 
went  on  :  ‘  It  grieves  me  to  say  how  much  your 
own  indiscretion  has  contributed  even  to  bring 
on  your  present  misfortune.  You  gave  your 
countenance  to  this  very  company  of  strollers, 
though  you  knew  they  were  acting  in  defiance  to 
the  laws  of  the  land,  to  say  no  worse.  They  go 
from  town  to  town,  and  from  barn  to  barn,  strip¬ 
ping  the  poor  of  their  money,  the  young  of 
their  innocence,  and  all  of  their  time.  Do  you 
remember  with  how  much  pride  you  told  me 
that  you  had  bespoke  The  Bold  Stroke  for  a 
Wife,  for  the  benefit  of  this  very  Mr.  Frederic 
Theodosius  ?  To  this  pernicious  ribaldry  you 
not  only  carried  your  own  family,  but  wasted  I 
know  not  how  much  money  in  treating  your 
workmen’s  wives  and  children,  in  these  hard 
times  too  when  they  have  scarcely  bread  to  eat, 
or  a  shoe  on  their  feet :  and  all  this  only  that 
you  might  have  the  absurd  pleasure  of  seeing 
those  flattering  words.  By  desire  of  Mr.  Brag- 
toell,  stuck  up  in  print  at  the  public  house,  on 
the  blacksmith’s  shed,  at  the  turnpike-gate,  and 
on  the  barn-door.’ 


Mr.  Bragwell  acknowledged  that  his  friend’s 
rebuke  was  too  just,  and  he  looked  so  very  con¬ 
trite  as  to  raise  the  pity  of  Mr.  Worthy,  who,  in 
a  mild  voice,  thus  went  on  :  ‘  What  I  have  said 
is  not  so  much  to  reproach  you  with  the  ruin  of 
one  daughter,  as  from  a  desire  to  save  the  other. 
Let  Miss  Betsey  go  home  with  me.  I  do  not 
undertake  to  be  her  jailer,  but  I  will  be  her 
friend.  She  will  find  in  my  daughters  kind 
companions,  and  in  my  wife  a  prudent  guide, 
I  know  she  will  dislike  us  at  first,  but  I  do  not 
despair  in  time  of  eonvineing  her  that  a  sober, 
humble,  useful,  pious  life,  is  as  necessary  to 
make  us  happy  on  earth,  as  it  is  to  fit  us  for 
heaven.’ 

Poor  Miss  Betsey,  though  she  declared  it 
would  he  frightful  dull  and  monstrous  vulgar 
and  dismal  melancholy,  yet  was  she  so  terrified 
at  the  discontent  and  grumbling  which  she 
would  have  to  endure  at  home,  that  she  sullenly 
consented.  She  had  none  of  that  filial  tender¬ 
ness  which  led  her  to  wish  to  stay  and  sooth 
and  comfort  her  afflicted  father.  All  she 
thought  about  was  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  her 
mother’s  ill  humour,  and  to  carry  so  much 
finery  with  her  as  to  fill  the  Miss  Worthy s  with 
envy  and  respect.  Poor  girt !  she  did  not  know 
that  envy  was  a  feeling  they  never  indulged ; 
and  that  fine  clothes  were  the  last  thing  to  draw 
their  respect, 

Mr.  Worthy  took  her  home  next  day.  When 
they  reached  his  house  they  found  there  young 
Wilson,  Miss  Betsey’s  old  admirer.  She  was 
much  pleased  at  this,  and  resolved  to  treat  him 
well.  But  her  good  or  ill  treatment  now  signi¬ 
fied  but  little.  This  young  grazier  reverenced 
Mr.  Worthy’s  character,  and  ever  since  he  had 
met  him  at  tlie  Lion,  had  been  thinking  what  a 
happiness  it  would  be  to  marry  a  young  woman 
bred  up  by  such  a  father.  He  had  heard  much 
of  the  modesty  and  discretion  of  both  the  daugh¬ 
ters,  but  his  inclination  now  determined  him  in 
favour  of  the  elder. 

Mr.  Worthy,  who  knew  him  to  be  a  young 
man  of  good  sense  and  sound  principles,  allow¬ 
ed  him  uo  become  a  visitor  at  his  house,  but  de¬ 
ferred  his  consent  to  the  marriage  till  he  knew 
him  more  thoroughly.  Mr.  Wilson,  from  what 
he  saw  of  the  domestic  piety  of  this  family,  im¬ 
proved  daily,  both  in  the  knowledge  and  practice 
of  religion ;  and  Mr.  Worthy  soon  formed  him 
into  a  most  valuable  character.  During  this  time 
Miss  Bragwell’s  hopes  had  revived  ;  but  though 
she  appeared  in  a  new  dress  almost  every  day 
she  had  the  mortification  of  being  beheld  with 
great  indifference  by  one  whom  she  had  always 
secretly  liked.  Mr.  Wilson  married  before  her 
face  a  girl  who  was  greatly  her  inferior  in  for¬ 
tune,  person,  and  appearance ;  but  who  was 
humble,  frugal,  meek  and  pious.  Miss  Brag¬ 
well  now  strongly  felt  the  truth  of  what  Mr, 
Wilson  had  once  told  her,  that  a  woman  may 
make  an  e.xcellent  partner  for  a  dance  who 
would  make  a  very  bad  companion  for  life. 

Hitherto  Mr.  Bragwell  and  his  daughters  had 
only  learnt  to  regret  their  folly  and  vanity,  as 
it  had  produced  them  mortification  in  this  life 
whether  they  were  ever  brought  to  a  more  se¬ 
rious  sense  of  their  errors  may  be  seen  in  a  fu 
turo  part  of  this  history. 


*  See  Part  IL 


152 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


PART  VI. 

GOOD  RESOLUTIONS. 

Mr.  Bragwell  was  so  much  afflicted  at  the 
disgraceful  marriage  of  his  daughter,  who  ran 
off  with  Timothy  Incle,  the  strolling  player,  that 
he  never  fully  recovered  his  spirits.  His  cheer¬ 
fulness,  which  had  arisen  from  an  high  opinion 
of  himself,  had  been  confirmed  by  a  constant 
flow  of  uninterrupted  success  •,  and  that  is  a  sort 
of  cheerfulness  which  is  very  liable  to  be  im¬ 
paired,  because  it  lies  at  the  mercy  of  every  ac¬ 
cident  and  cross  event  in  life.  But  though  his 
pride  was  now  disappointed,  his  misfortunes  had 
not  taught  him  any  humility,  because  he  had 
not  discovered  that  they  were  caused  by  his  own 
fault;  nor  had  he  acquired  any  patience  or  sub¬ 
mission  because  he  had  not  learnt  that  all  afflic¬ 
tions  come  from  the  hand  of  God,  to  awaken  us 
to  a  deep  sense  of  our  sins,  and  to  draw  off  our 
hearts  from  the  perishing  vanities  of  this  life. 
Besides,  Mr.  Bragwell  was  one  of  those  people, 
who,  even  if  they  would  be  thought  to  bear  with 
tolerable  submission  such  trials  as  appear  to  be 
sent  more  immediately  from  Providence,  yet 
think  they  have  a  sort  of  right  to  rebel  at  every 
misfortune  which  befals  them  through  the  fault 
of  a  fellow-creature  ;  as  if  our  fellow-creatures 
were  not  the  agents  and  instruments  by  which 
Providence  often  sees  fit  to  try  or  to  punish 
us. 

In  answer  to  his  heavy  complaints,  Mr.  Wor¬ 
thy  wrote  him  a  letter,  in  which  he  expatiated 
on  the  injustice  of  our  impatience,  and  on  the 
folly  of  our  vindicating  ourselves  from  guilt  in 
the  distinctions  we  make  between  those  trials 
which  seem  to  come  more  immediately  from 
God,  and  those  which  proceed  directly  from  the 
faults  of  our  fellow-creatures.  ‘  Sickness,  losses, 
and  death,  we  think,’  continued  he,  ‘  we  dare 
not  openly  rebel  against ;  while  we  fancy  we 
are  quite  justified  in  giving  a  loose  to  our  vio¬ 
lence  when  we  suffer  by  the  hand  of  the  oppres¬ 
sor,  the  unkindness  of  the  friend,  or  the  disobe¬ 
dience  of  the  child.  But  this  is  one  of  the  delu¬ 
sions  of  our  blinded  hearts.  Ingratitude,  un¬ 
kindness,  calumny,  are  permitted  to  assail  us  by 
the  same  power  who  cuts  off  ‘  the  desire  of  our 
eyes  at  a  stroke.’  The  friend  who  betrays  us, 
and  the  daughter  who  deceives  us,  are  instru¬ 
ments  for  our  chastisement,  sent  by  the  same 
purifying  hand  who  orders  a  fit  of  sickness  to 
weaken  our  bodies,  or  a  storm  to  destroy  our 
crop,  or  a  fire  to  burn  down  our  house.  And 
we  must  look  for  the  same  r-emedy  in  the  one 
case  as  in  the  other  ;  I  mean  prayer  and  a  deep 
submission  to  the  will  of  God.  We  must  leave 
off  looking  at  second  causes,  and  look  more  at 
Him  who  sets  them  in  action.  We  must  try  to 
find  out  the  meaning  of  the  Providence ;  and 
hardly  dare  pray  to  be  delivered  from  it  till  it 
has  accomplished  in  us  the  end  for  which  it  was 
sent.’ 

His  imprudent  daughter,  Bragwell  would  not 
be  brought  to  see  or  forgive,  nor  was  the  de¬ 
grading  name  of  Mrs.  Incle  ever  allowed  to  be 
pronounced  in  his  hearing.  He  had  loved  her 
with  an  excessive  and  undue  affection ;  and 
while  she  gratified  his  vanity  by  her  beauty  and 
finery,  he  deemed  her  faults  of  little  conse¬ 


quence  ;  but  when  she  disappointed  his  ambi. 
tion  by  a  disgraceful  marriage,  all  his  natural 
affection  only  served  to  increase  his  resentment. 
Yet,  though  he  regretted  her  crime  less  than 
his  own  mortification,  he  never  ceased  in  secret 
to  lament  her  loss.  She  soon  found  out  she  was 
undone ;  and  wrote  in  a  strain  of  bitter  repent¬ 
ance  to  ask  him  for  forgiveness.  She  owned 
that  her  husband,  whom  she  had  supposed  to  bo 
a  man  of  fashion  in  disguise,  was  a  low  person 
in  distressed  circumstances.  She  implored  that 
her  father,  though  he  refused  to  give  her  hus¬ 
band  that  fortune  for  which  alone  it  was  now 
too  plain  he  had  married  her,  would  at  least  al¬ 
low  her  some  subsistence ;  for  that  Mr.  Incle 
was  much  in  debt,  and  she  feared  in  danger  of 
a  jail. 

The  father’s  heart  was  half  melted  at  this  ac¬ 
count,  and  his  affection  was  for  a  time  awaken¬ 
ed.  But  Mrs.  Bragwell  opposed  his  sending  her 
any  assistance.  She  always  made  it  a  point  of 
duty  never  to  forgive  ;  for  she  said  it  only  en¬ 
couraged  those  who  had  done  wrong  once  to  do 
worse  next  time.  For  her  part  she  had  never 
yet  been  guilty  of  so  mean  and  pitiful  a  weak¬ 
ness  as  to  forgive  any  one ;  for  to  pardon  an  in¬ 
jury  always  showed  either  want  of  spirit  to  feel 
it,  or  want  of  power  to  resent  it.  She  was  re¬ 
solved  she  would  never  squander  the  money  for 
which  she  had  worked  early  and  late,  on  a  bag¬ 
gage  who  had  thrown  herself  away  on  a  beggar, 
while  she  had  a  daughter  single,  who  might  yet 
raise  her  family  by  a  great  match.  I  am  sorry 
to  say  that  Mrs.  Brag  well’s  anger  was  not  owing 
to  the  undutifulness  of  the  daughter,  or  the 
worthlessness  of  the  husband  ;  poverty  was  in 
her  eyes  the  grand  crime.  The  doctrine  of  for¬ 
giveness,  as  a  religious  principle,  made  no  more 
a  part  of  Mr.  Bragwell’s  system  than  of  his 
wife’s ;  but  in  natural  feeling,  particularly  for 
this  offending  daughter,  he  much  exceeded 
her. 

In  a  few  months  the  youngest  Miss  Bragwell 
desired  leave  to  return  home  from  Mr.  Worthy’s. 
She  bad,  indeed,  only  consented  to  go  thither 
as  a  less  evil  of  the  two,  than  staying  in  her 
father’s  house  after  her  sister’s  elopement.  But 
the  sobriety  and  simplicity  of  Mr.  Worthy’s 
family  were  irksome  to  her.  Habits  of  vanity 
and  idleness  were  become  so  rooted  in  her  mind, 
that  any  degree  of  restraint  was  a  burthen  ;  and 
though  she  was  outwardly  civil,  it  was  easy  to 
see  that  she  longed  to  get  away.  She  resolved, 
however,  to  profit  by  her  sister’s  faults ;  and 
made  her  parents  easy  by  assuring  them  she 
never  would  throw  herself  away  on  a  man  who 
was  worth  nothing.  Encouraged  by  these  pro¬ 
mises,  which  her  parents  thought  included  the 
whole  sum  and  substance  of  human  wisdom, 
and  which  was  all  they  said  they  could  in  rca 
son  expect,  her  father  allowed  her  to  come 
home. 

Mr.  Worthy,  who  accompanied  her,  found 
Mr.  Bragwell  gloomy  and  dejected.  As  his 
house  was  no  longer  a  scene  of  vanity  and  fes¬ 
tivity,  Mr.  Bragwell  tried  to  make  himself  and 
his  friend  believe  that  he  was  grown  religious; 
whereas  he  was  only  become  discontented.  As 
he  had  always  fancied  that  piety  was  a  melan¬ 
choly,  gloomy  thing,  and  as  he  felt  his  own 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


153 


mind  really  gloomy,  he  was  willing  to  think 
that  he  was  growing  pious.  He  had,  indeed, 
gone  more  constantly  to  church,  and  had  taken 
less  pleasure  in  feasting  and  cards,  and  now 
and  then  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible;  but  all 
this  was  because  his  spirits  were  low,  and  not 
because  his  heart  was  changed.  The  outward 
actions  were  more  regular,  but  the  inward  man 
was  the  same.  The  forms  of  religion  were  re- 
sorted  to  as  a  painful  duty  :  but  this  only  added 
to  his  misery,  while  he  was  utterly  ignorant  of 
its  spirit  and  its  power.  He  still,  however,  re¬ 
served  religion  as  a  loathsome  medicine,  to 
which  he  feared  he  must  have  recourse  at  last, 
and  of  which  he  even  now  considered  every  ab¬ 
stinence  from  pleasure,  or  every  exercise  of 
piety,  as  a  bitter  dose.  His  health  also  was 
impaired,  so  that  his  friend  found  him  in  a  pi¬ 
tiable  state,  neither  able  to  receive  pleasure 
from  the  world,  which  he  so  dearly  loved,  nor 
from  religion  which  he  so  greatly  feared.  He 
expected  to  have  been  mueh  commended  by 
Worthy  for  the  change  in  his  way  of  life  ;  but 
Worthy,  who  saw  that  the  alteration  was  only 
owing  to  the  loss  of  animal  spirits,  and  to  the 
casual  absence  of  temptation,  was  cautious  of 
flattering  him  too  much.  ‘  I  thought  Mr.  Wor¬ 
thy,’  said  he,  ‘  to  have  received  more  comfort 
from  you.  I  was  told  too,  that  religion  was  full 
of  comfort,  but  I  do  not  much  find  it.’ — ‘  You 
were  told  the  truth,’  replied  Worthy  ;  ‘  religion 
is  full  of  comfort,  but  you  must  first  be  brought 
into  a  state  fit  to  receive  it  before  it  can  become 
so ;  you  must  be  brought  to  a  deep  and  hum¬ 
bling  sense  of  sin.  To  give  you  comfort  while 
you  are  puffed  up  with  high  thoughts  of  your¬ 
self,  would  be  to  give  you  a  strong  cordial  in  a 
high  fever.  Religion  keeps  back  her  cordials 
till  the  patient  is  lowered  and  emptied  :  emptied 
of  self,  Mr.  Bragwell.  If  you  had  a  wound,  it 
must  be  examined  and  cleansed,  ay,  and  probed 
too,  before  it  would  be  safe  to  put  on  a  healing 
plaster.  Curing  it  to  the  outward  eye,  while  it 
was  corrupt  at  bottom,  would  only  bring  on  a 
mortification,  and  you  would  be  a  dead  man, 
while  you  trusted  that  the  plaster  was  curing 
you.  You  must  be,  indeed,  a  Christian  before 
you  can  be  entitled  to  the  comforts  of  Chris¬ 
tianity.’ 

‘  I  am  a  Christian,’ said  Mr.  Bragwell ;  ‘  many 
of  my  friends  are  Christians,  but  I  do  not  see 
it  has  done  us  much  good.’ — ‘  Christianity  it¬ 
self,’  answered  Worthy,  ‘  cannot  make  us  good, 
unless  it  be  applied  to  our  hearts.  Christian 
privileges  will  not  make  us  Christians,  unless 
we  make  use  of  them.  On  that  shelf  I  see  stands 
your  medicine.  The  doctor  orders  you  take  it. 
Have  yon  taken  it?’ — ‘Yes,’  replied  Bragwell. 

‘  Are  you  the  better  for  it  ?’  said  Worthy.  ‘  I 
think  I  am,’  he  replied.  ‘  But,’  added  Mr.  Wor¬ 
thy,  ‘  are  you  the  better  because  the  doctor  has 
ordered  it  merely,  or  because  you  have  also 
taken  it?’ — ‘Wliat  a  foolish  question,’  cried 
Bragwell ;  ‘  Why  to  bo  sure  the  doetor  miglit 
be  tlie  best  doctor,  and  bis  physic  the  best  phy¬ 
sic  in  the  world  ;  but  if  it  stood  for  ever  on  the 
shelf,  I  could  not  expect  to  be  eurcd  by  it.  My 
doctor  is  not  a  mountebank.  He  does  not  pretend 
to  cure  by  t  charm.  The  physic  is  good,  and  as 
it  suits  rny  case,  though  it  is  bitter,  1  take  it.’ 
VoL.  I 


‘  You  have  now,’  said  Mr.  Worthy,  ‘  explain* 
ed  undesignedly  the  reason  why  religion  does 
so  little  good  in  the  world.  It  is  not  a  mounte¬ 
bank  ;  it  does  not  work  by  a  charm  ;  but  it  offers 
to  cure  your  worst  corruptions  by  wholesome, 
though  sometimes  bitter  prescriptions.  But  you 
will  not  take  them ;  you  will  not  apply  to  God 
with  the  same  earnest  desire  to  be  healed  with 
which  you  apply  to  your  doctor  ;  you  will  not 
confess  your  sins  to  one  as  honestly  as  you  tell 
your  symptoms  to  the  other,  nor  read  your  Bible 
with  the  same  faith  and  submission  with  which 
you  take  your  medicine.  In  reading  it,  however, 
you  must  take  care  not  to  apply  to  yourself  the 
comforts  which  are  not  suited  to  your  case.  You 
must,  by  the  grace  of  God,  be  brought  into  a 
condition  to  be  entitled  to  the  promises,  before 
you  can  expect  the  comfort  of  them.  Conviction 
is  not  conversion ;  that  worldly  discontent,  which 
is  the  effect  of  worldly  disappointment,  is  not 
that  godly  sorrow  which  worlceth  repentance.  Be¬ 
sides,  while  you  have  been  pursuing  all  the  gra¬ 
tifications  of  the  world,  do  not  complain  that  you 
have  not  all  the  comforts  of  religion  too.  Could 
you  live  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  both,  the  Bible 
would  hot  be  true.' 

Bragwell.  Well,  sir,  but  I  do  a  good  action 
sometimes;  and  God,  who  knows  he  did  not 
make  us  perfect,  will  accept  it,  and  for  the  sake 
of  my  good  actions  will  forgive  my  faults. 

Worthy.  Depend  upon  it  God  will  never  for 
give  your  sins  for  the  sake  of  your  virtues 
There  is  no  commutation  tax  there.  But  he 
will  forgive  them  on  your  sincere  repentance, 
for  the  sake  of  Jesus  Christ.  Goodness  is  not 
a  single  act  to  be  done ;  so  that  a  man  can  say,  I 
have  ach’eved  it,  and  the  thing  is  over;  but  it 
is  a  habit  that  is  to  be  constantly  maintained  ; 
it  is  a  continual  struggle  with  the  opposite  vice. 
No  man  must  reckon  himself  good  for  any  thing 
he  has  already  done  ;  though  he  may  consider 
it  as  an  evidence  that  he  is  in  the  right  way,  if 
he  feels  a  constant  disposition  to  resist  every 
evil  temper.  But  every  Christian  grace  will 
always  find  work  enough  ;  and  he  must  not 
fancy  that  because  he  has  conquered  once,  his 
virtue  may  now  sit  down  and  take  a  holyday. 

Bragwell.  But  I  thought  we  Christians,  need 
not  be  watchful  against  sin  ;  because  Christ,  as 
you  so  often  tell  me,  died  for  sinners. 

Worthy.  Do  not  deceive  yourself :  the  evan¬ 
gelical  doctrines,  while  they  so  highly  exalt  a 
Saviour  do  not  diminish  the  heinousness  of  sin, 
they  rather  magnify  it.  Do  not  comfort  your¬ 
self  by  extenuation  or  mitigation  of  sin  ;  but  by 
repentance  towards  God,  and  faith  in  our  Lord 
Jesus  Christ.  It  is  not  by  diminishing  or  deny¬ 
ing  your  debt ;  but  by  confessing  it,  by  owning 
you  liave  nothing  to  pay,  that  forgiveness  is  to 
be  hoped. 

Bragtoell.  I  don’t  understand  you.  You  want 
to  have  me  as  good  as  a  saint,  and  as  penitent 
as  a  sinner  at  tlie  same  time. 

Worthy.  I  expect  of  every  real  Christian,  that 
is,  every  real  penitent,  that  he  should  labour  to 
get  his  heart  and  life  impressed  with  the  stamp 
of  the  G-ospel.  I  expect  to  see  liiin  aiming  at  a 
conformity  in  spirit  and  in  practice  to  the  will 
of  God  in  Jesus  Clirist.  I  expect  to  see  him 
gradually  attaining  towards  an  entire  change 


154 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


from  his  natural  self.  When  I  see  a  man  at 
constant  war  with  those  several  pursuits  and 
tempers  which  are  with  peculiar  propriety  term¬ 
ed  worldly,  it  is  a  plain  proof  to  me  that  the 
change  must  have  passed  on  him  which  the 
gospel  emphatically  terms  becoming  ‘  a  new 
man.’ 

Bragioell.  I  hope  then  I  am  altered  enough 
to  please  you.  I  am  sure  afUiction  has  made 
such  a  change  in  me,  that  my  best  friends  hard¬ 
ly  know  me  to  be  the  same  man. 

Worthy.  That  is  not  the  change  I  mean.  ’Tis 
true,  from  a  merry  man  you  are  become  a 
gloomy  man  ;  but  that  is  because  you  have  been 
disappointed  in  your  schemes :  the  principle  re¬ 
mains  unaltered.  A  great  match  for  your  single 
daughter  would  at  once  restore  all  the  spirits 
you  have  lost  by  the  imprudence  of  your  mar¬ 
ried  one.  The  change  the  Gospel  requires  is  of 
quite  another  cast;  it  is  having  ‘a  new  heart 
and  a  right  spirit — it  is  being  ‘  God’s  work¬ 
manship  — it  is  being  ‘  created  anew  in  Christ 
Jesus  unto  good  works ;’ — it  is  becoming  *  new 
creatures  ;’ — it  is  ‘  old  things  being  done  away, 
and  all  things  made  new  ;’ — it  is  by  so  ‘  learn¬ 
ing  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus — to  the  putting 
off  the  old  man,  and  putting  on  the  new,  which 
after  God  is  created  in  righteousness  and  true 
"holiness  ;’ — it  is  by  ‘  partaking  of  the  divine  na¬ 
ture.’  Pray  observe,  Mr.  Bragwell,  these  are 
not  my  words,  nor  words  picked  out  of  any  fa¬ 
natical  book ;  they  are  the  words  of  that  Gospel 
you  profess  to  believe ;  it  is  not  a  new  doctrine, 
it  is  as  old  as  our  religion  itself  Though  I  can¬ 
not  but  observe,  that  men  are  more  reluctant  in 
believing,  more  averse  to  adopting  this  doctrine 
than  almost  any  other  :  and  indeed  I  do  not 
wonder  at  it ;  for  there  is  perhaps  no  one  which 
so  attacks  corruption  in  its  strong  holds ;  no  one 
which  so  thoroughly  prohibits  a  lazy  Christian 
from  uniting  a  life  of  sinful  indulgence  with  an 
outward  profession  of  piety. 

Bragwell  now  seemed  resolved  to  set  about 
the  matter  in  earnest ;  but  he  resolved  in  his  own 
strength:  he  never  thought  of  applying  for  as¬ 
sistance  to  the  Fountain  of  Wisdom ;  to  Him 
who  givelh  might  to  them  who  have  no  strength. 
Unluckily,  the  very  day  Mr.  Worthy  took  leave, 
there  happened  to  be  a  grand  ball  at  the  next 
town,  on  account  of  the  assizes.  An  assize-ball, 
courteous  reader  !  is  a  scene  to  which  gentle¬ 
men  and  ladies  periodically  resort  to  celebrate 
the  crimes  and  calamities  of  their  fellow-crea¬ 
tures,  by  dancing  and  music,  and  to  divert  them¬ 
selves  with  feasting  and  drinking,  while  un¬ 
happy  wretches  are  receiving  sentence  of  death. 

To  this  ball  Miss  Bragwell  went,  dressed  out 
with  a  double  portion  of  finery,  pouring  out  on 
her  head,  in  addition  to  her  own  ornaments,  the 
whole  band-box  of  feathers,  beads,  and  flowers, 
her  sister  had  left  behind  her.  While  she  was 
at  the  ball  her  father  formed  many  plans  of  re¬ 
ligious  reformation  ;  he  talked  of  lessening  his 
business,  that  he  might  have  more  leisure  for 
devotion;  though  notyusf  note,  while  the  mar¬ 
kets  werd  so  high  ;  and  then  he  began  to  think 
of  sending  a  handsome  subscription  to  the  In¬ 
firmary  ;  though,  on  second  thoughts  he  con¬ 
cluded  he  need  not  be  in  a  hurry,  but  might  as 
well  leave  it  in  his  will ;  though  to  give,  and  re¬ 


pent,  and  reform,  were  three  things  he  was  bent 
upon.  But  when  his  daughter  came  home  at 
night  so  happy  and  so  fine  !  and  telling  how  she 
had  danced  with  squire  Squeeze,  the  great  corn 
contractor,  and  how  many  fine  things  he  had 
said  to  her,  Mr.  Bragwell  felt  the  old  spirit  of 
the  world  return  in  its  full  force.  A  marriage 
with  Mr.  Dashall  Squeeze,  the  contractor,  was 
beyond  his  hopes  ;  for  Mr.  Squeeze  was  sup¬ 
posed  from  a  very  low  beginning  to  have  got 
rich  during  the  war. 

As  for  Mr.  Squeeze,  he  had  picked  up  as  much 
of  the  history  of  his  partner  between  the  dances 
as  he  desired ;  he  was  convinced  there  would 
be  no  money  wanting ;  for  Miss  Bragwell,  who 
was  now  looked  on  as  an  only  child,  must  needs 
be  a  great  fortune,  and  Mr.  Squeeze  was  too 
much  used  to  advantageous  contracts  to  let  this 
slip.  As  he  was  gaudily  dressed,  and  possessed 
all  the  arts  of  vulgar  flattery.  Miss  Bragwell 
eagerly  caught  at  his  proposal  to  wait  on  her 
father  next  day.  Squeeze  was  quite  a  man  after 
Bragwell’s  own  heart,  a  genius  at  getting  mo¬ 
ney,  a  fine  dashing  fellow  at  spending  it.  He 
told  his  wife  that  this  was  the  very  sort  of  man 
for  his  daughter ;  for  he  got  money  like  a  J.ew 
and  spent  it  like  a  prince ;  but  whether  it  was 
fairly  got,  or  wisely  spent,  he  was  too  much  a 
man  of  the  world  to  inquire.  Mrs.  Bragwell 
was  not  so  run  away  with  by  appearances,  but 
that  she  desired  her  husband  to  be  careful,  and 
make  himself  quite  sure  it  was  the  right  Mr. 
Squeeze,  and  no  impostor.  But  being  assured 
by  her  husband  that  Betsey  would  certainly 
keep  her  carriage,  she  never  gave  herself  one 
thought  with  what  sort  of  a  man  she  was  to  ride 
in  it.  To  have  one  of  her  daughters  drive  in 
her  own  coach,  filled  up  all  her  ideas  of  human 
happiness,  and  drove  the  other  daughter  quite 
out  of  her  head.  The  marriage  was  celebrated 
with  great  splendour,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeeze 
set  off  for  London,  where  they  had  taken  a 
house. 

Mr.  Bragwell  now  tried  to  forgot  that  he  had 
any  other  daughter ;  and  if  some  thoughts  of 
the  resolutions  he  had  made  of  entering  on  a 
more  religious  course  would  sometimes  force 
themselves  upon  him,  the}'  were  put  off,  like  the 
repentance  of  Felix,  to  a  more  convenient  season; 
and  finding  he  was  likely  to  have  a  grandchild, 
he  became  more  worldly  and  more  ambitious 
than  ever  ;  thinking  this  a  just  pretence  for  add¬ 
ing  house  to  house,  and  field  to  field.  And  there 
is  no  stratagem  by  which  men  more  fatally  de¬ 
ceive  themselves,  than  when  they  make  even 
unborn  children  a  pretence  for  that  rapine,  or 
that  hoarding,  of  which  their  own  covetousness 
is  the  true  motive.  Whenever  he  ventured  to 
write  to  Mr.  Worthy  about  the  wealth,  the  gay- 
ety,  and  the  grandeur  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Squeeze, 
that  faithful  friend  honestly  reminded  him  of 
the  vanity  and  uncertainty  of  worldly  greatness, 
and  the  error  he  had  been  guilty  of  in  marrying 
his  daughter  before  he  had  taken  time  to  in¬ 
quire  into  the  real  character  of  the  man,  saying, 
that  he  could  not  help  foreboding  that  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  a  match  made  at  a  ball  might  have  an 
untimely  end. 

Notwithstanding  Mr.  Bragwell  had  paid  down 
a  larger  fortune  than  was  prudent,  for  fear  Mr. 


TOE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE- 


155 


Squeeze  should  fly  off,  yet  he  was  surprised  to 
receive  very  soon  a  pressing  letter  from  him,  de¬ 
siring  him  to  advance  a  considerable  sum,  as  he 
had  the  offer  of  an  advantageous  purchase, 
which  he  must  lose  for  want  of  money.  Brag- 
well  was  staggered,  and  refused  to  comply  ;  but 
his  wife-told  him  he  must  not  be  shabby  to  such 
a  gentleman  as  squire  Squeeze  ;  for  that  she 
heard  on  all  sides  such  accounts  of  their  grandeur, 
their  feasts,  their  carriages,  and  their  liveries, 
that  she  and  her  husband  ought  even  to  deny 
themselves  comforts  to  oblige  such  a  generous 
son,  who  did  all  this  in  honour  of  their  daugh¬ 
ter  ;  besides,  if  he  did  not  send  the  money  soon, 
they  might  be  obliged  to  lay  down  their  coach, 
and  then  she  should  never  be  able  to  show  her 
face  again.  At  length  Mr.  Bragwell  lent  him 
the  money  on  his  bond ;  he  knew  Squeeze’s  in¬ 
come  was  large  ;  for  he  had  carefully  inquired 
into  this  particular,  and  for  the  rest  he  took  his 
word.  Mrs.  Squeeze  also  got  great  presents 
from  her  mother,  by  representing  to  her  how 
expensively  they  were  forced  to  live  to  keep  up 
their  credit,  and  what  honour  she  was  confer¬ 
ring  on  the  family  of  the  Bragwells,  by  spend¬ 
ing  their  money  in  such  grand  company. 
Among  many  other  letters  she  wrote  her  the 
following : 

‘  TO  MRS.  BRAGWELL. 

‘  You  can’t  imagine,  dear  mother,  how  charm¬ 
ingly  we  live. — I  lie  a-bed  almost  all  day,  and 
am  up  all  night ;  but  it  is  never  dark  for  all 
that,  for  we  burn  such  numbers  of  candles  all  at 
once,  that  the  sun  would  be  of  no  use  at  all  in 
Liondon.  Then  I  am  so  happy  !  for  we  are  never 
quiet  a  moment,  Sundays  or  working-days ;  nay, 
I  should  not  know  which  was  which,  only  that 
we  have  most  pleasure  on  a  Sunday  ;  because 
it  is  the  only  day  on  which  people  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  divert  themselves.  Then  the  great 
folks  are  all  so  kind,  and  so  good ;  they  have  not 
a  bit  of  pride,  for  they  will  come  and  eat  and 
drink,  and  win  my  money,  just  as  if  I  was  their 
equal ;  and  if  I  have  got  but  a  cold,  they  are  so 
very  unhappy  that  they  send  to  know  how  I  do  ; 
and  though  I  suppose  they  cant  rest  till  the  foot¬ 
man  has  told  them,  yet  they  are  so  polite,  that 
if  I  have  been  dying  they  seem  to  have  forgot¬ 
ten  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  and  not  to  know 
but  they  have  seen  me  the  day  before.  Oh  !  they 
are  true  friends ;  and  for  ever  smiling,  and  so 
fond  of  one  another,  that  they  like  to  meet  and 
enjoy  one  another’s  company  by  hundreds,  and 
always  think  the  more  th,o  merrier.  I  shall  ne¬ 
ver. be  tired  of  such  a  delightful  life. 

‘Your  dutiful  daughter, 

‘  Betsey  Suueeze.* 

The  style  of  her  letters,  however,  altered  in  a 
few  months.  She  owned  that  though  things 
went  on  gayer  and  grander  than  ever,  yet  she 
hardly  ever  saw  her  husband,  except  her  house 
was  full  of  company  and  cards,  or  dancing  was 
going  on ;  that  he  was  often  so  busy  abroad  he 
could  not  come  home  all  night ;  that  he  always 
borrowed  the  money  her  mother  sent  her  when 
he  was  going  out  on  this  nightly  business  ;  and 
that  the  last  time  she  had  asked  him  for  money 
ho  cursed  and  swore,  and  bid  her  apply  to  the 


old  farmer  and  his  rib,  who  were  made  of  mo¬ 
ney.  This  letter  Mrs.  Bragwell  concealed  from 
her  husband. 

At  length,  on  some  change  in  public  affairs, 
Mr.  Squeeze,  who  had  made  an  overcharge  of 
some  thousand  pounds  in  one  article,  lost  his 
contract ;  he  w’as  found  to  owe  a  large  debt  to 
government,  and  his  accounts  must  be  made  up 
immediately.  This  was  impossible  ;  he  had  no* 
only  spent  his  large  income,  without  making 
any  provision  for  his  family,  but  had  contracted 
heavy  debts  by  gaming  and  other  vices.  His 
creditors  poured  in  upon  him.  He  wrote  to 
Bragwell  to  borrow  another  sum ;  but  without 
hinting  at  the  loss  of  his  contract.  These  re¬ 
peated  demands  made  Bragwell  so  uneasy,  that 
instead  of  sending  him  the  money,  he  resolved 
to  go  himself  secretly  to  London,  and  judge  by 
his  own  eyes  how  things  were  going  on,  as  his 
mind  strangely  misgave  him.  He  got  to  Mr. 
Squeeze’s  house  about  eleven  at  night,  and 
knocked  gently,  concluding  that  they  must 
needs  be  gone  to  bed.  But  what  was  his  asto¬ 
nishment  to  find  the  hall  was  full  of  men ;  he 
pushed  through  in  spite  of  them,  though  to  his 
great  surprise  they  insisted  on  knowing  his 
name,  saying  they  must  carry  it  to  their  lady. 
This  affronted  him  :  he  refused,  saying,  ‘  It  is 
not  because  I  am  ashamed  of  my  name,  it  will 
pass  for  thousands  in  any  market  in  the  west  of 
England.  Is  this  your  London  manners,  not  to 
let  a  man  of  my  credit  in  without  knowing  his 
name  indeed  !’  What  was  his  amazement  to 
see  every  room  as  full  of  card-tables  and  of  fine 
gentlemen  and  ladies  as  it  would  hold.  All  was 
so  light,  and  so  gay,  and  so  festive  and  so  grand, 
that  he  reproached  himself  for  his  suspicions, 
thought  nothing  too  good  for  them,  and  resolved 
secretly  tc  give  Squeeze  another  five  hundred 
pounds  to  help  to  keep  up  so  much  grandeur 
and  happiness.  At  length  seeing  a  footman  he 
knew,  he  asked  him  where  were  his  master  and 
mistress,  for  he  could  not  pick  them  out  among 
the  company  ;  or  rather  his  ideas  were  so  con¬ 
fused  with  the  splendour  of  the  scene,  that  he 
did  not  know  whether  they  were  there  or  not. 
The  man  said,  that  his  master  had  just  sent  tor 
his  lady  up  stairs,  and  he  believed  that  he  was 
not  well.  Mr.  Bragwell  said  he  would  go  up 
himself  and  look  for  his  daughter,  as  he  could 
not  speak  so  freely  to  her  before  all  that  com¬ 
pany. 

He  went  up,  knocked  at  the  chamber  door, 
and  its  not  being  opened,  made  him  push  it  with 
some  violence.  He  heard  a  bustling  noise  with¬ 
in,  and  again  made  a  fruitless  attempt  to  open 
the  door.  At  this  the  noise  increased,  and  Mr. 
Bragwell  was  struck  to  the  heart  at  the  sound 
of  a  pistol  from  within.  He  now  kicked  uo  vio¬ 
lently  against  the  door  that  it  burst  open,  when 
the  first  sight  he  saw  was  his  daughter  falling  to 
the  ground  in  a  fit,  and  Mr.  Squeeze  dying  by  a 
shot  from  a  pistol  which  was  dropping  out  of 
his  hand.  Mr.  Bragwell  was  not  the  only  per¬ 
son  whom  the  sound  of  the  pistol  had  alarmed. 
The  servants,  the  company,  all  lioard  It,  and  all 
ran  up  to  this  scene  of  horror.  Those  wlio  had 
the  best  of  the  game  took  care  to  bring  up  their 
tricks  in  tlieir  hands,  having  had  the  prudence 
to  leave  the  very  few  who  could  bo  trusted,  to 


156 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


watch  the  stakes,  while  those  who  had  a  pros¬ 
pect  of  losing-  profited  by  the  confusion,  and 
threw  up  their  cards.  All  was  dismay  and  ter¬ 
ror.  Some  ran  for  a  surgeon,  others  examined 
the  dying  man  ;  some  removed  Mrs.  Squeeze  to 
her  bed,  while  poor  Bragwell  could  neither  see 
nor  hear,  nor  do  any  thing.  One  of  the  com¬ 
pany  took  up  a  letter  which  lay  open  upon  the 
table,  and  was  addressed  to  him ;  they  read  it, 
hoping  it  might  explain  the  horrid  mystery.  It 
was  as  follows : 

‘  TO  MR.  BRAGWELL. 

‘Sir — Fetch  home  your  daughter ;  I  have 
ruined  her,  myself,  and  the  child  to  which  she 
every  hour  expects  to  be  a  mother.  I  have  lost 
my  contract.  My  debts  are  immense.  You  refuse 
me  money  ;  I  must  die  then  ;  but  I  will  die  like  a 
man  of  spirit.  They  waif  to  take  me  to  prison  ;  I 
have  two  executions  in  my  house ;  but  I  have  ten 
card-tables  in  it.  I  would  die  as  I  have  lived. 
I  invited  all  this  company,  and  have  drunk  hard 
since  dinner  to  get  primed  for  the  dreadful 
deed.  My  wife  refuses  to  write  to  you  for  an¬ 
other  thousand,  and  she  must  take  the  conse¬ 
quences.  Vanity  has  been  my  ruin ;  it  has 
caused  all  my  crimes.  Whoever  is  resolved  to 
live  beyond  his  income  is  liable  to  every  sin.  He 
can  never  say  to  himself.  Thus  far  shalt  thou 
go  and  no  farther.  Vanity  led  me  to  commit 
acts  of  rapine,  that  I  might  live  in  splendour  ; 
vanity  makes  me  commit  self-murder,  because 
I  will  not  live  in  poverty.  The  new  philosophy 
says,  that  death  is  an  eternal  sleep ;  but  the 
new  philosophy  lies.  Do  you  take  heed  ;  it  is 
too  late  for  me :  the  dreadful  gulf  yawns  to 
swallow  me  ;  I  plunge  into  perdition  ;  there  is 
no  repentance  in  the  grave,  no  liope  in  hell. 

Your’s,  &.C. 

‘  Dashall  Squeeze.’ 

The  dead  body  was  removed,  and  Mr.  Brag¬ 
well  remaining  almost  without  speech  or  motion, 
the  company  began  to  think  of  retiring,  much 
out  of  humour  at  having  their  party  so  dis¬ 
agreeably  broken  up :  they  comforted  them¬ 
selves,  however,  that  it  was  so  early  (for  it  was 
now  scarcely  twelve)  they  could  finish  their 
evening  at  another  party  or  two ;  so  completely 
do  habits  of  pleasure,  as  it  is  called,  harden  the 
heart,  and  steel  it  not  only  against  virtuous  im¬ 
pressions,  but  against  natural  feelings !  Now 
it  was,  that  those  who  had  nightly  rioted  at  the 
expense  of  these  wretched  people,  were  the  first 
to  abuse  them.  Not  an  offer  of  assistance  was 
made  to  this  poor  forlorn  woman ;  not  a  word 
of  kindness  or  of  pity  ;  nothing  but  censure  was 
now  heard.  ‘Why  must  these  upstarts  ape 
people  of  quality  V  though  as  long  as  these  up¬ 
starts  could  feast  them,  their  vulgarity  and  their 
bad  character  had  never  been  produced  against 
them.  ‘  As  long  as  thou  dost  well  unto  thy¬ 
self,  men  shall  speak  good  of  thee.’  One  guest 
who,  unluckily,  had  no  other  house  to  go  to, 
coolly  said,  as  he  walked  off,  ‘  Squeeze  might  as 
well  have  put  off  shooting  himself  till  the  morn¬ 
ing.  It  was  monstrously  provoking  that  he 
could  not  wait  an  hour  or  two.’ 

As  every  thing  in  the  house  was  seized,  Mr. 
Bragwcl'  prevailed  on  his  miserable  daughter, 


weak  as  she  was,  next  morning  to  set  out  with 
him  to  the  country.  His  acquaintance  with 
polite  life  was  short,  but  he  had  seen  a  great 
deal  in  a  liitle  time.  They  had  a  slow  and  sad 
journey.  In  about  a  week,  Mrs.  Squeeze  lay -in 
of  a  dead  child ;  she  herself  languished  a  few 
days,  and  then  died ;  and  the  afflicted  parents 
saw  the  two  darling  objects  of  their  ambition, 
for  whose  sakes  they  had  made  too  much  haste 
to  be  rich,  carried  to  the  land  where  all  things 
are  forgotten.  Mrs.  Bragwell’s  grief,  like  her 
other  passions,  was  extravagant ;  and  poor 
Bragwell’s  sorrow  was  rendered  so  bitter  by 
self-reproach,  that  he  would  quite  have  sunk  un¬ 
der  it,  had  he  not  thought  of  his  old  expedient 
in  distress,  that  of  sending  for  Mr.  Worthy  to 
comfort  him. 

It  was  Mr.  Worthy’s  way,  to  warn  people  of 
those  misfortunes  which  he  saw  their  faults 
must  needs  bring  on  them ;  but  not  to  reproach 
or  desert  them  when  the  misfortunes  came. 
He  had  never  been  near  Bragwell,  during  the 
short  but  flourishing  reign  of  the  Squeezes  :  for 
he  knew  that  prosperity  made  the  ears  deaf  and 
the  heart  hard  to  counsel ;  but  as  soon  as  he 
heard  his  friend  was  in  trouble,  he  set  out  to 
go  to  him.  Bragwell  burst  into  a  violent  fit  of 
tears  when  he  saw  him,  and  when  he  could 
speak,  said,  ‘  This  trial  is  more  than  I  can  bear.’ 
Mr.  Worthy  kindly  took  him  by  the  hand,  and 
when  he  was  a  little  composed,  said,  ‘  I  will  tell 
you  a  short  story — There  was  in  ancient  times 
a  famous  man  who  was  a  slave.  His  master, 
who  was  ver}'  good  to  him,  one  day  gave  him  a 
bitter  melon,  and  bade  him  eat  it :  he  ate  it  up 
without  one  word  of  complaint. — “  How  was  it 
possible,”  said  the  master,  “  for  you  to  eat  so 
very  nauseous  and  disagreeable  a  fruit  /” — The 
slave  replied,  “  My  good  master,  I  have  received 
so  many  favours  from  your  bounty,  that  it  is  no 
wonder  if  I  should  once  in  my  life  eat  one  bit¬ 
ter  melon  from  your  hands.” — This  generous 
answer  so  struck  the  master,  that  the  history 
says  he  gave  him  his  liberty.  With  such  sub¬ 
missive  sentiments,  my  friend,  should  man  re¬ 
ceive  his  portion  of  sufferings  from  God,  from 
whom  he  receives  so  many  blessings.  You  in 
particular  have  received  “  much  good  at  the 
hand  of  God,  shall  you  not  receive  evil  also  ?”  ’ 

‘  O  !  Mr.  Worthy  !’  said  Bragwell,  this  blow 
is  too  heavy  for  me,  I  cannot  survive  this  shock  : 
I  do  not  desire  it,  I  only  wish  to  die.’ — ‘  We 
are  very  apt  to  talk  most  of  dying  when  we  are 
least  fit  for  it,’  said  Worthy.  ‘This  is  not  the 
language  of  that  submission  which  makes  us 
prepare  for  death;  But  of  that  despair  w’hich 
makes  us  out  of  humour  with  life.  O  !  Mr.  Brag¬ 
well  !  you  are  indeed  disappointed  of  the  grand 
ends  which  made  life  so  delightful  to  you  ;  but 
till  your  heart  is  humbled,  till  you  are  brought 
to  a  serious  conviction  of  sin,  till  you  are  brought 
to  see  what  is  the  true  end  of  life,  you  can  have 
no  hope  in  death.  You  think  you  have  no  busi¬ 
ness  on  earth,  because  those  for  whose  sake  3'ou 
too  eagerly  heaped  up  riches  are  no  more.  But 
is  there  not  under  tlie  canopy  of  heaven  some 
afflicted  being  whom  you  may  yet  relieve,  some 
modest  merit  which  you  may  bring  forward 
some  helpless  creature  you  may  save  by  your 
advice,  some  perishing  Christian  you  may  bus- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


157 


tain  by  your  wealth  1  When  you  have  no  sins 
of  your  own  to  repent  of,  no  mercies  of  God  to 
be  thankful  for,  no  miseries  of  others  to  relieve, 
then,  and  not  till  then,  I  consent  you  should 
sink  down  in  despair,  and  call  on  death  to  re¬ 
lieve  you.’ 

Mr.  Worthy  attended  his  afflicted  friend  to 
the  funeral  of  his  unhappy  daughter  and  her 
babe.  The  solemn  service,  the  committing  his 
late  gay  and  beautiful  daughter  to  darkness,  to 
worms,  and  to  corruption; — the  sight  of  the 
dead  infant,  for  whose  sake  he  had  resumed  all 
his  schemes  of  vanity  and  covetousness,  when 
he  thought  he  had  got  the  better  of  them  ; — the 
melaneholy  conviction  that  all  human  prosperity 
ends  in  ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust,  has 
brought  down  Mr.  Brag  well’s  self-sufficient  and 
haughty  soul  into  something  of  that  humble 
frame  in  which  Mr.  Worthy  had  wished  to  see 
it.  As  soon  as  they  returned  home,  he  was  be¬ 
ginning  to  seize  the  favourable  moment  for  fix¬ 
ing  these  serious  impressions,  when  they  were 
unseasonably  interrupted  by  the  parish  officer, 
who  came  to  ask  Mr.  Bragwell  what  he  was  to 
do  with  a  poor  dying  woman  who  was  travelling 
the  country  with  her  child,  and  was  taken  in  a 
fit  under  the  church-yard  wall?  ‘At  first  they 
thought  she  was  dead,’  said  the  man,  ‘  but  find¬ 
ing  she  still  breathed,  they  have  carried  her  into 
the  workhouse  till  she  could  give  some  account 
nf  herself.’ 

Mr.  Bragwell  was  impatient  at  the  interrup¬ 
tion,  which  was  indeed  unseasonable,  and  told 
the  man  that  he  was  at  that  time  too  much 
overcome  by  sorrow  to  attend  to  business,  but 
he  would  give  him  an  answer  to-morrow.  ‘But, 
my  friend,’  said  Mr.  Worthy,  ‘  the  poor  woman 
may  die  to-night ;  your  mind  is  indeed  not  in  a 
frame  for  worldly  business  ;  but  there  is  no  sor¬ 
row  too  great  to  forbid  our  attending  the  calls 
of 'duty.  An  act  of  Christian  charity  will  not 
disturb,  but  improve  the  seriousness  of  your 
spirit ;  and  though  you  cannot  dry  your  own 
tears,  God  may  in  great  mercy  permit  you  to 
dry  those  of  another.  This  may  be  one  of  those 
occasions  for  which  I  told  you  life  was  worth 
keeping.  Do  let  us  see  this  woman.’ — Brag- 
well  was  not  in  a  state  either  to  consent  or  re¬ 
fuse,  and  his  friend  drew  him  to  the  workhouse, 
about  the  door  of  which  stood  a  crowd  of  people. 
‘She  is  not  dead,’  said  one,  ‘she  moves  her 
head.’ — ‘But  she  wants  air,’  said  all  of  them, 
while  they  all,  according  to  custom,  pushed  so 
close  upon  her  that  it  was  impossible  she  could 
get  any.  A  fine  boy  of  two  or  three  years  old 
stood  by  her,  crying,  ‘  Mammy  is  dead,  mammy 
is  starved.’  Mr.  Worthy  made  up  to  the  poor 
woman,  holding  his  friend  by  the  arm  :  in  or¬ 
der  to  give  her  air  he  untied  a  large  black  bon- 
-net  which  hid  her  face,  when  Mr.  Bragwell,  at 
that  moment  casting  his  eyes  on  her  saw  in  this 
poor  stranger  the  face  of  his  own  runaway 
daughter,  Mrs.  Incle.  He  groaned,  but  could 
not  speak  ;  and  as  he  was  turning  away  to  con¬ 
ceal  his  anguish,  the  little  boy  fondly  caught 
hold  of  his  hand,  lisping  out, — ‘  O  stay  and  give 
mammy  some  bread  I’  His  heart  yearned  to¬ 
wards  the  child ;  he  grasped  his  little  hand  in 
his,  while  he  sorrowfully  said  to  Mr.  Worthy, 
‘Itistoo  much,  send  away  the  people.  It  is 


my  dear  naughty  child ;  ‘  my  punishment  is 
greater  than  I  can  hear.'  ’  Mr.  Worthy  desired 
the  people  to  go  and  leave  the  stranger  to  them  ; 
but  by  this  time  she  was  no  stranger  to  any 
of  them.  Pale  and  meagre  as  was  her  face, 
and  poor  and  shabby  as  was  her  dress,  the  proud 
and  flaunting' Miss  Polly  Bragwell  was  easily 
known  by  every  one  present.  They  went  away, 
but  with  the  mean  revenge  of  little  minds,  they 
paid  themselves  by  abuse,  for  all  the  airs  and 
insolence  they  had  once  endured  from  her. — 
‘  Pride  must  have  a  fall,’  said  one.  ‘  I  remem¬ 
ber  when  she  was  too  good  to  speak  to  a  poor 
body,’  said  another.  ‘  Where  are  her  flounces 
and  furbelows  now  ?  It  is  come  home  to  her  at 
last :  her  child  looks  as  if  he  would  be  glad  of 
the  worst  bit  she  formerly  denied  us.’ 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Bragwell  had  sunk 
into  an  old  wicker  chair  which  stood  behind, 
and  groaned  out,  ‘  Lord,  forgive  my  hard  heart  I 
Lord,  subdue  my  proud  heart,  create  a  clean 
heart,  O  God  !  and  renew  a  rightr  spirit  within 
me.'  This  was  perhaps  the  first  words  of  genu¬ 
ine  prayer  he  had  ever  offered  up  in  his  whole 
life.  Worthy  overheard  it,  and  in  his  heart  re- 
joieed  ;  but  this  was  not  a  time  for  talking,  but 
doing.  He  asked  Bragwell  what  was  to  be 
done  with  the  unfortunate  woman,  who  now 
seemed  to  recover  fast,  but  she  did  not  see  them, 
for  they  were  behind.  She  embraced  her  boy, 
and  faintly  said,  ‘  My  child  what  shall  we  do  ? 
I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and  say  unto 
him,  father,  I  have  sinned  against  heaven  and 
before  thee.'  This  was  a  joyful  sound  to  Mr. 
Worthy,  who  was  inclined  to  hope  that  her 
heart  might  be  as  much  changed  for  the  bet. 
ter  as  her  circumstances  were  altered  for  the 
worse ;  and  he  valued  the  goods  of  fortune  so 
little,  and  contrition  of  soul  so  much,  that  he 
began  to  think  the  change  on  the  whole  might 
be  a  happy  one.  The  boy  then  sprung  from  his 
mother,  and  ran  to  Bragwell,  saying,  ‘  Do  be 
good  to  mammy.’  Mrs.  Incle  looking  round, 
now  perceived  her  father ;  she  fell  at  his  feet, 
saying,  ‘  O  forgive  your  guilty  child,  and  save 
your  innocent  one  from  starving !’ — Bragwell 
sunk  down  by  her,  and  prayed  God  to  forgive 
both  her  and  himself  in  terms  of  genuine  sor¬ 
row.  To  hear  words  of  real  penitence  and 
heart-felt  prayer  from  this  once  high-minded 
father  and  vain  daughter,  was  music  to  Wor¬ 
thy’s  ears,  who  thought  this  moment  of  out¬ 
ward  misery  was  the  only  joyful  one  he  had 
ever  spent  in  the  Bragwell  family. 

He  was  resolved  not  to  interfere,  but  to  let 
the  father’s  own  feelings  workout  the  way  into 
which  he  was  to  act. 

Bragwell  said  nothing,  but  slowly  led  to  his 
own  house,  holding  the  little  boy  by  the  hand, 
and  pointing  to  Wortliy  to  assist  the  feeble 
steps  of  his  daughter,  who  once  more  entered 
her  father’s  doors  ;  but  the  dread  of  seeing  her 
mother  quite  overpowered  her. — Mrs.  Bragwell’s 
heart  was  not  changed,  but  sorrow  liad  weak¬ 
ened  her  powers  of  resistance  ;  and  she  rather 
suffered  her  daughter  to  come  in,  tlian  gave  her 
a  kind  reception.  She  was  more  astonished 
than  pleased  ;  and  even  in  this  trying  moment, 
was  more  disgusted  with  the  little  boy’s  mean 
clothes,  than  delighted  with  his  rosy  lace.  As 


158 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Boon  as  she  was  a  little  recovered,  Mr.  Brag- 
well  desired  his  daughter  to  tell  him  how  she 
happened  to  be  at  that  place  at  that  time. 

In  a  weak  voice  she  began ;  ‘  My  tale,  sir,  is 
short,  but  mournful.’ — Now,  I  am  very  sorry 
that  my  readers  must  wait  for  this  short,  but 
mournful  tale,  a  little  longer. 

PART  VII. 

MRS.  INCLE’s  story. 

I  LEFT  your  house  dear  father,’  said  Mrs. 
Tncle,  ‘  with  a  heart  full  of  vain  triumph.  I  had 
no  doubt  but  my  husband  was  a  great  man,  who 
put  on  that  disguise  to  obtain  my  hand.  Judge 
then  what  I  felt  to  find  that  he  was  a  needy  im¬ 
postor,  who  wanted  my  money,  but  did  not  care 
for  me.  This  discovery,  though  it  mortified, 
did  not  humble  me.  I  had  neither  affection  to 
bear  with  the  man  who  had  deceived  me,  nor 
religion  to  improve  by  the  disappointment.  I 
have  found  that  change  of  circumstances  does 
not  change  the  heart,  till  God  is  pleased  to  do 
it.  My  misfortune  only  taught  me  to  rebel 
more  against  him.  I  thought  God  unjust ;  I 
accused  my  father,  I  was  envious  of  my  sister, 
I  hated  my  husband  ;  but  never  once  did  I  blame 
myself. 

‘  My  husband  picked  up  a  wretched  subsis¬ 
tence  by  joining  himself  to  any  low  scheme  of 
idle  pleasure  that  was  going  on.  He  would 
follow  a  mountebank,  carry  a  dice-box,  or  fid¬ 
dle  at  a  fair.  He  was  always  taunting  me  for 
that  gentility  on  which  I  so  much  valued  my¬ 
self- — ‘  If  I  had  married  a  poor  working  girl,’ 
said  he,  she  could  now  have  got  her  bread; 
but  a  fine  lady  without  money  is  a  disgrace  to 
herself,  a  burthen  to  her  husband,  and  a  plague 
to  society.’  Every  trial  which  affection  might 
have  made  lighter,  we  doubled  by  animosity : 
at  length  my  husband  was  detected  in  using 
false  dice  ;  he  fought  with  his  accuser,  both  were 
seized  by  a  press-gang,  and  sent  to  sea.  I  was 
now  left  to  the  wide  world ;  and  miserable  as  I 
had  thought  myself  before,  I  soon  found  there 
were  higher  degrees  of  misery.  I  was  near 
my  time,  without  bread  for  myself,  or  hope  for 
my  child.  I  set  out  on  foot  in  search  of  the 
village  where  I  had  heard  my  husband  say  his 
iriend.s  lived.  It  was  a  severe  trial  to  my  proud 
heart  to  stoop  to  those  low  people ;  but  hunger  is 
not  delicate,  and  I  was  near  perishing.  My 
husband’s  parents  received  me  kindly,  saying, 
that  though  they  had  nothing  but  what  they 
earned  by  their  labour,  yet  I  was  welcome  to 
share  their  hard  fare  ;  for  they  trusted  that  God 
who  sent  mouths  would  send  meat  also. — They 
gave  me  a  small  room  in  their  eottage,  and  fur¬ 
nished  me  with  many  necessaries,  which  they 
denied  themselves.’ 

‘  O  !  my  child  !’  interrupted  Bragwell,  ‘  every 
word  cuts  me  to  the  heart.  These  poor  people 
gladly  gave  thee  of  their  little,  while  thy  rich 
parents  left  thee  to  starve.’ 

‘  How  shall  I  own,’  continued  Mrs.  Incle, 
’  that  all  this  goodness  could  not  soften  my 
heart;  for  God  had  not  yet  touched  it.  I  re¬ 
ceived  all  their  kindness  as  a  favour  done  to 


them  ;  and  thought  them  sufliciently  rewarded 
for  their  attentions  by  the  rank  and  merit  of 
their  daughter-in-law.  When  my  father  brought 
mo  home  any  little  dainty  which  he  could  pick 
up,  and  my  mother  kindly  dressed  it  for  me,  I 
would  not  condescend  to  eat  it  with  them,  but 
devoured  it  sullenly  in  my  little  garret  alone  • 
suffering  them  to  fetch  and  carry  every  thing 
I  wanted.  As  my  haughty  behaviour  was  not 
likely  to  gain  their  affection,  it  was  plain  they 
did  not  love  me  :  and  as  I  had  no  notion  that 
there  were  any  motives  to  good  actions  but 
fondness,  or  self-interest,  I  was  puzzled  to  know 
what  could  make  them  so  kind  to  me  ;  for  of 
the  powerful  and  constraining  law  of  Christian 
charity  I  was  quite  ignorant.  To  cheat  the 
weary  hours,  I  looked  about  for  some  books,  and 
found,  among  a  few  others  of  the  same  cast, 
‘  Doddridge’s  Rise  and  Progress  of  Religion  in 
the  Soul.’  But  all  those  sort  of  books  were  ad¬ 
dressed  to  sinners ;  now  as  I  knew  I  was  not  a 
sinner,  I  threw  them  away  in  disgust.  Indeed 
they  were  ill  suited  to  a  taste  formed  by  plays 
and  novels,  to  which  reading  I  chiefly  trace  my 
ruin;  for,  vain  as  I  was,  I  should  never  have 
been  guilty  of  so  wild  a  step  as  to  run  away, 
had  not  my  heart  been  tainted  and  my  imagina¬ 
tion  inflamed  by  those  pernicious  books. 

‘  At  length  my  little  George  was  born.  This 
added  to  the  burthen  I  had  brought  on  this  poor 
family,  but  it  did  not  diminish  their  kindness  ; 
and  we  continued  to  share  their  scanty  faro 
without  any  upbraiding  on  their  part,  or  any 
gratitude  on  mine.  Even  this  poor  baby  did 
not  soften  my  heart;  I  wept  over  him,  indeed, 
day  and  night,  but  they  were  tears  of  despair  ; 
I  was  always  idle,  and  wasted  those  hours  in 
sinful  murmurs  at  his  fate,  which  I  should 
have  employed  in  trying  to  maintain  him. 
Hardship,  grief,  and  impatience,  at  length 
brought  on  a  fever.  Death  seemed  now  at 
hand,  and  I  felt  a  gloomy  satisfaction  in  the 
thought  of  being  rid  of  my  miseries,  to  which 
I  fear  was  added  a  sullen  joy,  to  think  that 
you,  sir,  and  my  mother,  would  be  plagued 
to  hear  of  my  death  when  it  would  be  too 
late;  and  in  this  your  grief  I  anticipated  a 
gloomy  sort  of  revenge.  But  it  pleased  my 
merciful  God  not  to  let  me  thus  perish  in  my 
sins.  My  poor  mother-in-law  sent  for  a  good 
clergyman,  who  pointed  out  the  danger  of  dying 
in  that  hard  and  unconverted  state  so  forcibly, 
that  I  shuddered  to  find  on  what  a  dreadful 
precipice  I  stood.  He  prayed  with  me,  and 
for  me  so  earnestly,  that  at  length  God,  who  is 
sometimes  pleased  to  magnify  his  own  glory 
in  awakening  those  who  are  dead  in  trespasses 
and  sins,  was  pleased  of  his  free  grace,  to  open 
my  blind  eyes,  and  soften  my  stony  heart.  I 
saw  myself  a  sinner,  and  prayed  to  be  delivered 
from  the  wrath  of  God,  in  comparison  of  which 
the  poverty  and  disgrace  I  now  suffered  appear¬ 
ed  as  nothing.  To  a  soul  convinced  of  sin,  the 
news  of  a  Redeemer  was  a  joyful  sound.  In¬ 
stead  of  reproaching  Providence,  or  blaming 
my  parents,  or  abusing  my  husband,  I  now 
learnt  to  condemn  myself,  to  adore  that  God  who 
had  not  cut  me  off  in  my  ignorance,  to  pray  for 
pardon  for  the  past,  and  grace  for  the  time  to 
come.  I  now  desired  to  submit  to  penury  and 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


159 


hunger,  so  that  I  might  but  live  in  the  fear  of 
God  in  this  world,  and  enjoy  his  favour  in  the 
next.  I  now  learnt  to  compare  my  present 
light  sufferings,  the  consequence  of  my  own  sin, 
with  those  bitter  sufferings  of  my  Saviour,  which 
he  endured  for  my  sake,  and  I  was  ashamed  of 
murmuring.  But  self-ignorance,  conceit,  and 
vanity  were  so  rooted  in  me,  that  my  progress 
was  very  gradual,  and  I  had  the  sorrow  to  feel 
how  much  the  power  of  long  bad  habits  keeps 
down  the  growth  of  religion  in  the  heart,  even 
after  the  principle  itself  has  begun  to  take  root. 
I  was  so  ignorant  of  divine  things,  that  I  hardly 
knew  words  to  frame  a  prayer  ;  but  when  I  got 
acquainted  with  the  Psalms,  I  there  learnt  how 
to  pour  out  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  while  in 
the  Gospel  I  rejoiced  to  see  what  great  things 
God  had  done  for  my  soul. 

‘  I  now  took  down  once  more  from  the  shelf 
‘  Doddridge’s  Rise  and  Progress  and  oh  !  with 
what  new  eyes  did  I  read  it !  I  now  saw  clearly, 
that  not  only  the  thief  and  the  drunkard,  the 
murderer  and  the  adulterer  are  sinners,  for  that 
I  knew  before ;  but  I  found  that  the  unbeliever, 
the  selfish,  the  proud,  the  worldly-minded,  all, 
in  short,  who  live  without  God  in  the  world,  are 
sinners.  I  did  not  now  apply  the  reproofs  I 
met  with  to  my  husband,  or  my  father  ;  or  other 
people,  as  I  used  to  do  ;  but  brought  them  home 
to  myself.  In  this  book  I  traced,  with  strong 
emotions  and  close  self-application,  the  sinner 
through  all  his  course  ;  his  first  awakening,  his 
convictions,  repentance,  joys,  sorrows,  back¬ 
sliding,  and  recovery,  despondency,  and  delight, 
to  a  triumphant  death-bed ;  and  God  was  pleased 
to  make  it  a  chief  instrument  in  bringing  me  to 
himself.  ‘  Here  it  is,’  continued  Mrs.  Incle, 
untying  her  little  bundle,  and  taking  out  a  book  ; 
*  accept  it,  my  dear  father,  and  I  will  pray  that 
God  may  bless  it  to  you,  as  He  has  done  to  me. 

‘  When  I  was  able  to  come  down,  I  passed 
my  time  with  these  good  old  people,  and  soon 
won  their  affection.  I  was  surprised  to  find 
they  had  very  good  sense,  which  I  never  had 
thought  poor  people  could  have ;  but,  indeed, 
worldly  persons  do  not  know  how  much  religion, 
while  it  mends  the  heart,  enlightens  the  un¬ 
derstanding  also.  I  now  regretted  the  even¬ 
ings  I  had  wasted  in  my  solitary  garret,  when 
I  might  have  passed  them  in  reading  the  Bible 
with  these  good  folks.  This  was  their  refresh¬ 
ing  cordial  after  a  weary  day,  which  sweetened 
the  pains  of  want  and  age.  I  one  day  express, 
ed  my  surprise  that  my  unfortunate  husband, 
the  son  of  such  pious  parents,  should  have  turn¬ 
ed  out  so  ill :  the  poor  old  man  said  with  tears, 

‘  I  fear  we  have  been  guilty  of  the  sin  of  Eli ; 
our  love  was  of  the  wrong  sort,  Alas  !  like 
him,  we  honoured  our  son  more  than  God,  and 
God  has  smitten  us  for  it.  We  showed  him  by 
our  example,  what  was  right ;  but  through  a 
false  indulgence,  wo  did  not  correct  him  for 
what  was  wrong.  We  were  blind  to  his  faults. 
He  was  a  handsome  boy,  with  sprightly  parts : 
we  took  too  much  delight  in  those  outward 
things.  He  soon  got  above  our  management, 
and  became  vain,  idle,  and  extravagant ;  and 
when  we  sought  to  restrain  him,  it  was  then 
too  late.  We  humbled  ourselves  before  God  ; 
but  he  was  pleased  to  make  our  sin  become  its 


own  punishment.  Timothy  grew  worse  and! 
worse,  till  he  was  forced  to  abscond  for  a  mis. 
demeanour  ;  after  which  we  never  saw  him,  but 
have  often  heard  of  him  changing  from  one 
idle  way  of  life  to  another ;  unstable  as  water, 
he  has  been  a  footman  ,  a  soldier,  a  shopman,  a 
gambler,  and  a  strolling  actor.  With  deep  sor¬ 
row  we  trace  back  his  vices  to  our  ungoverned 
fondness ;  that  lively  and  sharp  wit,  by  which 
he  has  been  able  to  carry  on  such  a  variety  of 
wild  schemes,  might,  if  we  had  used  him  to  bear 
reproof  in  his  youth,  have  enabled  him  to  have 
done  great  service  for  God  and  his  country. 
But  our  flattery  made  him  wise  in  his  own  con¬ 
ceit  ;  and  there  is  more  hope  of  a  fool  than  of 
him.  We  indulged  our  own  vanity,  and  have 
destroyed  liis  soul.’ 

Here  Mr.  Worthy  stopped  Mrs,  Incle,  saying, 
that  whenever  he  heard  it  lamented  that  the 
children  of  pious  parents  often  turned  out  so  ill, 
he  could  not  help  thinking  that  there  must  be  fre¬ 
quently  something  of  this  sort  of  error  in  the 
bringing  them  up:  he  knew,  indeed,  some  in¬ 
stances  to  the  contrary,  in  which  the  best  means 
had  failed  ;  but  he  believed,  that  from  Eli  the 
priest,  to  Incle  the  labourer,  much  more  than 
half  the  failures  of  this  sort  might  be  traced  to 
some  mistake,  or  vanity,  or  bad  judgment,  or 
sinful  indulgence  in  the  parents. 

‘  I  now  looked  about,’  continued  Mrs.  Incle, 

‘  in  order  to  see  in  what  I  could  assist  my  poor 
mother ;  regretting  more  heartily  than  she  did, 
that  I  knew  no  one  thing  that  was  of  any  use. 
I  was  so  desirous  of  humbling  myself  before  God 
and  her,  that  I  offered  even  to  try  to  wash.’ — 
‘You  wash !’ exclaimed  Bragwell,  starting  cp 
with  great  emotion,  ‘  Heaven  forbid,  that  with 
such  a  fortune  and  education.  Miss  Bragwell 
should  be  seen  at  a  washing-tub.’  This  vain 
father,  who  could  bear  to  hear  of  her  distresses 
and  her  sins,  could  not  bear  to  hear  of  her 
washing.  Mr.  Worthy  stopped  him,  saying, 
‘As  to  her  fortune,  you  know  you  refused  to 
give  her  any  ;  and  as  to  her  education,  you  see 
it  had  not  taught  her  how  to  do  any  thing  better. 
I  am  sorry  you  do  not  see  in  this  instance,  the 
beauty  of  Christian  humility.  For  my  own 
part,  I  set  a  greater  value  on  such  an  active 
proof  of  it,  than  on  a  whole  volume  of  profes¬ 
sions-’ — Mr.  Bragwell  did  not  quite  understand 
this,  and  Mrs.  Incle  went  on.  ‘  What  to  do  to 
get  a  penny  I  knew  not.  Making  of  filagree, 
or  fringe,  or  card-purses,  or  cutting  out  paper, 
or  dancing  and  singing  was  of  no  use  in  our 
village.  The  shopkeeper,  indeed,  would  have 
taken  me,  if  I  had  known  any  thing  of  accounts  ; 
and  the  clergyman  could  have  got  me  a  nursery¬ 
maid’s  place,  if  I  could  have  done  good  plain- 
work.  I  made  some  awkward  attempts  to  learn 
to  spin  and  knit,  when  my  mother’s  wheel  or 
knitting  lay  by,  but  I  spoiled  both  through  my 
ignorance.  At  last  I  luckily  thought  upon  the 
fine  netting  I  used  to  make  for  my  trimmings, 
and  it  struck  me  that  I  might  turn  this  to  some 
little  account.  I  procured  some  twine,  and 
worked  early  and  late  to  make  nets  for  fisher¬ 
men,  and  cabbage-nets.  I  was  so  ples.sed  that 
I  had  at  last  found  an  opportunity  to  show  my 
good  will  by  this  mean  work,  that  I  regretted  my 
little  George  was  not  big  enougit  to  contribute 


160 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


his  share  to  our  support,  by  travelling  about  to 
sell  my  nets.’ 

‘  Cabbage-nets  !*  exclaimed  Bragwell ;  ‘  there 
is  no  bearing  this. — Cabbage-nets  !  My  grand¬ 
son  hawk  cabbage-nets  !  How  could  you  think 
of  such  a  scandalous  thing?’  ‘Sir,’  said  Mrs. 
Incle  mildly,  ‘  I  am  now  convinced  that  nothing 
is  scandalous  which  is  not  wicked.  Besides,  we 
were  in  want;  and  necessity,  as  well  as  piety, 
would  have  reconciled  me  to  this  mean  trade.’ 
Mr.  Bragwell  groaned,  and  bade  her  go  on. 

‘  In  the  mean  time  my  little  George  grew  a 
fine  boy ;  and  I  adored  the  goodness  of  God, 
who  in  the  sweetness  of  maternal  love,  had  given 
me  a  reward  for  many  sufferings.  Instead  of 
indulging  a  gloomy  distrust  about  the  fate  of  this 
child,  I  now  resigned  him  to  the  will  of  God. 
Instead  of  lamenting  because  he  was  not  likely 
to  be  rich,  I  was  resolved  to  bring  him  up  with 
such  notions  as  might  make  him  contented  to  be 
poor.  I  thought  if  I  could  subdue  all  vanity  and 
selfishness  in  him,  I  should  make  him  a  happier 
man  than  if  I  had  thousands  to  bestow  on  him  ; 
and  I  trusted  that  I  should  be  rewarded  for 
every  painful  act  of  self-denial,  by  the  future 
virtue  and  happiness  of  my  child.  Can  you  be¬ 
lieve  it,  my  dear  father,  my  days  now  passed 
not  unhappily ;  I  worked  hard  all  day,  and  that 
alone  is  a  source  of  happiness  beyond  what  the 
idle  can  guess.  After  my  child  was  asleep  at 
night,  I  read  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  to  my  pa¬ 
rents,  whose  eyes  now  began  to  fail  them.  We 
then  thanked  God  over  our  frugal  supper  of  po¬ 
tatoes,  and  talked  over  the  holy  men  of  old,  the 
saints,  and  the  martyrs,  who  would  have  thought 
our  homely  fare  a  luxury.  We  compared  our 
peace,  and  liberty,  and  safety,  witl*their  bonds, 
and  imprisonment,  and  tortures ;  and  should 
have  been  ashamed  of  a  murmur.  We  then 
joined  in  prayer,  in  which  my  absent  parents 
and  my  husband  were  never  forgotten,  and  went 
to  rest  in  charity  with  the  whole  world,  and  at 
peace  in  our  own  souls.’ 

‘Oh!  my  forgiving  child!’  interrupted  Mr. 
Bragwell,  sobbing  ;  ‘  and  didst  thou  really  pray 
for  thy  unnatural  father  ?  and  didst  thou  lay 
thee  down  in  rest  and  peace  ?  Then,  let  me  tell 
thee,  thou  wast  better  off  than  thy  mother  and 
I  were. — But  no  more  of  this ;  go  on.’ 

‘  Whether  my  father-in-law  had  worked  be¬ 
yond  his  strength,  in  order  to  support  me  and 
my  child,  I  know  not,  but  he  was  taken  dan¬ 
gerously  ill.  While  he  lay  in  this  state,  he  re¬ 
ceived  an  account  that  my  husband  was  dead 
in  the  West-Indies  of  the  yellow  fever,  which 
has  carried  off  such  numbers  of  our  countrymen: 
we  all  wept  together,  and  pr^ed  that  his  awful 
death  might  quicken  us  iii  preparing  for  our 
own.  This  shock,  joined  to  the  fatigue  of  nursing 
her  sick  husband,  soon  brought  my  poor  mother 
to  death’s  door.  I  nursed  them  both,  and  felt  a 
satisfaction  in  giving  them  all  I  had  to  bestow, 
my  attendance,  my  tears,  and  my  prayers.  I, 
who  was  once  so  nice  and  so  proud,  so  disdain¬ 
ful  in  the  midst  of  plenty,  and  so  impatient  un¬ 
der  the  smallest  inconvenience,  was  now  enabled 
to  glorify  God  by  my  activity  and  by  my  sub¬ 
mission.  Though  the  sorrows  of  my  heart  were 
enlarged,  I  cast  my  burthen  on  Him  who  cares 
for  the  weary  and  heavy  laden.  After  having 


watched  by  these  poor  people  the  whole  night 
I  sat  down  to  breakfast  on  my  dry  crust  and 
coarse  dish  of  tea,  without  a  murmur  :  my  great¬ 
est  grief  was,  lest  I  should  bring  away  the  in¬ 
fection  to  my  dear  boy  ;  for  the  fever  was  now 
become  putrid.  I  prayed  to  know  what  it  was 
my  duty  to  do  between  my  dying  parents  and 
my  helpless  child.  To  take  care  of  the  sick  and 
aged,  seemed  to  be  my  first  duty  ;  so  I  offered 
up  my  child  to  Him  who  is  the  father  of  the 
fatherless,  and  he  in  mercy  spared  him  to 
me. 

‘The  cheerful  piety  with  which  these  good 
people  breathed  their  last,  proved  to  me,  that  the 
temper  of  mind  with  which  the  pious  poor  com¬ 
monly  meet  death,  is  the  grand  compensation 
made  them  by  Providence  for  all  the  hardships 
of  their  inferior  condition.  If  they  have  had  few 
joys  and  comforts  in  life  already,  and  have  still 
fewer  hopes  in  store,  is  not  all  fully  made  up  to 
them  by  their  being  enabled  to  leave  this  world 
with  stronger  desires  of  heaven,  and  without 
those  bitter  regrets  after  the  good  things  of  this 
life,  which  add  to  the  dying  tortures  of  the 
worldly  rieh  ?  To  the  forlorn  and  destitute, 
death  is  not  so  terrible  as  it  is  to  him  who  sits 
at  ease  in  Ms  possessions,  and  who  fears  that 
this  night  his  soul  shall  be  required  of  him.’ 

Mr.  Bragwell  felt  this  remark  more  deeply 
than  his  daughter  meant  he  should.  He  wept, 
and  bade  her  proceed. 

‘  I  followed  my  departed  parents  to  the  same 
grave,  and  wept  over  them,  but  not  as  one  who 
had  no  hope.  They  had  neither  houses  nor  lands 
to  leave  me,  but  they  left  me  their  Bible,  their 
blessing,  and  their  example,  of  whieh  I  humbly 
trust  I  shall  feel  the  benefits  when  all  the  riches 
of  this  world  shall  have  an  end.  Their  few 
effects,  consisting  of  some  poor  household  goods, 
and  some  working-tools,  hardly  sufficed  to  pay 
their  funeral  expenses.  I  was  soon  attacked 
with  the  same  fever,  and  saw  myself,  as  I 
thought,  dying  the  second  time ;  my  danger 
was  the  same,  but  my  views  were  changed.  I 
now  saw  eternity  in  a  more  awful  light  than  I 
had  done  before,  when  I  wickedly  thought  death 
might  be  gloomily  called  upon  as  a  refuge  from 
every  common  trouble.  Though  I  had  still  rea¬ 
son  to  be  humble  on  account  of  my  sin,  yet,  by 
the  grace  of  God,  I  saw  death  stripped  of  his 
sting  and  robbed  of  his  terrors,  </troug/i  Mm  who 
loved  me,  and  gave  himself  for  me  ;  and  in  the 
extremity  of  pain,  my  soul  rejoiced  in  God  my 
Saviour. 

‘  I  recovered,  however,  and  was  chiefly  sup¬ 
ported  by  the  kind  clergyman’s  charity.  When 
I  felt  myself  nourished  and  cheered  by  a  little 
tea  or  broth,  which  he  daily  sent  me  from  his 
own  slender  provision,  my  heart  smote  me,  to 
think  how  I  had  daily  sat  down  at  home  to  a 
plentiful  dinner,  without  any  sense  of  thankful¬ 
ness  for  my  own  abundance,  or  without  inquir¬ 
ing  whether  my  poor  sick  neighbours  were 
starving  :  and  I  sorrowfully  remembered,  that 
what  my  poor  sister  and  I  used  to  waste  through 
daintiness,  would  now  have  comfortably  fed  my¬ 
self  and  child.  Believe  me,  my  dear  mother,  a 
labouring  man  who  has  been  brought  low  by  a 
fever,  might  often  be  restored  to  his  work  somo 
weeks  sooner,  if  on  his  recovery  he  was  nou- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE,  161  ; 


rished  and  strengthened  by  a  good  bit  from  a 
farmer’s  table.  Less  than  is  often  thrown  to  a 
favourite  spaniel  would  suffice  ;  so  that  the  ex¬ 
pense  would  be  almost  nothing  to  the  giver, 
while  to  the  receiver  it  would  bring  health,  and 
strength,  and  comfort,  and  recruited  life.  And 
it  is  with  regret  I  must  observe,  that  young 
women  in  our  station  are  less  attentive  to  the 
comforts  of  the  poor,  less  active  in  visiting  the 
cottages  of  the  sick,  less  desirous  of  instructing 
the  young,  and  working  for  the  aged,  than  many 
ladies  of  higher  rank.  The  multitude  of  oppor¬ 
tunities  of  this  sort  which  we  neglect,  among 
the  families  of  our  father’s  distressed  tenants 
and  workmen,  will  I  fear,  one  day  appear 
against  us. 

‘  By  the  time  I  was  tolerably  recovered,  I  was 
forced  to  leave  the  house.  I  had  no  human 
prospect  of  subsistence.  I  humbly  asked  of  God 
to  direct  my  steps,  and  to  give  me  entire  obe¬ 
dience  to  his  will.  I  then  cast  my  eye  mourn¬ 
fully  on  my  child  ;  and  though  prayer  had  re¬ 
lieved  my  heart  of  a  load  which  without  it  would 
have  been  intolerable,  my  tears  flowed  fast, 
while  I  cried  out  in  the  bitterness  of  my  soul. 
How  many  hired  servants  of  my  father  have 
bread  enough,  and  to  spare,  and  I  perish  with 
hunger.  This  text  appeared  a  kind  of  answer 
to  my  prayer,  and  gave  me  courage  to  make  one 
more  attempt  to  soften  you  in  my  favour.  I  re¬ 
solved  to  set  out  directly  to  find  you,  to  confess 
my  disobedience,  and  to  beg  a  scanty  pittance, 
with  which  I  and  my  child  might  be  meanly 
supported  in  some  distant  country,  where  we 
should  not,  by  our  presence,  disgrace  our  more 
happy  relations.  We  set  out  and  travelled  as 
fast  as  my  weak  health  and  poor  George’s  little 
feet  and  ragged  shoes  would  permit.  I  brought 
a  little  bundle  of  such  work  and  necessaries  as 
I  had  left,  by  selling  which  we  subsisted  on  the 
road.’ — ‘  I  hope,'  interrupted  Bragwell,  ‘  there 
were  no  cabbage-nets  in  it  ?’ — ‘  At  least,’  said 
her  mother,  ‘  I  hope  you  did  not  sell  them  near 
home  V — ‘  No  ;  I  had  none  left,  said  Mrs.  Incle, 

‘  or  I  should  have  done  it.  I  got  many  a  lift  in 
a  wagon  for  my  child  and  my  bundle,  which 
was  a  great  relief  to  me,  as  I  should  have  had 
both  to  carry.  And  here  I  cannot  help  saying, 

I  wish  drivers  would  not  be  too  hard  in  their 
demands,  if  they  help  a  poor  sick  traveller  on  a 
mile  or  two,  it  proves  a  great  relief  to  weary 
bodies  and  naked  feet ;  and  such  little  cheap 
charities  may  be  considered  as  the  cup  of  cold 
water,  which,  if  given  on  right  grounds,  shall 
not  lose  its  reward.'  Here  Bragwell  sighed  to 
think  that  when  mounted  on  his  fine  bay  mare, 
or  driving  his  neat  chaise,  it  had  never  once 
crossed  his  mind  that  the  poor  way-worn  foot 
traveller  was  not  equally  at  his  ease,  nor  had  it 
ever  occurred  to  him  that  shoes  were  a  neces¬ 
sary  accommodation.  Those  who  want  nothing 
are  apt  to  forget  how  many  there  are  who  want 
every  thing.  Mrs.  Incle  went  on  :  ‘  I  got  to  this 
village  about  seven  this  evening ;  and  while  I 
sat  on  the  church  yard  wall  to  rest  and  meditate 
how  I  should  make  myself  known  at  home,  I 
saw  a  funeral ;  I  inquired  whose  it  was,  and 
learnt  it  was  my  sister’s.  This  was  too  much 
for  me,  and  I  sank  down  in  a  fit,  and  knew  no- 
flung  that  happened  to  me  from  that  moment, 
Voi,,  I.  L 


till  I  found  myself  in  the  workhouse  with  my 
father  and  Mr.  Worthy.’ 

Here  Mrs.  Incle  stopped.  Grief,  shame,  pride, 
and  remorse,  had  quite  overcome  Mr.  Bragwell. 
He  wept  like  a  child,  and  said  he  hoped  his 
daughter  would  pray  for  him  ;  for  that  he  was 
not  in  a  condition  to  pray  for  himself,  though  he 
found  nothing  else  could  give  him  any  comfort. 
His  deep  dejection  brought  on  a  fit  of  sickness. 

‘  O  1  said  he,  I  now  begin  to  feel  an  expression 
in  the  sacrament  which  I  used  to  repeat  without 
thinking  it  had  any  meaning,  the  remembra/ice 
of  my  sins  is  grievous,  the  burthen  of  them  is  in¬ 
tolerable.  O  !  it  is  awful  to  think  what  a  sinner 
a  man  may  be,  and  yet  retain  a  decent  charac¬ 
ter  !  How  many  thousands  are  in  my  condition, 
taking  to  themselves  all  the  credit  of  their  pros¬ 
perity,  instead  of  giving  God  the  glory  !  heaping 
up  riches  to  their  hurt,  instead  of  dealing  their 
bread  to  the  hungry  !  O!  let  those  who  hear  of 
the  Bragwell  family,  never  say  that  vanity  is  a 
little  sin.  In  me  it  has  been  the  fruitful  parent 
of  a  thousand’  sins — selfishness,  hardness  of 
heart,  forgetfulness  of  God.  In  one  of  my  sons, 
vanity  was  the  cause  of  rapine,  injustice  extra¬ 
vagance,  ruin,  self-murder.  Both  my  daughters 
were  undone  by  vanity,  though  it  only  wore  the 
more  harmless  shape  of  dress,  idleness,  and  dis¬ 
sipation.  The  husband  of  my  daughter  Incle  it 
destroyed,  by  leading  him  to  live  above  his  sta¬ 
tion,  and  to  despise  labour.  Vanity  ensnared 
the  souls  even  of  his  pious  parents,  for  wliile  it 
led  them  to  wish  their  son  in  a  better  condition, 
it  led  them  to  allow  sueh  indulgences  as  were 
unfit  for  his  own.  O !  you  who  hear  of  us,  hum¬ 
ble  yourselves  under  the  mighty  hand  of  God ; 
resist  high  thoughts  ;  let  ever}’  imagination  be 
brought  into  obedience  to  the  Son  of  God.  If 
you  set  a  value  on  finery  look  into  that  grave ; 
behold  the  mouldering  body  of  my  Betsey,  who 
now  says  to  Corruption,  thou  art  my  father,  and 
to  the  worm,  thou  art  my  mother  and  my  sister. 
Look  to  the  bloody  and  brainless  head  of  her 
husband.  O,  Mr.  Worthy,  how  does  Providence 
mock  at  human  foresight !  I  have  been  greedy 
of  gain,  that  the  son  of  Mr.  Squeeze  might  be  a 
great  man ;  he  is  dead  ;  while  the  child  of  Ti¬ 
mothy  Incle,  whom  I  had  doomed  to  beggary, 
will  be  my  heir.  Mr.  Worthy,  to  you  I  commit 
this  boy’s  education  ;  teach  him  to  value  his  im¬ 
mortal  soul  more,  and  the  good  things  of  this 
life  less  than  I  have  done.  Bring  him  up  in  the 
fear  of  God,  and  in  the  government  of  his  pas¬ 
sions.  Teacl’  him  that  unbelief  and  pride  are 
at  the  root  of  all  sin.  I  have  found  this  to  my 
cost.  I  trusted  in  my  riches  ;  I  said,  “  to-mor¬ 
row  shall  be  as  this  day  and  more  abundant.”  I 
did  not  remember  tliat  for  all  these  things  God 
would  bring  me  to  judgment.  I  am  not  sure  that 
I  believed  in  a  judgment:  I  am  not  sure  that  I 
believed  in  a  God.’ 

Bragwell  at  length  grew  better,  but  he  never 
recovered  his  spirits.  The  conduct  of  Mrs.  Incle 
through  life  was  that  of  an  humble  Christian. 
Slie  sold  all  her  sister’s  finery  which  her  fatiier 
had  given  her,  and  gave  the  money  to  the  poor ;  , 
saying,  ‘  It  did  not  become  one  who  professed 
penitence  to  return  to  the  gayeties  of  life.’  Mr. 
Bragwell  did  not  oppose  this  ;  not  that  lie  had 
fully  acquired  a  just  notion  of  the  self-denying 


162 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAJSTNAH  MORE. 


spirit  of  religion,  but  having  a  head  not  very 
clear  at  making  distinctions,  he  was  never  able, 
after  the  sight  of  Squeeze’s  mangled  body,  to 
think  of  gayety  and  grandeur,  without  think¬ 
ing  at  the  same  time  of  a  pistol  and  bloody  brains; 
for,  at  his  first  introduction  into  gay  life  had 
presented  him  with  all  these  objects  at  one  view, 
he  never  afterwards  could  separate  them  in  his 
mind.  He  even  kept  his  fine  beaufet  of  plate 
always  shut ;  because  it  brought  to  his  mind  the 
grand  unpaid-for  sideboard  that  he  had  seen  laid 
out  for  Mr.  Squeeze’s  supper,  to  the  remem¬ 
brance  of  which  he  could  not  help  tacking  the 
idea  of  debts,  prisons,  executions,  and  self- 
murder. 


Mr.  Bragwell’s  heart  had  been  so  buried  in 
the  love  of  the  world,  and  evil  habits  had  be¬ 
come  BO  rooted  in  him,  that  the  progress  he 
made  in  religion  was  very  slow ;  yet  he  earn¬ 
estly  prayed  and  struggled  against  sin  and 
vanity;  and  when  his  unfeeling  wife  declared 
she  could  not  love  the  boy  unless  he  was  called 
by  their  name  instead  of  Incle,  Mr.  Bragwell 
would  never  consent,  saying  he  stood  in  need 
of  every  help  against  pride.  He  also  got  the 
letter  which  Squeeze  wrote  just  before  he  shot 
liimself,  framed  and  glazed;  this  he  hung  up 
in  his  chamber,  and  made  it  a  rule  to  go  and 
read  it  as  often  as  he  found  his  heart  disposed  to: 

VANITY. 


»TIS  ALL  FOR  THE  BEST.* 


‘  It  is  all  for  the  best,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson, 
whenever  any  misfortune  befel  her.  She  had 
got  such  a  habit  of  vindicating  Providence,  that 
instea'd  of  weeping  and  wailing  under  the  most 
trying  dispensations,  her  chief  care  was  to  con¬ 
vince  herself  and  others,  that  however  great 
might  be  her  suflferings,  and  however  little  they 
could  be  accounted  for  at  present,  yet  that  the 
Judge  of  all  the  earth  could  not  but  do  right. 
Instead  of  trying  to  clear  herself  from  any  pos¬ 
sible  blame  that  might  attach  to  her  under  those 
misfortunes  which,  to  speak  after  the  manner 
of  men,  she  might  seem  not  to  have  deserved, 
she  was  always  the  first  to  justify  Him  who  had 
inflicted  it.  It  was  not  that  she  superstitiously 
converted  every  visitation  into  a  punishment; 
she  entertained  more  correct  ideas  of  that  God 
who  overrules  all  events.  She  knew  that  some 
calamities  were  sent  to  exercise  her  faith,  others 
to  purify  her  heart ;  some  to  chastise  her  rebel¬ 
lious  will,  and  all  to  remind  her  that  this  ‘  was 
not  her  rest ;’  that  this  world  was  not  the  scene, 
for  the  full  and  final  display  of  retributive  jus¬ 
tice.  The  honour  of  God  was  dearer  to  her  than 
her  own  credit,  and  her  chief  desire  was  to  turn 
all  events  to  his  glory. 

Though  Mrs.  Simpson  was  the  daughter  of  a 
clergyman,  and  the  widow  of  a  genteel  trades¬ 
man,  she  had  been  reduced  by  a  succession  of 
misfortunes,  to  accept  of  a  room  in  an  alms¬ 
house.  Instead  of  repining  at  the  change  ;  in¬ 
stead  of  dwelling  on  her  former  gentility  and 
saying,  ‘  how  handsomely  she  had  lived  once ; 
and  how  hard  it  was  to  be  reduced ;  and  she 
little  thought  ever  to  end  her  days  in  an  alms¬ 
house  ;’  which  is  the  common  language  of  those 
who  were  never  so  well  off  before ;  she  was 
thankful  that  such  an  asylum  was  provided  for 
want  and  age;  and  blessed  God  that  it  was  to 
the  Cliristian  dispensation  alone  that  such  pious 
institutions  owed  their  birth. 

One  fine  evening,  as  she  was  sitting  reading 
her  Bible  on  the  little  bench  shaded  with  honey¬ 
suckles,  just  before  her  door,  who  should  come 
and  sit  down  by  her  but  Mrs.  Betty,  who  had 


formerly  been  lady’s  maid  at  the  nobleman’s - 
house  in  the  village  of  which  Mrs.  Simpson’s 
father  had  been  minister. — Betty,  after  a  life  of 
vanity,  was,  by  a  train  of  misfortunes,  brought 
to  this  very  alms-house ;  and  though  she  had 
taken  no  care  by  frugality  and  prudence  to  avoid 
it,  she  thought  it  a  hardship  and  disgrace,  in 
stead  of  being  thankful,  as  she  ought  to  have 
been,  for  such  a  retreat.  At  first  she  did  not 
know  Mrs.  Simpson  ;  her  large  bonnet,  cloak, 
and  brown  stuff  gown  (for  she  always  made  her 
appearance  conform  to  her  circumstances)  being 
very  different  from  the  dress  she  had  been  used 
to  wear  when  Mrs.  Betty  has  seen  her  dining  at 
the  great  house  ;  aifd  time  and  sorrow  had  much 
altered  her  countenance.  But  when  Mrs.  Simp¬ 
son  kindly  addressed  her  as  an  old  acquaintance, 
she  screamed  with  surprise — ‘  What !  you,  ma¬ 
dam  ?’  cried  she  :  ‘  you  in  an  alms-house,  living 
on  charity;  ‘you,  who  used  to  be  so  eharitable 
yourself,  that  you  never  suffered  any  distress  in 
tlie  parish  which  you  could  prevent  V  ‘  That 
may  be  one  reason,  Betty,’  replied  Mrs.  Simp¬ 
son,  ‘  why  Providence  has  provided  this  refuge 
for  my  old  age. — And  my  heart  overflows  witli 
gratitude  when  I  look  back  on  his  goodness. 

‘  No  such  great  goodness,  methinks,’  said  Betty; 

‘  why  you  were  born  and  bred  a  lady,  and  are 
now  reduced  to  live  in  an  alms-house.  ‘  Betty, 

I  was  born  and  bred  a  sinner,  undeserving  of 
the  mercies  I  have  received.’  ‘No  such  great 
mercies,’  said  Betty.  ‘  Why,  I  heard  you  had 
been  turned  out  of  doors  ;  that  your  husband 
had  broke ;  and  that  you  had  been  in  danger  of 
starving,  though  I  did  not  know  what  was  be¬ 
come  of  you.  ‘  It  is  all  true,  Betty,  glory  be  to 
God  !  it  is  all  true.’ 

‘  Well,’  said  Betty,  ‘  you  are  an  odd  sort  of  a 
gentlewoman.  If  from  a  prosperous  condition 
I  had  been  made  a  bankrupt,  a  widow,  and  a 
beggar,  I  should  have  thought  it  no  such  mighty 
matter  to  be  thankful  for :  but  there  is  no  ae- 
counting  for  taste.  The  neighbours  used  to  say 
that  all  your  troubles  must  needs  be  a  judgment 
upon  you ;  but  I  who  knew  how  good  you  were. 


*  A  proflisrate  wit  of  a  neishbourin;;  country  having  attomptod  to  turn  this  doctrine  into  ridicule,  under  tho 
same  title  here  assiim-id,  it  occurred  to  lha  author  that  it  nught  not  be  altogether  useless  to  illustrate  the  same 
doctrine  on  Christian  principles. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


163 


thought  it  very  hard  you  should  suffer  so  much ; 
but  now  I  see  you  reduced  to  an  alms-house,  I 
beg  your  perdon,  madam,  but  I  am  afraid  the 
neighbours  were  in  the  right,  and  that  so  many 
misfortunes  could  never  have  happened  to  you 
without  you  had  committed  a  great  many  sins 
to  deserve  them  ;  for  I  always  thought  that  God 
is  so  just  that  he  punishes  us  for  all  our  bad  ac¬ 
tions,  and  rewards  us  for  all  our  good  ones.’ 
‘  So  he  does,  Betty ;  but  he  does  it  in  his  own 
Wey,  and  at  his  own  time,  and  not  according 
to  our  notions  of  good  and  evil ;  for  his  ways 
are  not  as  our  ways. — God,  indeed,  punishes 
the  bad,  and  rewards  the  good  ;  but  he  does  not 
do  it  fully  and  finally  in  this  world.  Indeed  he 
does  not  set  such  a  value  on  outward  things  as 
to  make  riches,  and  rank,  and  beauty,  and 
health,  the  reward  of  piety ;  that  would  be  act¬ 
ing  like  weak  and  erring  men,  and  not  like  a 
just  and  holy  God.  Our  belief  in  a  future  state 
of  rewards  and  punishments  is  not  always  so 
strong  as  it  ought  to  be,  even  now ;  but  how  to¬ 
tally  would  our  faith  fail,  if  we  regularly  saw 
every  thing  made  even  in  this  world.  We  shall 
lose  nothing  by  having  pay-day  put  off.  The 
longest  voyages  make  the  best  returns.  So  far 
am  I  from  thinking  that  God  is  less  just,  and 
future  happiness  less  certain,  because  I  see  the 
wicked  sometimes  prosper,  and  the  righteous 
suffer  in  this  world,  that  I  am  rather  led  to  be¬ 
lieve  that  God  is  more  just  and  heaven  more 
certain  ;  for,  in  the  first  place,  God  will  not  put 
off  his  favourite  children  with  so  poor  a  lot  as 
the  good  things  of  this  world  ;  and  next,  seeing 
that  the  best  men  here  below  do  not  often  attain 
to  the  best  things ;  why  it  only  serves  to  strength¬ 
en  my  belief  that  they  are  not  the  best  things 
in  His  eye  ;  and  He  has  most  assuredly  reserved 
for  those  that  love  Him  such  ‘  good  things  as 
eye  has  not  seen  nor  ear  heard.’  God,  by  keep¬ 
ing  man  in  Paradise  while  he  was  innocent,  and 
turning  him  into  this  world  as  soon  as  he  had 
sinned,  gave  a  plain  proof  that  he  never  intend¬ 
ed  the  world,  even  in  its  happiest  state,  as  a 
place  of  reward.  My  father  gave  me  good  prin¬ 
ciples  and  useful  knowledge ;  and  while  he 
taught  me  by  a  habit  of  constant  employment, 
to  be,  if  I  may  so  say,  independent  of  the 
world ;  yet  he  led  me  to  a  constant  sense  of 
dependence  on  God.’  ‘  I  do  not  see,  however,’ 
interrupted  Mrs.  Betty,  ‘  that  your  religion  has 
been  of  any  use  to  you.  It  has  been  so  far 
from  preserving  you  from  trouble,  that  I  think 
you  have  had  more  than  the  usual  share.’ 

‘No,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson; ‘nor  did  Christi¬ 
anity  ever  pretend  to  exempt  its  followers  from 
trouble ;  this  is  no  part  of  the  promise.  Nay, 
the  contrary  is  rather  stipulated  ;  ‘  in  the  world 
ye  shall  have  tribulation.’ — But  if  it  has  not 
taught  me  to  escape  sorrow,  I  humbly  hope  it 
has  taught  me  how  to  bear  it.  If  it  has  taught 
me  not  to  feel,  it  has  taught  me  not  to  murmur. 
I  will  tell  you  a  little  of  my  story.  As  my  fa¬ 
ther  could  save  little  or  nothing  for  me,  he  was 
very  desirous  of  seeing  mo  married  to  a  young 
gentleman  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  expressed 
a  regard  for  me.  But  while  he  was  anxiously 
engaged  in  bringing  tliis  about,  my  good  father 
died.’ 

‘How  very  unhtcky  !’  interrupted  Betty, 


‘  No,  Betty,’  replied  Mrs.  Simpson,  ‘  it  was 
very  providential ;  this  man,  though  he  main- 
tained  a  decent  character,  had  a  good  fortune, 
and  lived  soberly,  yet  he  would  not  have  made 
me  happy.’  ‘  Why  what  could  you  want  more 
of  a  man  ?’  said  Betty.  ‘  Religion,’  returned 
Mrs.  Simpson.  ‘  As  my  father  made  a  credit¬ 
able  appearance,  and  was  very  charitable  ;  and 
as  I  was  an  only  child,  this  gentleman  conclud¬ 
ed  that  he  could  give  me  a  considerable  fortune ; 
for  he  did  not  know  that  all  the  poor  in  his  pa¬ 
rish  are  the  children  of  every  pious  clergyman. 
Finding  I  had  little  or  nothing  left  me,  he  with¬ 
drew  his  attentions.’  ‘  What  a  sad  thing !’ 
cried  Betty.  ‘  No,  it  was  all  for  the  best ;  Pro¬ 
vidence  overruled  his  covetousness  for  my  good. 
I  could  not  have  been  happy  with  a  man  whose 
soul  was  set  on  the  perishable  things  of  this 
world ;  nor  did  I  esteem  him,  though  I  laboured 
to  submit  my  own  inclinations  to  those  of  my 
kind  father.  The  very  circumstance  of  being 
left  pennyless  produced  the  direct  contrary  eft 
feet  on  Mr,  Simpson  :  he  was  a  sensible  young 
man,  engaged  in  a  prosperous  business  :  we  had 
long  highly  valued  each  other;  but  while  my 
father  lived,  he  thought  me  above  his  hopes 
We  were  married ;  I  found  him  an  amiable,  in¬ 
dustrious,  good-tempered  man ;  he  respected  re¬ 
ligion  and  religious  people ;  but  with  excellent 
di’spositions,  I  had  the  grief  to  find  him  less 
pious  than  I  had  hoped.  He  was  ambitious,  and 
a  little  too  much  immersed  in  worldly  schemes  ; 
and  though  I  knew  it  was  all  done  for  my  sake, 
yet  that  did  not  blind  me  so  far  as  to  make  me 
think  it  right.  He  attached  himself  so  eagerly 
to  business,  that  he  thought  every  hour  lost  in 
which  he  was  not  doing  something  that  would 
tend  to  raise  me  to  what  he  called  my  proper 
rank.  The  more  prosperous  he  grew  the  less 
religious  he  became  ;  and  I  began  to  find  that 
one  might  be  unhappy  with  a  husband  one  ten¬ 
derly  loved.  One  day  as  he  was  standing  on 
some  steps  to  reach  down  a  parcel  of  goods  he 
fell  from  the  top  and  broke  his  leg  in  two  places.’ 

‘  What  a  dreadful  misfortune !’  said  Mrs. 
Betty. — ‘  What  a  signal  blessing !’  said  Mrs. 
Simpson.  ‘Here  I  am  sure  I  had  reason  to  say 
all  was  for  the  best;  from  that  very  hour  in 
which  my  outward  troubles  began,  I  date  the 
beginning  of  my  happiness.  Severe  suffering, 
a  near  prospect  of  death,  absence  from  the  world, 
silence,  reflection,  and  above  all,  the  divine 
blessings  on  the  prayers  and  scriptures  I  read 
to  him,  were  the  means  used  by  our  merciful 
Father  to  turn  my  husband’s  heart. — During 
this  confinement  he  was  awakened  to  a  deep 
sense  of  his  own  sinfulness,  of  the  vanity  of  all 
this  world  has  to  bestow,  and  of  his  great  need 
of  a  Saviour.  It  was  many  montlis  before  he 
could  leave  his  bed;  during  this  time  his  busi¬ 
ness  was  neglected.  His  principal  clerk  took 
advantage  of  his  absence  to  receive  large  sums 
of  money  in  his  name,  and  absconded.  On  hear¬ 
ing  of  this  great  loss,  our  creditors  came  faster 
upon  us  than  we  could  answer  their  demands ; 
they  grew  more  impatient  as  we  were  less  able 
to  satisfy  them  ;  one  misfortune  followed  an¬ 
other  ;  till  at  length  Mr.  Simpson  became  a 
bankrupt.’ 

‘  What  an  evil !’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Betty.  ‘  Yet 


164 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


it  led  in  the  end  to  much  good,’  resumed  Mrs. 
Simpson.  ‘We  were  forced  to  leave  the  town 
in  which  we  had  lived  with  so  much  credit 
and  comfort,  and  to  betake  ourselves  to  a  mean 
lodging  in  a  neighbouring  village,  till  my  hus¬ 
band’s  strength  should  be  recruited,  and  till  we 
could  have  time  to  look  about  us  and  see  what 
was  to  be  done.  The  first  night  we  got  to  this 
poor  dwelling,  my  husband  felt  very  sorrowful, 
pot  for  his  own  sake,  but  that  he  had  brought 
so  much  poverty  on  me,  whom  he  had  so  dearly 
loved :  I  on  the  contrary,  was  unusually  cheer¬ 
ful  :  for  the  blessed  change  in  his  mind  had  more 
than  reconciled  me  to  the  sad  change  in  his 
circumstances.  I  was  contented  to  live  with 
him  in  a  poor  cottage  for  a  few  years  on  earth, 
if  it  might  contribute  to  our  spending  a  blessed 
eternity  together  in  heaven.  I  said  to  him, 
‘  Instead  of  lamenting  that  we  are  now  reduced 
to  want  all  the  comforts  of  life,  I  have  some¬ 
times  been  almost  ashamed  to  live  in  the  full 
enjoyments  of  them,  when  I  have  reflected  that 
my  Saviour  not  only  chose  to  deny  himself  all 
these  enjoyments,  but  even  to  live  a  life  of  hard¬ 
ship  for  my  sake  ;  not  one  of  his  numerous  mi¬ 
racles  tended  to  his  own  comfort ;  and  though 
tve  read  at  different  times  that  he  betli  hunger¬ 
ed  and  thirsted,  yet  it  was  not  for  his  own  gra¬ 
tification  that  he  once  changed  water/into  wine  ; 
and  I  have  often  been  struck  with  the  near  posi¬ 
tion  of-  that  chapter  in  which  this  miracle  is 
recorded,  to  that  in  which  he  thirsted  for  a 
draught  of  water  at  the  well  in  Samaria.*  It 
was  for  others,  not  himself,  that  even  tlie  hum- 
ble  sustenance  of  barley  bread  was  multiplied. 
See  here,  wo  have  a  bed  left  us ;  I  had,  indeed, 
nothing  but  straw  to  stuff  it  with,  but  the  Sa¬ 
viour  of  the  world,  ‘  had  not  where  to  lay  his 
head.’  My  husband  smiled  through  his  tears, 
and  we  sat  down  to  supper  ;  It  consisted  of  a  roll 
and  a  bit  of  cheese  which  I  had  brought  with 
me,  and  we  ate  it  thankfully.  Seeing  Mr.  Simp¬ 
son  beginning  to  relapse  into  distrust,  the  fol¬ 
lowing  conversation  as  nearly  as  I  can  remem¬ 
ber,  took  place  between  us.  He  began  by  re¬ 
marking,  that  it  was  a  mysterious  Providence 
that  he  had  been  less  prosperous  since  he  had 
been  less  attached  to  the  world,  and  that  his 
endeavours  had  not  been  followed  by  that  suc¬ 
cess  which  usually  attends  industry.  I  took 
the  liberty  to  reply :  ‘  Your  heavenly  Father 
sees  on  which  side  your  danger  lies,  and  is 
mercifully  bringing  you,  by  these  disappoint¬ 
ments,  to  trust  less  in  the  world  and  more 
in  himself.  My  dear  Mr.  Simpson,’  added  I, 
‘we  trust  every  body  but  God.  As  children  vve 
obey  our  parents  implicitly,  because  we  are 
taught  to  believe  all  is  for  our  good  which  they 
command  or  forbid.  If  we  undertake  a  voyage, 
we  trust  entirely  to  the  skill  and  conduct  of  the 
pilot ;  we  never  torment  ourselves  in  thinking 
he  will  carry  us  east,  when  he  has  promised  to 
carry  us  west.  If  a  dear  and  tried  friend  makes 
us  a  promise,  we  depend  on  him  for  the  perform¬ 
ance,  and  do  not  wound  his  feelings  by  our  sus¬ 
picions.  When  you  used  to  go  your  annual 
journey  to  London,  in  the  mail  coach,  you  con¬ 
fided  yourself  to  the  care  of  the  coachman,  that 
be  would  carry  you  where  he  had  engaged  fo 
*  See  John,  chap,  ii.— and  John,  chap.  iv. 


do  so  ;  you  were  not  anxiously  watching  him, 
and  distrusting  and  inquiring  at  every  turning. 
When  the  doctor  sends  home  your  medicine, 
don’t  you  so  fully  trust  in  his  ability  and  good 
will,  that  you  swallow  it  down  in  full  confidence  ? 
You  never  think  of  inquiring  what  are  the 
ingredients,  why  they  are  mixed  in  that  par¬ 
ticular  way,  why  there  is  more  of  one  and  less 
of  another,  and  why  they  are  bitter  instead  of 
sweet !  If  one  dose  does  not  cure  you,  he  orders 
another,  and  changes  the  medicine  when  he  sees 
the  first  does  you  no  good,  or  that  by  long  use 
the  same  medicine  has  lost  its  effect ;  if  the 
weaker  fails  he  prescribes  a  stronger  :  you  swal¬ 
low  all,  you  submit  to  all,  never  questioning  the 
skill  or  the  kindness  of  the  physician.  God  is 
the  only  being  whom  we  do  not  trust,  though 
He  is  the  only  one  who  is  fully  competent,  both 
in  will  and  power,  to  fulfil  all  his  promises  ;  and 
who  has  solemnly  and  repeatedly  pledged  him¬ 
self  to  fulfil  them  in  those  Scriptures  which  we 
receive  as  his  revealed  will.’ 

‘  Mr.  Simpson  thanked  me  for  my  little  ser¬ 
mon,  as  he  called  it ;  but  said  at  the  same  time, 
that  what  made  my  exhortations  produce  a 
powerful  effect  on  his  mind  was,  the  patient 
cheerfulness  with  which  he  was  pleased  to  say  I 
bore  my  share  in  our  misfortunes.  A  submis¬ 
sive  behaviour,  he  said,  was  the  best  practical 
illustration  of  a  real  faith.  When  he  had  thank¬ 
ed  God  for  our  supper,  we  prayed  together ; 
after  which  we  read  tbe  eleventh  chapter  of  the 
epistle  to  the  Hebrews.  When  my  husband  had 
finished  it,  he  said,  ‘  Surely  if  God’s  chief  fa¬ 
vourites  have  been  martyrs,  is  not  that  a  suffi¬ 
cient  proof  that  this  world  is  not  a  place  o-f  hap¬ 
piness,  no  earthly  prosperity  the  reward  of  vir¬ 
tue.  Shall  we  after  reading  this  chapter,  com¬ 
plain  of  our  petty  trials  ?  Shall  we  not  rather  be 
thankfnl  that  our  affliction  is  so  light  ?’ 

‘Next  day  Mr.  Simpson  walked  out  in  search 
of  some  employment,  by  which  we  might  bo 
supported.  He  got  a  recommendation  to  Mr. 
Thomas,  an  opulent  farmer  and  factor,  who  had 
large  concerns,  and  wanted  a  skilful  person  to 
assist  him  in  keeping  his  accounts.  This  we 
thought  a  fortunate  circumstance  ;  for  we  found 
that  the  salary  would  serve  to  procure  us  at 
least  all  the  necessaries  of  life.  The  farmer  was 
so  pleased  with  Mr.  Simpson’s  quickness,  re¬ 
gularity,  and  good  sense,  that  he  offered  us,  of 
his  own  accord,  a  little  neat  cottage  of  his  own, 
which  then  happened  to  be  vacant,  and  told  us 
we  should  live  rent  free,  and  promised  to  be  a 
friend  to  us.’ — ‘  All  does  seem  for  the  best  now, 
indeed  ;’  interrupted  Mrs.  Betty. — ‘  We  shall 
see,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  and  thus  went  on. 

‘  I  now  became  very  easy  and  very  happy  ; 
and  was  cheerfully  employed  in  putting  our  few 
things  in  order,  and  making  every  thing  look 
to  the  best  advantage.  My  husband,  who  wrote 
all  the  day  for  his  employer,  in  the  evening  as¬ 
sisted  me  in  doing  up  our  little  garden.  This 
was  a  source  of  much  pleasure  to  us ;  we  both 
loved  a  garden,  and  we  were  not  only  contented 
but  cheerful.  Our  employer  had  been  absent 
some  weeks  on  his  annual  journey.  He  camo 
home  on  a  Saturday  night,  and  the  next  morn¬ 
ing  sent  for  I\Ir.  Simpson  to  come  and  settle  his 
accounts,  which  were  got  behind-hand  by  his 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


1G5' 


long  absence.  We  were  just  going  to  church, 
and  Mr.  Simpson  sent  back  word,  that  he  would 
call  and  speak  to  him  on  his  way  home.  A  se¬ 
cond  message  followed,  ordering  him  to  come 
to  the  farmer’s  directly :  he  agreed  that  he 
would  walk  round  that  way,  and  that  my  hus¬ 
band  should  call  and  excuse  his  attendance. 

‘The  farmer  more  ignorant  and  worse  edu¬ 
cated  than  his  ploughman,  with  all  that  pride 
and  haughtiness  which  the  possession  of  wealtli, 
v/ithout  knowledge  or  religion  is  apt  to  give, 
rudely  asked  my  husband  what  he  meant  by 
sending  him  word  that  he  would  not  come  to 
him  till  the  next  day;  and  insisted  that  he 
should  stay  and  settle  the  accounts  then. — ‘  Sir,’ 
said  my  husband,  in  a  very  respectful  manner, 
‘  I  am  on  my  road  to  church,  and  I  am  afraid 
shall  be  too  late.’ — ‘  Are  you  so,’  said  the  far¬ 
mer  !  ‘  Do  you  know  who  sent  'for  you  1  Y  ou 
may,  however,  go  to  church,  if  you  will,  so  you 
make  haste  back  ;  and,  d’ye  hear,  you  may  leave 
your  accounts  with  me,  as  I  conclude  you  have 
brought  them  with  you  ;  I  will  look  them  over 
by  the  time  you  return,  and  then  you  and  I 
can  do  all  I  want  to  have  done  to-day  in  about 
a  couple  of  hours,  and  I  will  give  you  home 
some  letters  to  copy  for  me  in  the  evening.’ 
— ‘  Sir,’  answered  my  husband,  ‘  I  dare  not 
obey  you  ;  it  is  Sunday.’ — ‘  And  so  you  refuse 
to  settle  my  accounts  only  because  it  is  Sun¬ 
day.’  ‘  Sir,’  replied  Mr.  Simpson,  ‘  if  you  would 
give  me  a  handful  of  silver  and  gold  I  dare  not 
break  the  commandment  of  my  God.’ — ‘  Well,’ 
said  the  farmer,  ‘  but  this  is  not  breaking  the 
commandment;  I  don’t  order  you  to  drive  my 
cattle,  or  to  work  in  my  garden,  or  to  do  any 
thing  which  you  might  fancy  would  be  a  bad 
example,’ — •  Sir,’  replied  my  husband,  ‘  the  ex¬ 
ample  indeed  goes  a  great  way,  but  it  is  not  the 
first  object.  The  deed  is  wrong  in  itself.’ — 
‘  Well,  but  I  shall  not  keep  you  from  church; 
and  when  you  have  been  there,  there  is  no  harm 
in  doing  a  little  business,  or  taking  a  little 
pleasure  the  rest  of  the  day.’ — ‘  Sir,’  answered 
my  husband,  ‘  the  commandment  does  not  say, 
thou  shalt  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  morning,  but 
the  Sabbath  rZrty.’  ‘Get  out  of  my  house,  you 
puritanical  rascal,  and  out  of  my  cottage  too,’ 
said  the  farmer ;  ‘  for  if  you  refuse  to  do  my 
work,  I  am  not  bound  to  keep  my  engagement 
with  you ;  as  you  will  not  obey  me  as  a  master, 
I  shall  not  pay  you  as  a  servant.’ — ‘  Sir,’  said 
Mr.  Simpson,  ‘  I  would  gladly  obey  you,  but  I 
have  a  master  in  heaven  whom  I  dare  not  dis¬ 
obey.’ — ‘  Then  let  him  find  employment  for  you,’ 
said  the  enraged  farmer  ;  ‘  for  I  fancy  you  will 
get  but  poor  employment  on  earth  with  these 
scrupulous  notions,  and  so  send  home  my  pa¬ 
pers,  directly,  and  pack  off  out  the  parish.’ 
— ‘  Out  of  your  cottage,’  said  my  husband, 

‘  I  certainly  will ;  but  as  to  the  parish,  I  hope  I 
may  remain  in  that,  if  I  can  find  employment.’ 
— ‘  I  will  make  it  too  hot  to  hold  you,’  replied 
the  farmer,  ‘  so  you  had  better  troop  off  bag  and 
baggage  :  for  I  am  overseer,  and  as  you  are 
sickly,  it  is  my  duty  not  to  let  any  vagabonds 
stay  in  the  parish  who  arc  likely  to  become 
chargeable.’ 

‘  By  the  time  my  husband  returned  home, 
foi  he  found  it  too  late  to  go  to  church,  I  had 


got  our  little  dinner  ready ,  it  was  a  better  one 
than  we  had  for  a  long  while  been  accustomed 
to  sec,  and  1  was  unusually  cheerful  at  this  im¬ 
provement  in  our  circumstances.  I  saw  his 
eyes  full  of  tears,  and  oh !  with  what  pain  did 
he  bring  himself  to  tell  me  that  it  was  the  last 
dinner  we  must  ever  eat  in  this  house.  I  took 
his  hand  with  a  smile,  and  only  said,  ‘  The  Lord 
gave  and  the  Lord  taketh  away,  blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord.’ — ‘  Notwithstanding  this  sud¬ 
den  stroke  of  injustice,’  said  my  husband,  ‘  this 
is  still  a  happy  country.  Our  employer,  it  is 
true,  may  turn  us  out  at  a  moment’s  notice,  be . 
cause  it  is  his  own,  but  he  has  no  further  power 
over  us  ;  he  cannot  confine  or  punish  us.  His 
riches,  it  is  true,  give  him  power  to  insult,  but 
not  to  oppress  us.  The  same  laws  to  which  the 
affluent  resort,  protect  us  also.  And  as  to  our 
being  driven  out  from  a  cottage,  how  many  per¬ 
sons  of  the  highest  rank  have  lately  been  driven 
out  from  their  palaces  and  castles  ;  persons  too, 
born  in  a  station  which  he  never  enjoyed,  and 
used  to  all  the  indulgences  of  that  rank  and 
wealth  we  never  knew,  are  at  this  moment 
wandering  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  without  a 
house  or  without  bread;  exiles  and  beggars; 
while  we,  blessed  be  God,  are  in  our  own  native 
land ;  we  have  still  our  liberty,  our  limbs,  the 
protection  of  just  and  equal  laws,  our  churches^ 
our  Bibles,  and  our  Sabbaths.’ 

‘  This  happy  state  of  my  husband’s  mind 
hushed  my  sorrows,  and  I  never  once  murmur¬ 
ed  ;  nay,  I  sat  down  to  dinner  with  a  degree  of 
cheerfulness,  endeavouring  to  cast  all  our  care 
on  ‘Him  that  careth  for  us.’  We  had  begged 
to  stay  till  the  next  morning,  as  Sunday  waa 
not  the  day  on  which  we  liked  to  remove  ;  but 
we  were  ordered  not  to  sleep  another  night  in 
that  house ;  so  as  we  had  little  to  carry,  we 
marched  off  in  the  evening  to  the  poor  lodging 
we  had  before  occupied.  The  thought  that  my 
husband  had  cheerfully  renounced  his  little  all 
for  conscience  sake,  gave  an  unspeakable  sere¬ 
nity  to  my  mind ;  and  I  felt  thankful  that  though 
cast  down  we  were  not  forsaken  :  nay,  I  felt  a 
live  y  gratitude  to  God,  that  while  I  doubted 
not  he  would  accept  this  little  sacrifice,  as  it 
was  heartily  made  for  his  sake,  he  had  gracious 
ly  forborne  to  call  us  to  greater  trials.’ 

‘  And  so  you  were  turned  adrift  once  more  ? 
Well,  ma’am,  saving  your  presence,  I  hope 
you  won’t  be  such  a  fool  as  to  say  all  was  for 
the  best  now.’ — ‘  Yes,  Betty  :  He  who  does  all 
things  well,  now  made  his  kind  Providence 
more  manifest  than  ever.  That  very  night, 
while  we  were  sweetly  sleeping  in  our  poor 
lodging,  the  pretty  cottage,  out  of  which  we 
were  so  unkindly  driven,  was  burned  to  the 
ground  by  a  flash  of  lightning  which  caught 
the  thatch,  and  so  completely  consumed  the 
whole  little  building  that  had  it  not  been  for  the 
merciful  Providence  who  thus  overruled  the 
cruelty  of  the  farmer  for  the  preservation  of  our 
lives,  we  must  have  been  burned  to  ashes  with 
the  house.  ‘  It  was  the  Lord’s  doing,  and  it 
was  marvellous  in  our  eyes.’ — ‘  O  that  men 
would  therefore  praise  the  Lord  for  his  good¬ 
ness,  and  for  all  tlio  wonders  that  he  doeth  for 
the  children  of  men  !’ 

‘  I  will  not  tell  you  all  the  trials  and  afflic- 


166 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


tions  which  befel  us  afterwards.  I  would  also 
spare  my  heart  the  sad  story  of  my  husband’s 
death.’ — ‘  Well,  that  was  another  blessing  too,  I 
suppose,’  said  Betty. — ‘  Oh,  it  was  the  severest 
trial  ever  sent  me  !’  replied  Mrs.  Simpson,  a  few 
tears  quietly  stealing  down  her  face.  ‘  I  almost 
sunk  under  it.  Nothing  but  the  abundant  grace 
of  God  could  have  carried  me  through  such  a 
visitation  ;  and  yet  I  now  feel  it  to  be  the  great¬ 
est  mercy  I  ever  experienced  ;  he  was  my  idol ; 
no  trouble  ever  came  near  my  heart  while  he 
was  with  me.  I  got  more  credit  than  I  deserved 
for  my  patience  under  trials,  which  were  easily 
borne  while  he  who  shared  and  lightened  them 
was  spared  to  me.  I  had  indeed  prayed  and 
struggled  to  be  weaned  from  this  world,  but  still 
my  affection  for  him  tied  me  down  to  the  earth 
with  a  strong  cord :  and  though  I  did  earnestly 
try  to  keep  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  eternal  world, 
yet  I  viewed  it  with  too  feeble  a  faith  ;  I  viewed 
it  at  too  great  a  distance.  I  found  it  difficult  to 
realize  it — I  had  deceived  myself.  I  had  fancied 
that  I  bore  my  troubles  so  well  from  the  pure 
love  of  God,  but  I  have  since  found  that  my 
love  for  my  husband  had  too  great  a  share  in  re¬ 
conciling  me  to  every  difficulty  which  I  under¬ 
wept  for  him.  I  lost  him,  the  charm  was  broken, 
the  cord  which  tied  me  down  to  earth  was  cut, 
this  world  had  nothing  left  to  engage  me.  Hea¬ 
ven  had  now  no  rival  in  my  heart.  Though  my 
love  of  God  had  always  been  sincere,  yet  I  found 
there  wanted  this  blow  to  make  it  perfect.  But 
though  all  that  had  made  life  pleasant  to  me 
was  gone,  I  did  not  sink  as  those  who  have  no 
hope.  I  prayed  that  I  might  still,  in  this  trying 
conflict,  bo  enabled  to  adorn  the  doctrine  of  God 
my  Saviour. 

‘After  many  more  hardships,  I  was  at  length 
BO  happy  as  to  get  an  asylum  in  this  alms-house. 
Here  my  cares  are  at  im  end,  but  not  my  du¬ 
ties.’ — ‘  Now  you  are  wrong  again,  interrupted 
Mrs.  Betty,  ‘  your  duty  is  now  to  take  care  of 
yourself:  for  I  am  sure  you  have  nothing  to 
spare.’ — ‘  There  you  are  mistaken  again,’  said 
Mrs.  Simpson.  ‘  People  are  so  apt  to  fancy  that 
money  is  all  in  all,  that  all  the  other  gifts  of 
providence  are  overlooked  as  things  of  no  value. 
I  have  here  a  great  deal  of  leisure ;  a  good  part 
of  this  I  devote  to  the  wants  of  those  who  are 
more  distressed  than  myself.  I  work  a  little  for 
the  old,  and  I  instruct  the  young.  My  eyes  are 
good  ;  f.his  enables  me  to  read  the  Bible  either 
to  those  whose  sight  is  decayed,  or  who  were 
never  taught  to  read.  I  have  tolerable  health  ; 
BO  that  I  am  able  oceasionally  to  sit  up  with  the 
sick ;  in  the  intervals  of  nursing,  I  can  pray 
with  them.  In  my  younger  days  I  thought  it 
not  much  to  sit  up  late  for  my  pleasure  ;  shall  I 
now  think  much  of  sitting  up  now  and  then  to 
watch  by  a  dying  bed  ?  My  Saviour  waked  and 
watched  for  me  in  the  garden  and  on  the  mount; 
and  shall  I  do  nothing  for  his  suffering  mem¬ 
bers  ?  It  is  only  by  keeping  his  sufferings  in 
view  that  we  can  truly  practise  charity  to  others, 
or  exercise  self-denial  to  ourselves.’ 

‘  Well,’  said  Mrs.  Betty,  ‘  I  think  if  I  had 
lived  in  such  genteel  life  as  you  have  done,  I 
could  never  be  reconciled  to  an  alms-house  ;  and 
I  am  afraid  I  should  never  forgive  any  of  those 
who  were  the  cause  of  sendiug  me  there,  par¬ 


ticularly  that  farmer  Thomas  who  turned  you 
out  of  doors.’ 

‘  Betty,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  ‘  I  not  only  for¬ 
give  him  heartily,  but  I  remember  him  in  my 
prayers,  as  one  of  those  instruments  with  which 
it  has  pleased  God  to  work  for  my  good.  Oh  ! 
never  put  off  forgiveness  to  a  dying  bed  !  When 
people  come  to  die,  we  often  see  how  the  con¬ 
science  is  troubled  with  sins,  of  which  before 
they  hardly  felt  the  existence.  How  ready  are 
they  to  make  restitution  of  ill-gotten  gain  ;  and 
this  perhaps  for  two  reasons  ;  from  a  feeling  con¬ 
viction  that  it  can  be  of  no  use  to  them  where 
they  are  going,  as  well  as  from  a  near  view  of 
their  own  responsibility.  We  also  hear  from  the 
most  hardened,  of  death-bed  forgiveness  of  ene¬ 
mies.  Even  malefactors  at  Tyburn  forgive.  But 
why  must  we  .wait  for  a  dying  bed  to  do  what 
ought  to  be  dohe  now  ?  Believe  me,  that  scene 
will  be  so  full  of  terror  and  amazement  to  the 
soul,  that  we  had  not  need  load  it  with  unneces¬ 
sary  business.’ 

Just  as  Mrs.  Simpson  was  saying  these  words, 
a  letter  was  brought  her  from  the  minister  of 
the  parish  where  the  farmer  lived,  by  whom 
Mr.  Simpson  had  been  turned  out  of  his  cottage. 
The  letter  was  as  follows  : — 

‘  Madam — I  write  to  tell  you  that  your  old  op. 
pressor,  Mr.  Thomas,  is  dead.  I  attended  him 
in  his  last  moments.  O,  may  my  latter  end 
never  be  like  his  !  I  shall  not  soon  forget  his  de¬ 
spair  at  the  approach  of  death.  His  riches,  which 
had  been  his  sole  joy,  now  doubled  his  sorrows ; 
for  he  was  going  where  they  could  be  of  no  use 
to  him ;  and  he  found  too  late  that  he  had  laid 
up  no  treasure  in  heaven.  He  felt  great  concern 
at  his  past  life,  but  for  nothing  more  than  his 
unkindness  to  Mr.  Simpson.  He  charged  me 
to  find  you  out,  and  let  you  know  that  by  his 
will  he  bequeathed  you  five  hundred  pounds  as 
some  compensation.  He  died  in  great  agonies  ; 
declaring  with  his  last  breath,  that  if  he  could 
live  his  life  over  again,  he  would  serve  God,  and 
strictly  observe  the  Sabbath. 

‘  Yours,  &c. 

‘  J.  Johnson'.’ 

Mrs.  Betty,  who  had  listened  attentively  to 
the  letter,  jumped  up,  clapped  her  hands,  and 
cried  out,  ‘  Now  all  is  for  the  best,  and  I  shall 
see  you  a  lady  once  more.’ — ‘  I  am,  indeed, 
thankful  for  this  money,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson, 

‘  and  am  glad  that  riches  were  not  sent  me  till 
I  had  learned,  as  I  humbly  hope,  to  make  a 
right  use  of  them.  But  come,  let  us  go  in,  for  I 
am  very  cold,  and  find  I  have  sat  too  long  in 
the  night  air.’ 

Betty  was  now  ready  enough  to  acknowledge 
the  hand  of  Providence  in  tliis  prosperous  event, 
though  she  was  blind  to  it  when  the  dispensa¬ 
tion  was  more  dark.  Next  morning  she  wont 
early  to  visit  Mrs.  Simpson,  but  not  seeing  her 
below,  she  went  up  stairs,  where,  to  her  great 
sorrow,  she  found  her  confined  to  her  bed  by  a 
fever,  caught  the  night  before  by  sitting  so  late 
on  the  bench  reading  the  letter  and  talking  it 
over.  Bett)'  was  now  more  ready  to  cry  out 
against  Providence  than  ever.  ‘  VVhat !  to  catch 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


167 


■a  fever  while  you  were  reading  that  very  letter 
which  told  you  about  your  good  fortune  ;  which 
would  have  enabled  you  to  live  like  a  lady  as 
you  are.  I  never  will  believe  this  is  for  the  best ; 
to  be  deprived  of  life  just  as  you  were  beginning 
to  enjoy  it !’ 

‘  Betty,’  said  Mrs.  Simpson,  ‘  we  must  learn 
not  to  rate  health  nor  life  itself  too  highly. 
There  is  little  in  life,  for  its  own  sake,  to  be  so 
fond  of.  As  a  good  archbishop  used  to  say,  ’tis 
but  the  same  thing  over  again,  or  probably 
worse  :  so  many  more  nights  and  days,  summers 
and  winters ;  a  repetition  of  the  same  pleasures, 
but  with  less  relish  for  them  ;  a  return  of  the 
same  or  greater  pains,  but  with  less  strength, 
and  perhaps  less  patience  to  bear  them.’.^ — ‘Well,’ 
replied  Betty,  ‘  I  did  think  that  Providence  was 
at  last  giving  you  your  reward.’ — ‘  Reward  !’ 
cried  Mrs.  Simpson.  ‘  O,  no  !  my  merciful  Fa¬ 
ther  will  not  put  me  off  with  so  poor  a  portion 
as  wealth  ;  I  feel  I  shall  die.’ — ‘It  is  very  hard, 
indeed,’  said  Betty,  ‘  so  good  as  you  are,  to  be 
taken  off  just  as  your  prosperity  was  begin¬ 
ning. — ‘  You  think  I  am  good  just  now,’  said 
Mrs.  Simpson,  ‘  because  I  am  prosperous.  Suc¬ 
cess  is  no  sure  mark  of  God’s  favour ;  at  this 
rate,  you,  who  judge  by  outward  things,  would 
have  thought  Herod  a  better  man  than  John  the 
Baptist ;  and  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  so,  you, 
on  your  principles,  that  the  sufferer  is  the  sin¬ 
ner,  would  have  believed  Pontius  Pilate  higher 
in  God’s  favour,  than  the  Saviour  whom  he  con¬ 
demned  to  die,  for  your  sins  and  mine.’ 

In  a  few  days  Mrs.  Betty  found  that  her  new 
friend  was  dying,  and  though  she  was  struck  at 
her  resignation,  she  could  not  forbear  murmur¬ 
ing  that  so  good  a  woman  should  be  taken  away 


at  the  very  instant  which  she  came  into  posses¬ 
sion  of  so  much  money.  ‘  Betty,’  said  Mrs. 
Simpson  in  a  feeble  voice,  ‘  I  believe  you  love 
me  dearly,  you  would  do  any  thing  to  cure  me ; 
yet  you  do  not  love  me  so  well  as  God  loves  me, 
though  you  would  raise  me  up,  and  He  is  put¬ 
ting  a  period  to  my  life.  He  has  never  sent  me  a 
single  stroke  which  was  not  absolutely  necessary 
for  me.  You,  if  you  could  restore  me,  might  be 
laying  me  open  to  some  temptation  from  which 
God,  by  removing,  will  deliver  me.  Your  kind¬ 
ness  in  making  this  world  so  smooth  for  me,  I 
might  for  ever  have  deplored  in  a  world  of  mise¬ 
ry.  God’s  grace  in  afflicting  me,  will  hereafter 
be  the  subject  of  my  praises  in  a  world  of  bless¬ 
edness.  Betty,’  added  the  dying  woman,  ‘  do 
you  really  think  that  I  am  going  to  a  place  of 
rest  and  joy  eternal  ?’ — ‘  To  be  sure  I  do,’  said 
Betty. — ‘  Do  you  firmly  believe  that  I  am  going 
to  the  assembly  of  the  first-born  ;  to  the  spirits 
of  just  men  made  perfect,  to  God  the  judge  of 
all ;  and  to  Jesus  the  Mediator  of  the  new  Cove¬ 
nant  Pi— ‘  I  am  sure  you  are,’  said  Betty. — ‘  And 
yet,’  resumed  she,  ‘  you  would  detain  me  from 
all  this  happiness  ;  and  you  think  my  merciful 
Father  is  using  me  unkindly  by  removing  me 
from  a  world  of  sin,  and  sorrow,  and  temptation, 
to  such  joys  as  have  not  entered  into  the  heart 
of  man  to  conceive ;  while  it  would  have  better 
suited  your  notions  of  reward  to  defer  my  en¬ 
trance  into  the  blessedness  of  heaven,  that  I 
might  have  enjoyed  a  legacy  of  a  few  hundred 
pounds !  Believe  my  dying  words — all  is  for 
THE  best.’ 

Mrs.  Simpson  expired  soon  after,  in  a  frame 
of  mind  which  convinced  her  new  friend,  that 
‘God’s  ways  are  not  as  our  ways.’ 


A  CURE  FOR  MELANCHOLY.* 

SHOWING  THE  WAY  TO  DO  MUCH  GOOD  WITH  LITTLE  MONEY. 


Mbs.  Jones  was  the  widow  of  a  great  mer¬ 
chant.  She  was  liberal  to  the  poor,  as  far  as 
giving  them  money  went ;  but  as  she  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  the  world,  she  did  not  spare 
so  much  of  her  time  and  thoughts  about  doing 
good  as  she  ought ;  so  that  her  money  was  often 
ill  bestowed.  In  the  late  troubles,  Mr.  Jones, 
who  had  lived  in  an  expensive  manner,  failed  ; 
and  he  took  his  misfortunes  so  much  to  heart, 
that  he  fell  sick  and  died.  Mrs.  Jones  retired, 
on  a  very  narrow  income,  to  the  small  village 
of  Weston,  where  she  seldom  went  out,  except 
to  church.  Though  a  pious  woman,  she  was 
too  apt  to  indulge  her  sorrow ;  and  though  she 
did  not  neglect  to  read  and  pray,  yet  she  gave 
up  a  great  part  of  her  time  to  melancholy 
thoughts,  and  grew  quite  inactive.  She  well 
knew  how  sinful  it  would  be  for  her  to  seek  a 
remedy  for  her  grief  in  worldly  pleasures,  which 
is  a  way  many  people  take  to  cure  afflictions ; 
but  she  was  not  aware  how  wrong  it  was  to 
weep  away  that  time  which  might  have  been 
better  spent  in  drying  the  tears  of  others. 

It  was  happy  for  her,  that  Mr.  Simpson,  the 


vicar  of  Weston,  was  a  pious  man.  One  Sunday 
he  happened  to  preach  on  the  good  Samaritan. 
It  was  a  charity  sermon,  and  there  was  a  col¬ 
lection  at  the  door.  He  called  on  Mrs.  Jones 
after  church,  and  found  her  in  tears.  She  told 
him  she  had  been  much  moved  by  his  discourse, 
and  she  wept  because  she  had  so  little  to  give 
to  the  plate,  for  though  she  felt  very  keenly  for 
the  poor  in  these  dear  times,  yet  she  could  not 
assist  them.  ‘  Indeed,  sir,’  added  she,  ‘  I  never 
so  much  regretted  the  loss  of  my  fortune  as  this 
afternoon,  when  you  bade  us  go  and  do  likewise' 
— ‘You  do  not,’  replied  Mr.  Simpson,  ‘enter 
into  the  spirit  of  our  Saviour’s  parable,  if  you 
think  you  cannot  go  and  do  likewise  without  be¬ 
ing  rich.  In  the  case  of  the  Samaritan,  you 
may  observe,  that  charity  was  bestowed  more 
by  kindness,  and  care,  and  medicine,  than  by 
money.  You,  madam,  were  as  much  concerned 
in  the  duties  inculcated  in  my  sermon  as  sir 
John  with  his  great  estate;  and,  to  speak  plain¬ 
ly,  I  have  been  sometimes  surprised  that  you 
should  not  put  yourself  in  the  way  of  being 
more  useful.’ 


♦  This  was  first  printed  under  the  title  of  The  Cottage  Cook. 


168 


THE-  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


‘  Sir,’  said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  I  am  grown  shy  of 
the  poor  since  I  have  nothing  to  give  them.’ 
‘  Nothing  !  madam  ?’  replied  the  clergyman  : 
‘  Do  you  call  your  time,  your  talents,  your  kind 
offices,  nothing  ?  Doing  good  does  not  so  much 
depend  on  the  riches  as  on  the  heart  and  the 
will.  The  servant  who  improved  his  two  talents 
was  equally  commended  by  his  Lord  with  him 
who  had  ten  :  and  it  was  not  poverty,  but  selfish 
indolence,  which  drew  down  so  severe  a  con¬ 
demnation  on  him  who  had  only  one.  It  is  by 
our  conformity  to  Christ,  that  we  must  prove 
ourselves  Christians.  You,  madam,  are  not 
called  upon  to  work  miracles,  nor  to  preach  the 
Gospel,  yet  you  may  in  your  measure  and  de¬ 
gree,  resemble  your  Saviour  by  going  about  and 
doing  good,  A  plain  Christian,  who  has  sense 
and  leisure,  by  his  pious  exertions  and  prudent 
zeal,  may,  in  a  subordinate  way,  be  helping  on 
the  cause  of  religion,  as  well  as  of  charity,  and 
greatly  promote,  by  his  exertions  and  example, 
the  labours  of  the  parish  minister.  The  gen¬ 
erality,  it  is  true,  have  but  an  under  part  to  act ; 
but  to  all  God  assigns  some  part,  and  he  will 
require  of  all  whose  lot  is  not  very  laborious, 
that  they  not  only  work  out  their  own  salvation, 
but  that  they  promote  the  cause  of  religion,  and 
the  comfort  and  salvation  of  others. 

To  those  who  would  undervalue  works  of 
mercy  as  evidences  of  piety,  I  would  suggest  a 
serious  attention  to  the  solemn  appeal  which  the 
Saviour  of  the  world  makes,  in  that  awful  repre¬ 
sentation  of  the  day  of  judgment,  contained  in 
the  twenty-fifth  chapter  of  Matthew,  both  to 
those  who  have  neglected,  and  to  those  who  have 
performed  such  works  ;  performed  them,  I  mean, 
on  right  principles.  With  what  a  gracious  con¬ 
descension  does  he  promise  to  accept  the  smallest 
kindness  done  to  his  suffering  members  for  his 
sake.  You,  madam,  I  will  venture  to  say,  might 
do  more  good  than  the  richest  man  in  the  parish 
could  do  by  merely  giving  his  money.  Instead 
of  sitting  here,  brooding  over  your  misfortunes, 
which  are  past  remedy,  bestir  yourself  to  find 
out  ways  of  doing  much  good  with  little  money  ; 
or  even  without  any  money  at  all.  You  have 
lately  studied  economy  for  yourself ;  instruct 
your  poor  neighbours  in  that  important  art. 
They  want  it  almost  as  much  as  they  want 
money.  You  have  influence  with  the  few  rich 
persons  in  the  parish  ;  exert  that  influence. 
Betty,  my  house-keeper,  shall  assist  you  in  any 
thing  in  which  she  can  be  useful.  Try  this  for 
one  year,  and  if  you  then  tell  me  that  you  should 
have  better  shown  your  love  to  God  and  man, 
and  been  a  happier  woman,  had  you  continued 
gloomy  and  inactive,  I  shall  be  much  surprised, 
and  shall  consent  to  your  resuming  your  present 
way  of  life.’ 

The  sermon  and  this  discourse  together  made 
so  deep  an  impression  on  Mrs.  Jones,  that  she 
formed  a  new  plan  of  life,  and  set  about  it  at 
once,  as  every  body  does  who  is  in  earnest.  Her 
chief  aim  was  the  happiness  of  her  poor  neigh¬ 
bours  in  the  next  world ;  but  she  was  also  very 
desirous  to  promote  their  present  comfort :  and 
indeed  the  kindness  she  showed  to  their  bodily 
wants  gave  her  such  an  access  to  their  houses 
and  hearts,  as  made  them  better  disposed  to 
receive  religious  counsel  and  instruction. — Mrs. 


Jones  was  much  respected  by  all  the  rich  per- 
sons  in  Weston,  who  had  known  her  in  her 
prosperity.  Sir  John  was  thoughtless,  lavish, 
and  indolent.  The  Squire  was  over  frugal,  but 
active,  sober,  and  not  ill-natured.  Sir  John 
loved  pleasure,  the  squire  loved  money.  Sir 
John  was  one  of  those  popular  sort  of  people  who 
get  much  praise,  and  yet  do  little  good ;  who 
subscribe  witli  equal  readiness  to  a  cricket  match 
or  a  charity  school;  who  take  it  for  granted 
that  the  poor  are  to  be  indulged  with  bell-ringing 
and  bonfires,  and  to  be  made  drunk  at  Christmas ; 
this  Sir  John  called  being  kind  to  them  ;  but  he 
thought  it  was  folly  to  teach  them,  and  madness 
to  think  of  reforming  them.  He  was,  however, 
always  ready  to  give  his  guinea ;  but  I  question 
whether  he  would  have  given  up  his  hunting  and 
his  gaming  to  have  cured  every  grievance  in  the 
land.  He  had  that  sort  of  constitutional  good 
nature  which,  if  he  had  lived  much  within  sight 
of  misery,  would  have  led  him  to  be  liberal :  but 
he  had  that  selfish  love  of  ease,  which  prompted 
him  to  give  to  undeserving  objects,  rather  than 
be  at  the  pains  to  search  out  the  deserving.  He 
neither  discriminated  between  the  degrees  of 
distress,  nor  the  characters  of  the  distressed. — 
His  idea  of  charity  was,  that  a  rich  man  should 
occasionally  give  a  little  of  his  superfluous  wealth 
to  the  first  object  that  occurred  ;  but  he  had  no 
conception  that  it  was  his  duty  so  to  husband 
his  wealth,  and  limit  his  expenses,  as  to  supply 
a  regular  fund  for  established  charity.  And  the 
utmost  stretch  of  his  benevolence  never  led  him 
to  suspect  that  he  was  called  to  abridge  himself 
in  the  most  idle  article  of  indulgence,  for  a  pur¬ 
pose  foreign  to  his  own  personal  enjoyment.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  squire  would  assist  Mrs. 
Jones  in  any  of  her  plans  if  it  cost  him  nothing ; 
so  she  showed  her  good  sense  by  never  asking 
sir  John  for  advice,  or  the  squire  for  subscrip¬ 
tions,  and  by  this  prudence  gained  the  full  sup¬ 
port  of  both. 

Mrs.  Jones  resolved  to  spend  two  or  three 
days  in  a  week  in  getting  acquainted  with  the 
state  of  the  parish,  and  she  took  care  never  to 
walk  out  without  a  few  little  good  books  in  her 
pocket  to  give  away.  This,  though  a  cheap,  is 
a  most  important  act  of  charity  :  it  has  its  vari¬ 
ous  uses  ;  it  furnishes  the  poor  with  religious 
knowledge,  which  they  have  so  few  ways  of  ob¬ 
taining  ;  it  counteracts  the  wicked  designs  of 
those  who  have  taught  us  at  least  one  lesson,  by 
their  zeal  in  the  dispersion  of  wicked  books — 1 
mean  the  lesson  of  vigilance  and  activity  ;  and 
it  is  the  best  introduction  for  any  useful  conver¬ 
sation  which  the  giver  of  the  book  may  wish  to 
introduce.  i 

She  found  that  among  the  numerous  wants 
she  met  with,  no  small  share  was  owing  to  bad 
management,  or  to  imposition  :  she  was  struck 
with  the  small  size  of  the  loaves. — Wheat  was 
now  not  very  dear,  and  she  was  sure  a  good  deal 
of  blame  rested  with  the  baker.  She  sent  for  a 
shilling  loaf  to  the  next  great  town,  where  the 
mayor  often  sent  to  the  bakers’  shops  to  see  that 
the  bread  was  proper  weight.  She  weighed  her 
town  loaf  against  her  country  loaf,  and  found 
the  latter  two  pounds  lighter  than  it  ought  to  be. 
This  was  not  the  sort  of  grievance  to  carry  to 
sir  John  ;  but  luckily  the  squire  was  also  a  ma- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


169 


gistrate,  and  it  was  quite  in  his  way  :  for  though 
he  would  not  give,  yet  he  would  counsel,  calcu¬ 
late,  contrive,  reprimand,  and  punish.  He  told 
her  he  could  remedy  the  evil  if  some  one  would 
lodge  an  information  against  the  baker ;  but 
that  there  was  no  act  of  justice  which  he  found 
it  so  difficult  to  accomplish. 

The  Informer, 

She  dropped  in  on  the  blacksmith.  He  was 
at  dinner.  She  inquired  if  his  bread  was  good. 
‘Ay,  good  enough,  mistress ;  for  you  see  it  is  as 
white  as  your  cap,  if  we  had  but  more  of  it. 
Here’s  a  sixpenny  loaf ;  you  might  take  it  for  a 
penny  roll!’  He  then  heartily  cursed  Crib  the 
baker,  and  said  he  ought  to  be  hanged.  Mrs. 
Jones  now  told  him  what  she  had  done ;  how 
she  had  detected  the  fraud,  and  assured  him  the 
evil  should  be  redressed  on  the  morrow,  provi¬ 
ded  he  would  appear  and  inform.  ‘  I  inform,’ 
said  he,with  a  shocking  oath,  ‘  hang  an  informer  ! 
I  scorn  the  office.’ — ‘You  are  nice  in  the  wrong 
place,’  replied  Mrs.  Jones ;  ‘  for  you  don’t  scorn 
to  abuse  the  baker,  nor  to  be  in  a  passion,  nor 
to  swear,  though  you  scorn  to  redress  a  public 
injury,  and  to  increase  your  children’s  bread. 
Let  me  tell  you,  there  is  nothing  in  which  you 
ignorant  people  mistake  more  than  in  your  no¬ 
tions  about  informers.  Informing  is  a  lawful 
way  of  obtaining  redress ;  and  though  it  is  a 
mischievous  and  a  hateful  thing  to  go  to  a  justice 
about  every  trifling  matter,  yet  laying  an  infor¬ 
mation  on  important  occasions,  without  malice, 
or  bitterness  of  any  kind,  is  what  no  honest  man 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of.  The  shame  is  to  com¬ 
mit  the  offence,  not  to  inform  against  it.  I,  for 
my  part,  should  perhaps  do  right,  if  I  not  only 
informed  against  Crib,  for  making  light  bread, 
but  against  you,  for  swearing  at  him.’ 

‘  Well,  but  madam,’  said  the  smith,  a  little 
softened,  ‘  don’t  you  think  it  a  sin  and  a  shame 
to  turn  informer?’  ‘  So  far  from  it,  that  when  a 
man’s  motives  are  good,’  said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  and 
in  clear  cases  as  the  present,  I  think  it  a  duty 
and  a.  virtue.  If  it  is  right  that  there  should  be 
laws,  it  must  be  right  that  they  should  be  put  in 
execution ;  but  how  can  this  be,  if  people  will 
not  inform  the  magistrates  when  they  see  the 
laws  broken  !  I  hope  I  shall  always  be  afraid 
to  be  an  offender  against  the  laws,  but  not  to  be 
an  informer  in  support  of  them. — An  informer 
iy  trade  is  commonly  a  knave.  A  rash,  mali¬ 
cious,  or  passionate  informer  is  a  firebrand  ;  but 
honest  and  prudent  informers  are  almost  as  use¬ 
ful  members  of  society  as  the  judges  of  the  land. 
If  you  continue  in  your  present  mind  on  this 
subject,  do  not  you  think  that  you  will  be 
answerable  for  the  crimes  you  might  have  pre¬ 
vented  by  informing,  and  thus  become  a  sort  of 
accomplice  of  the  villains  who  commit  them. 

‘  Well,  madam,’  said  the  smith,  ‘  I  now  see 
plainly  enough  that  there  is  no  shame  in  turning 
informer  when  my  cause  is  good.’ — ‘  And  your 
motive  right ;  always  mind  that,  said  Mrs.  Jones. 
Next  day  the  smith  attended,  Crib  was  fined  in 
the  usual  penalty,  his  light  bread  was  taken 
from  him  and  given  to  the  poor.  The  justices 
resolved  henceforward  to  inspect  the  bakers  in 
their  district ;  and  all  of  them,  except  Crib,  and 
such  as  Crib,  were  glad  of  it ;  for  honesty  never 
dreads  a  trial.  Thus  had  Mrs.  Jones  the  com- 
Voi .  I. 


fort  of  seeing  how  useful  people  may  be  without 
expense;  for  if  she  could  have  given  the  poor 
fifty  pounds,  she  would  not  have  done  them  so 
great,  or  so  lasting  a  benefit,  as  she  did  them 
in  seeing  their  loaves  restored  to  their  lawful 
weight :  and  the  true  light  in  which  she  had 
put  the  business  of  informing  was  of  no  small 
use,  in  g-iving  the  neighbourhood  right  views  on 
that  subject. 

There  were  two  shops  in  the  parish  ;  but  Mrs. 
Sparks,  at  the  Cross,  had  not  half  so  much  cus¬ 
tom  as  Wills,  at  the  Sugarloaf,  though  she  sold 
her  goods  a  penny  in  a  shilling  cheaper,  and  all 
agreed  that  they  were  much  better.  Mrs.  Jones 
asked  Mrs.  Sparks  the  reason.  ‘Madam,’  said 
the  shopkeeper,  ‘Mr.  Wills  will  give  longer  trust. 
Besides  this,  his  wife  keeps  shop  on  a  Sunday 
morning  while  I  am  at  church.  Mrs.  Jones 
now  reminded  Mr.  Simpson  to  read  the  king’s 
proclamation  against  vice  and  immorality  next 
Sunday  at  church  ;  and  prevailed  on  the  squire 
to  fine  any  one  who  should  keep  open  shop  on  a 
Sunday.  This  he  readily  undertook  ;  for  while 
sir  John  thought  it  good-natured  to  connive  at 
breaking  the  laws,  the  squire  fell  into  the  other 
extreme,  of  thinking  that  the  zealous  enforcing 
of  penal  statutes  would  stand  in  the  stead  of  all 
religious  restraints.  Mrs.  Jones  proceeded  to 
put  the  people  in  mind  that  a  shopkeeper  who 
would  sell  on  a  Sunday,  would  be  more  likely 
to  cheat  them  all  the  week,  than  one  who  went 
to  church. 

She  also  laboured  hard  to  convince  them  how 
much  they  would  lessen  their  distress,  if  they 
would  contrive  to  deal  with  Mrs.  Sparks  for 
ready  money,  rather  than  with  Wills  on  long 
credit ;  those  who  listened  to  her  found  their 
circumstances  far  more  comfortable  at  the  year’s 
end,  while  the  rest  tempted,  like  some  of  their 
betters,  by  the  pleasure  of  putting  off  the  evil 
day  of  payment,  like  them  ;  at  last  found  them¬ 
selves  plunged  in  debt  and  distress.  She  took 
care  to  make  a  good  use  of  such  instances  in  her 
conversation  with  the  poor,  and,  by  perseverance, 
she  at  length  brought  them  so  much  to  her  way 
of  thinking,  that  Wills  found  it  to  be  his  interest 
to  alter  his  plan,  and  sell  his  goods  on  as  good 
terms,  and  as  short  credit,  as  Mrs.  Sparks  sold 
hers.  This  completed  Mrs.  Jones’s  success ; 
and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of  having  put  a  stop 
to  three  or  four  great  evils  in  the  parish  of  Wes¬ 
ton,  without  spending  a  shilling  in  doing  it. 

Patty  Smart  and  Jenny  Rose  were  thought  to 
be  the  two  best  managers  in  the  parish.  They 
both  told  Mrs.  Jones,  that  the  poor  would  get 
the  coarse  pieces  of  meat  cheaper,  if  the  gentle 
folks  did  not  buy  them  for  soups  and  gravy. 
Mrs.  Jones  thought  there  was  reason  in  this  :  so 
away  she  went  to  sir  John,  the  squire,  the  sur¬ 
geon,  the  attorney,  and  the  steward,  the  only 
persons  in  the  parish  who  could  atford  to  buy 
these  costly  things.  She  told  tliem,  that  if  they 
would  all  be  so  good  as  to  buy  only  prime  pieces, 
which  they  could  very  well  afford,  tlie  coarse 
and  cheap  joints  would  come  more  within  the 
roach  of  the  poor.  Most  of  the  gentry  readily 
consented.  Sir  John  cared  not  what  liis  meat 
cost  him,  but  told  Mrs.  Jones,  in  his  gay  way, 
that  he  would  eat  any  thing,  or  give  any  thing, 
so  that  she  would  not  tease  him  with  long  stories 


i70 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


about  the  poor.  The  squire  said  he  should  pre¬ 
fer  vegetable  soups,  because  they  were  cheaper, 
and  the  doctor  preferred  them  because  they 
were  wholesomer.  The  steward  chose  to  imi¬ 
tate  the  squire  ;  and  the  attorney  found  it  would 
be  quite  ungenteel  to  stand  out.  So  gravy  soups 
•became  very  unfashionable  in  the  parish  of 
Weston  ;  and  I  am  sure  if  rich  people  did  but 
think  a  little  on  this  subject,  they  would  be¬ 
come  as  unfashionable  in  many  other  places. 

When  wheat  grew  cheaper,  Mrs.  Jones  was 
earnest  with  the  poor  woman  to  bake  large 
brown  loaves  at  home,  instead  of  buying  small 
white  ones  at  the  shop.  Mrs.  Betty  had  told 
her,  that  baking  at  home  would  be  one  step  to¬ 
wards  restoring  the  good  old  management.  Only 
Betty  Smart  and  Jenny  Rose  baked  at  home  in 
the  whole  parish ;  and  who  lived  so  well  as  they 
did  ?  Yet  the  general  objection  seemed  reason- 
•able.  They  could  not  bake  without  yeast,  which 
often  could  not  be  had,  as  no  one  brewed  except 
the  great  folks  and  the  public  houses.  Mrs. 
Jones  found,  however,  that  Patty  and  Jenny 
contrived  to  brew  as  well  as  to  bake.  She 
sent  for  these  women  ;  knowing  that  from  them 
she  could  get  truth  and  reason.  ‘  How  comes 
it,’  said  she  to  them,  ‘that  you  two  are  the 
only  poor  women  in  the  parish  who  can  afford 
to  brew  a  small  cask  of  beer?  Your  husbands 
have  no  better  wages  than  other  men.’ — ‘  True, 
madam,’  said  Patty,  ‘  but  they  never  set  foot  in 
a  public  house.  I  will  tell  you  the  truth, 
when  I  first  married,  our  John  went  to  the 
Checquers  every  night,  and  I  had  my  tea  and 
fresh  butter  twice  a-day  at  home.  This  slop, 
which  consumed  a  deal  of  sugar,  began  to  rake 
my  stomach  sadly,  as  I  had  neither  meat  nor 
milk :  at  last  (I  am  ashamed  to  own  it)  I  began 
to  take  a  drop  of  gin  to  quiet  the  pain,  till  in 
time  I  looked  for  my  gin  as  regularly  as  for  my 
tea.  At  last  the  gin,  the  ale-house,  and  the  tea 
began  to  make  us  both  sick  and  poor,  and  I  had 
like  to  have  died  with  my  first  child.  Parson 
Simpson  then  talked  so  finely  to  us  on  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  improper  indulgences,  that  we  resolved, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  to  turn  over^a  new  leaf,  and 
1  promised  John,  if  he  would  give  up  the  Chec- 
quers,  I  would  break  the  gin  bottle,  and  never 
drink  tea  in  the  afternoon,  except  on  Sundays, 
when  he  was  at  home  to  drink  it  with  me.  We 
have  kept  our  word,  and  both  our  eating  and 
drinking,  our  health  and  our  consciences  are 
better  for  it.  Though  meat  is  sadly  dear,  wo 
can  buy  two  pounds  of  fresh  meat  for  less  than 
one  pound  of  fresh  butter,  and  it  gives  five  times 
the  nourishment.  And  dear  as  malt  is,  I  con¬ 
trive  to  keep  a  drop  of  drink  in  the  house  for 
John,  and  John  will  make  me  drink  half  a  pint 
with  him  every  evening,  and  a  pint  a-day  when 
1  am  a  nurse. 

Public  Houses. 

As  one  good  deed,  as  well  as  one  bad  one, 
brings  on  another,  this  conversation  set  Mrs. 
Jones  on  inquiring  why  so  many  ale-houses 
wore  allowed.  She  did  not  choose  to  talk  to  sir 
John  on  this  subject,  who  would  only  have  said, 

‘  let  them  enjoy  themselves,  poor  fellows :  if 
they  get  drunk  now  and  then,  they  work  hard.’ 
But  tlio.se  who  have  tliis  false  good-nature  for¬ 


get,  that  while  the  man  is  enjoying  MmselJ,  as 
it  is  called,  his  wife  and  children  are  ragged 
and  starving.  True  Christian  good-nature 
never  indulges  one  at  the  cost  of  many,  but  is 
kind  to  all.  The  squire,  who  was  a  friend  to 
order,  took  up  the  matter.  He  consulted  Mr. 
Simpson.  ‘  The  Lion,’  said  he,  ‘  is  necessary. 
It  stands  by  the  road-side;  travellers  must  have 
a  resting  place.  As  to  the  Checquers  and  the 
Bell,  they  do  no  good  but  much  harm.’  Mr. 
Simpson  had  before  made  many  attempts  to  get 
the  Checquers  put  down ;  but,  unluckily,  it  was 
sir  John’s  own  house,  and  kept  by  his  late  but¬ 
ler.  Not  that  sir  John  valued  the  rent ;  but  he 
had  a  false  kindness,  which  made  him  support 
the  cause  of  an  old  servant,  though  he  knew  he 
was  a  bad  man,  and  kept  a  disorderly  house. 
The  squire,  however,  now  took  away  the  license 
from  the  Bell.  And  a  fray  happening  soon 
after  at  the  Chequers  (which  was  near  the 
church)  in  time  of  Divine  service,  sir  John  was 
obliged  to  suffer  the  house  to  be  put  down  as  a 
nuisance.  You  would  not  believe  how  many 
poor  families  were  able  to  brew  a  little  cask, 
when  the  temptation  of  those  ale-houses  was 
taken  out  of  their  way.  Mrs.  Jones,  in  her 
evening  walks,  had  the  pleasure  to  see  many 
an  honest  man  drinking  his  wholesome  cup  of 
beer  by  his  own  fire-side,  his  rosy  children  play¬ 
ing  about  his  knees,  his  clean  cheerful  wife 
singing  her  youngest  baby  to  sleep,  rocking  the 
cradle  with  her  foot,  while  with  her  hands  she 
was  making  a  dumpling  for  her  kind  husband’s 
supper.  Some  few,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  though 
I  don’t  chuse  to  name  names,  still  preferred 
getting  drunk  once  a  week  at  the  Lion,  and 
drinking  water  at  other  times. — Thus  Mrs. 
Jones,  by  a  little  exertion  and  perseverance, 
added  to  the  temporal  comforts  of  a  whole 
parish,  and  diminished  its  immorality  and  ex¬ 
travagance  in  the  same  proportion. 

The  good  women  being  now  supplied  with 
yeast  from  each  other’s  brewings,  would  have 
baked;  but  two  difficulties  still  remained.  Many 
of  them  had  no  ovens  ;  for  since  the  new  bad 
management  had  crept  in,  many  cottages  have 
been  built  without  this  convenience.  Fuel  also 
was  scarce  at  Weston.  Mrs.  Jones  advised  the 
building  a  large  parish  oven.  Sir  John  sub¬ 
scribed  to  be  rid  of  her  importunity,  and  the 
squire,  because  he  thought  every  improvement 
in  economy  would  reduce  the  poor’s  rate.  It 
was  soon  accomplished ;  and  to  this  oven,  at 
a  certain  hour,  three  times  a  week,  the  elder 
children  carried  their  loaves  which  their  mo¬ 
thers  had  made  at  home,  and  paid  a  half-penny, 
or  a  penny  according  to  their  size,  for  the  baking. 

Mrs.  Jones  found  that  no  poor  women  in  Wes¬ 
ton  could  buy  a  little  milk,  as  the  farmers’  wives 
did  not  care  to  rob  their  dairies.  This  was  a 
great  distress,  especially  when  the  children 
were  sick.  So  I\Irs.  Jones  advised  Mrs.  Sparks, 
at  the  Cross,  to  keep  a  couple  of  cows,  and  sell 
out  the  milk  by  halfpennyworths.  She  did  so, 
and  found,  that  though  this  plan  gave  her  some 
additional  trouble,  she  got  full  as  much  by  it  as 
if  she  had  made  cheese  and  butter.  She  also 
sold  rice  at  a  cheap  rate;  so  that,  with  the  help 
of  the  milk  and  the  public  oven,  a  fine  rice  pud 
ding  was  to  be  had  for  a  trifle. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


171 


Charity  Schools  for  Servants. 

The  girls’  school,  in  the  parish,  was  fallen 
into  neglect;  for  though  many  would  be  sub¬ 
scribers,  yet  no  one  would  look  after  it.  I  wish 
this  was  the  case  at  Weston  only  :  many  schools 
have  come  to  nothing,  and  many  parishes  are 
quite  destitute  of  schools,  because  too  many 
gentry  neglect  to  make  it  a  part  of  the  duty  of 
their  grown  up  daughters  to  inspect  the  instruc¬ 
tion  of  the  poor.  It  was  not  in  Mr.  Simpson’s 
way  to  see  if  girls  were  taught  to  work.  The 
test  clergyman  cannot  do  every  thing.  This 
is  ladies  business.  Mrs.  Jones  consulted  her 
counsellors,  Mrs.  Betty,  and  they  went  every 
Friday  to  the  school,  where  they  invited  mo¬ 
thers,  as  well  as  daughters,  to  come,  and  learn 
to  cut  out  to  the  best  advantage.  Mrs.  Jones 
had  not  been  bred  to  these  things  ;  but  by  means 
of  Mrs.  Cowper’s  excellent  cuttingout-book ; 
she  soon  became  mistress  of  the  whole  art. 
She  not  only  had  the  girls  taught  to  make  and 
mend,  but  to  wash  and  iron  too.  She  also  al¬ 
lowed  the  mother  or  eldest  daughter  of  every 
family  to  come  once  a  week,  and  learn  how  to 
dress  one  cheap  dish.  One  Friday,  which  was 
cooking  day,  who  should  pass  by  but  the  squire, 
with  his  gun  and  dogs.  He  looked  into  the 
school  for  the  first  time.  ‘  Well,  madam,’  said 
he,  ‘  what  good  are  you  doing  here  ?  What  are 
your  girls  learning  and  earning  ?  Where  are 
your  manufactures  ?  Where  is  your  spinning 
and  your  carding  ?’ — ‘  Sir,’  said  she,  ‘  this  is  a 
small  parish,  and  you  know  ours  is  not  a  manu¬ 
facturing  country  ;  so  that  when  these  girls  are 
women,  they  will  not  be  much  employed  in 
spinning.  We  must,  in  the  kind  of  good  we 
attempt  to  do,  consult  the  local  genius  of  the 
place:  I  do  not  think  it  will  answer  to  intro¬ 
duce  spinning,  for  instance,  in  a  country  where 
it  is  quite  new.  However,  we  teach  them  a 
little  of  it,  and  still  more  of  knitting,  that  they 
may  be  able  to  get  up  a  small  piece  of  house¬ 
hold  linen  once  a  year,  and  provide  the  family 
with  the  stockings,  by  employing  the  odds  and 
ends  of  their  time  in  tliese  ways.  But  there  is 
another  manufacture,  which  I  am  carrying  on, 
and  I  know  of  none  within  my  own  reach 
which  is  so  valuable.’ — ‘  What  can  that  be  ?’ 
said  the  squire. — ‘  To  make  good  wives  for  work¬ 
ing  men,’  said  she.  ‘  Is  not  mine  an  excellent 
staple  commodity  ?  I  am  teaching  these  girls 
the  arts  of  industry  and  good  management.  It 
is  little  encouragement  to  an  honest  man  to 
work  hard  all  the  week,  if  his  wages  are  wast¬ 
ed  by  a  slattern  at  home.  Most  of  these  girls 
will  probably  become  wives  to  the  poor,  or  ser¬ 
vants  to  the  rich  ;  to  such  the  common  arts  of 
life  are  of  great  value :  now,  as  there  is  little  op¬ 
portunity  for  learning  these  at  the  school  house, 
I  intend  to  propose  that  such  gentry  as  have 
sober  servants,  shall  allow  one  of  these  girls  to 
come  and  work  in  their  families  one  day  in  a 
week,  when  the  house-keeper,  the  cook,  the 
house-maid,  or  the  laundry-maid,  shall  be  re¬ 
quired  to  instruct  them  in  their  several  depart¬ 
ments.  This  I  conceive  to  be  the  best  way  of 
training  good  servants.  They  should  serve 
this  kind  of  regular  apprenticeship  to  various 
sorts  of  labour.  Girls  who  come  out  of  charity- 


schools,  where  they  have  been  employed  in 
knitting,  sewing,  and  reading,  are  not  suffi¬ 
ciently  prepared  for  hard  and  laborious  employ¬ 
ments.  I  do  not  in  general  approve  of  teaching 
charity  children  to  write  for  the  same  reason. 
I  confine  within  very  strict  limits  my  plan  of 
educating  the  poor.  A  thorough  knowledge  of 
religion,  and  of  some  of  those  coarser  arts  of 
life  by  which  the  community  may  be  best  be- 
nefitted,  includes  the  whole  stock  of  instruction, 
which,  unless  in  very  extraordinary  cases,  I 
would  wish  to  bestow.’ 

‘What  have  you  got  on  the  fire,  madam?’ 
said  the  squire  ;  ‘  for  your  pot  really  smells  as 
savoury  as  if  Sir  John’s  French  cook  had  filled 
it.’  ‘  Sir,’  replied  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  I  have  lately 
got  acquainted  with  Mrs.  White,  who  has  given 
us  an  account  of  her  cheap  dishes,  and  nice 
cookery,  in  one  of  the  cheap  Repository  little 
books.*  Mrs.  Betty  and  I  have  made  all  her 
dishes,  and  very  good  they  are;  and  we  have 
got  several  others  of  our  own.  Every  Friday  we 
come  here  and  dress  one.  These  good  women 
see  how  it  is  done,  and  learn  to  dress  it  at  their 
own  houses.  I  take  home  part  for  my  own 
dinner,  and  what  is  left  I  give  to  each  in  turn. 
I  hope  I  have  opened  their  eyes  on  a  sad  mis¬ 
take  they  had  got  into,  that  we  think  any  thing 
is  good  enough  for  the  poor.  Now,  I  do  not 
think  any  thing  good  enough  for  the  poor  which 
is  not  clean,  wholesome,  and  palatable,  and  what 
I  myself  would  not  cheerfully  eat,  if  my  cir¬ 
cumstances  required  it.’ 

‘  Pray,  Mrs.  Betty,’  said  the  squire,  ‘  oblige 
me  with  a  basin  of  your  soup.’  The  squire 
found  it  so  good  after  his  walk,  that  he  was  al¬ 
most  sorry  he  had  promised  to  buy  no  more  legs 
of  beef,  and  declared,  that  not  one  sheep’s  head 
should  ever  go  to  his  kennel  again.  He  begged 
his  cook  might  have  the  receipt,  and  Mrs.  Jones 
wrote  it  out  for  her.  She  has  also  been  so  ob¬ 
liging  as  to  favour  me  with  a  copy  of  all  her 
receipts.  And  as  I  hate  all  monopoly,  and  see 
no  reason  why  such  cheap,  nourishing,  and  sa¬ 
voury  dishes  should  be  confined  to  the  parish 
of  Weston,  I  print  them,  that  all  other  parishes 
may  have  the  same  advantage.  Not  only  the 
poor,  but  all  persons  with  small  incomes  may  be 
glad  of  them. 

‘  Well,  madam,’  said  Mr.  Simpson,  who  came 
in  soon  after,  ‘  which  is  best,  to  sit  down  and 
cry  over  our  misfortunes,  or  to  bestir  ourselves 
to  do  our  duty  to  the  world  ?’  ‘  Sir,’  replied  Mrs. 
Jones,  ‘  I  thank  you  for  the  useful  lesson  you 
have  given  me.  You  have  taught  me  that  an 
excessive  indulgence  of  sorrow,  is  not  piety,  but 
selfishness ;  that  the  best  remedy  for  our  own 
afflictions  is  to  lessen  the  afflictions  of  others, 
and  thus  evidence  our  submission  to  the  will 
of  God,  who,  perhaps,  sent  these  very  trials 
to  abate  our  own  self-love,  and  to  stimulate 
our  exertions  for  the  good  of  others.  You 
have  taught  me  that  our  time  and  talents  are 
to  be  employed  with  zeal  in  God’s  service, 
if  we  wish  for  his  favour  here  or  hereafter  ;  and 
that  one  great  employment  of  those  talents 
which  he  requires,  is  the  promotion  of  the  pre¬ 
sent,  and  much  more  the  future  happiness  of 

*  Siio  the  Way  to  Plenty,  for  a  number  of  cheap  re 
ceipts. 


172 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


all  around  us. — You  have  taught  me  that  much 
good  may  be  done  with  little  money ;  and  that 
the  heart,  the  head,  and  the  hands  are  of  some 
use,  as  well  as  the  purse.  I  have  also  learned 
another  lesson,  which  I  hope  not  to  forget,  that 
Providence,  in  sending  these  extraordinary  sea¬ 
sons  of  scarcity  and  distress,  which  we  have 
lately  twice  experienced,  lias  been  pleased  to 
overrule  these  trying  events  to  the  general  good ; 
for  it  has  not  only  excited  the  rich  to  an  in¬ 
creased  liberality,  as  to  actual  contribution,  but 
it  has  led  them  to  get  more  acquainted  with  the 
local  wants  of  their  poorer  brethren,  and  to  in¬ 
terest  themselves  in  their  comfort ;  it  has  led 
to  improved  modes  of  economy,  and  to  a  more 


feeling  kind  of  beneficence.  Above  all,  without 
abating  any  thing  of  a  just  subordination,  it  has 
brought  the  affluent  to  a  nearer  knowledge  of 
the  persons  and  characters  of  their  indigent 
neighbours  ;  it  has  literally  brought  ‘  the  rich 
and  poor  to  meet  together  and  this  I  look  upon 
to  be  one  of  the  essential  advantages  attending 
Sunday  schools  also,  where  they  are  carried  on 
upon  true  principles,  and  are  sanctioned  by  the 
visits  as  well  as  supported  by  the  contributions 
of  the  wealthy.’ 

May  all  who  read  this  account  of  Mrs.  Jones, 
and  who  are  under  the  same  circumstances,  gQ 
and  do  likewise ! 


THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL. 


1  PROMISED,  in  the  Cure  for  Melancholy,  to 
give  some  account  of  the  manner  in  which  Mrs. 
Jones  set  up  her  school.  She  did  not  much  fear 
being  able  to  raise  the  money  ;  but  money  is 
of  little  use,  unless  some  persons  of  sense  and 
piety  can  be  found  to  direct  these  institutions. 
Not  that  I  would  discourage  those  who  set  them 
up,  even  in  the  most  ordinary  manner,  and  from 
mere  views  of  worldly  policy.  It  is  something 
gained  to  rescue  children  from  idling  away  their 
Sabbath  in  the  fields  or  the  streets.  It  is  no 
small  thing  to  keep  them  from  those  to  which  a 
day  of  leisure  tempts  the  idle  and  the  ignorant. 
It  is  something  for  them  to  be  taught  to  read ; 
it  is  much  to  be  taught  to  read  the  Bible,  and 
much,  indeed,  to  be  carried  regularl}’’  to  church. 
But  all  this  is  not  enough.  To  bring  these  in¬ 
stitutions  to  answer  their  highest  end,  can  only 
be  effected  by  God’s  blessing  on  tire  best  direct¬ 
ed  means,  the  choice  of  able  teachers,  and  a  di¬ 
ligent  attention  in  some  pious  gentry  to  visit 
and  inspect  the  schools. 

On  Recommendations. 

Mrs.  Jones  had  one  talent  that  eminently 
qualified  her  to  do  good,  namely,  judgment; 
this,  even  in  the  gay  part  of  her  life,  had  kept 
her  from  many  mistakes  ;  but  though  she  had 
sometimes  been  deceived  herself,  she  was  very 
careful  not  to  deceive  others,  by  recommending 
people  to  fill  any  office  for  which  they  were  un¬ 
fit,  either  through  selfishness  or  false  kindness. 
She  used  to  say  there  is  always  some  one  ap¬ 
propriate  quality  which  every  person  must  pos¬ 
sess,  in  order  to  fit  them  for  any  particular  em¬ 
ployment — ‘  Even  in  this  quality,’  said  she  to 
Mr.  Simpson  the  clergyman,  ‘  I  do  not  expect 
perfection  ;  but  if  they  are  destitute  of  this,  what¬ 
ever  good  qualities  they  may  possess  besides, 
though  they  may  do  for  some  other  employment, 
they  will  not  do  for  this.  If  I  want  a  pair  of 
shoes,  I  go  to  a  shoemaker ;  I  do  not  go  to  a 
man  of  another  trade,  however  ingenious  he 
may  be,  to  ask  him  if  he  cannot  contrive  to 
make  me  a  pair  of  shoes.  When  I  lived  in  Lon¬ 
don,  I  learned  to  be  much  on  my  guard  as  to 
recommendations.  I  found  people  often  wanted 
to  impose  on  me  some  one  who  was  a  burthen 
to  themselves. — Once,  I  remember,  when  I  un¬ 
dertook  to  get  a  matron  for  an  hospital,  half  my 


acquaintance  had  some  one  to  offer  me.  Mrs. 
Gibson  sent  me  an  old  cook,  whom  she  herself 
had  discharged  for  wasting  her  own  provisions, 
yet  she  had  the  conscience  to  recommend  this 
woman  to  take  care  of  the  provisions  of  a  large 
community.  Mrs.  Grey  sent  me  a  discarded 
housekeeper,  whose  constitution  had  been  ruined 
by  sitting  up  with  Mrs.  Grey’s  gouty  husband  ; 
but  who  she  yet  thought  might  do  well  enough 
to  undergo  the  fatigue  of  taking  care  of  an  hun¬ 
dred  poor  sick  people.  A  third  friend  sent  me 
a  woman  who  had  no  merit  but  that  of  being 
very  poor,  and  it  would  be  charity  to  provide  for 
her.  The  truth  is,  the  lady  was  obliged  to  allow 
her  a  small  pension  till  she  could  get  her  off 
her  own  hands,  by  turning  her  on  those  of 
others.’ 

‘  It  is  very  true,  madam,’  said  Mr.  Simpson, 
‘  the  right  way  is  always  to  prefer  the  good  of 
the  many  to  the  good  of  one ;  if,  indeed,  it  can 
be  called  doing  good  to  any  one  to  place  them 
in  a  station  in  which  they  must  feel  unhappy, 
by  not  knowing  how  to  discharge  the  duties  of 
it.  I  will  tell  you  how  I  manage.  If  the  j'cr- 
sons  recommended  are  objects  of  charity,  I  pri¬ 
vately  subscribe  to  their  wants  ;  I  pity  and  help 
them,  but  I  never  promote  them  to  a  station  for 
which  they  are  unfit,  as  I  should  by  so  doing 
hurt  a  whole  community  to  help  a  distressed  in¬ 
dividual.’ 

Thus  Mrs.  Jones  resolved  that  the  first  step 
towards  setting  up  her  school  should  be  to  pro¬ 
vide  a  suitable  mistress.  The  vestry  were  so 
earnest  in  recommending  one  woman,  that  she 
thought  it  worth  looking  into.  On  inquiry,  she 
found  it  was  a  scheme  to  take  a  large  family  off 
the  parish  ;  they  never  considered  that  a  very 
ignorant  woman,  with  a  family  of  young  chil- 
dreu,  was,  of  all  others,  the  most  unfit  for  a 
school ;  all  they  considered  was,  that  the  profits 
of  the  school  might  enable  lier  to  live  without 
parish  pay.  Mrs.  Jones  refused  another,  though 
she  could  read  well,  and  was  decent  in  her  con¬ 
duct,  because  she  used  to  send  her  children  to 
the  shop  on  Sundays.  And  she  objected  to  a 
third,  a  very  sensible  woman,  because  she  was 
suspected  of  making  an  outward  profession  of 
religion  a  cloak  for  immoral  conduct.  Mrs. 
•Tones  knew  she  must  not  be  too  nice  neither 
she  knew  she  must  put  up  with  many  faults  at 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


last  ‘  I  knew,’  said  she  to  Mr.  Simpson,  ‘  the 
imperfection  of  every  thing  that  is  human.  As 
the  mistress  will  have  much  to  bear  with  from 
the  children,  so  I  expect  to  have  something  to 
bear  with  in  the  mistress  ;  and  she  and  I  must 
submit  to  our  respective  trials,  by  thinking  how 
much  God  has  to  bear  with  in  us  all.  But  there 
are  certain  qualities  which  are  indispensable  in 
certain  situations.  There  are,  in  particular, 
three  things  which  a  school-mistress  must  not 
be  without,  good  sense,  activity,  and  piety. 
Without  the  first  she  will  mislead  others  ;  with¬ 
out  the  second  she  will  neglect  them  ;  and  with¬ 
out  the  third,  though  she  may  civilize,  yet  she 
will  never  christianize  them.’ 

Mr.  Simpson  said,  ‘  he  really  knew  but  of  one 
person  in  the  parish  who  was  fully  likely  to  an¬ 
swer  her  purpose  :  this,’  continued  he,  ‘  is  no 
other  than  my  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Betty  Crew. 
It  will  indeed  be  a  great  loss  to  me  to  part  from 
her ;  and  to  her  it  will  be  a  far  more  fatiguing 
life  than  that  which  she  at  present  leads.  But 
ought  I  to  put  my  own  personal  comfort,  or 
ought  Betty  to  put  her  own  ease  and  quiet,  in 
competition  with  the  good  of  above  an  hundred 
children  ?  This  will  appear  still  more  important, 
if  we  consider  the  good  done  by  these  institu¬ 
tions,  not  ns  fruit,  but  seed;  if  we  take  into  the 
account  how  many  yet  unborn  may  become 
Christians,  in  consequence  of  our  making  these 
children  Christians  :  for  how  can  we  calculate 
the  number  which  may  be  hereafter  trained  for 
Heaven,  by  those  very  children  we  are  going  to 
teach,  when  they  themselves  shall  become  pa¬ 
rents,  and  you  and  I  are  dead  and  forgotten  ? 
To  be  sure,  by  parting  from  Betty,  my  peas- 
•soup  will  not  be  quite  so  well  flavoured,  nor  my 
linen  so  neatly  got  up ;  but  the  day  is  fast  ap¬ 
proaching,  when  all  this  will  signify  but  little ; 
but  it  will  not  signify  little  whether  one  hundred 
immortal  souls  were  the  better  for  my  making 
this  petty  sacrifice.  Mrs.  Crew  is  a  real  Chris¬ 
tian,  has  excellent  sense,  and  had  a  good  educa¬ 
tion  from  my  mother.  She  has  also  had  a  little 
sort  of  preparatory  training  for  the  business ; 
for  when  the  poor  children  come  to  the  parson¬ 
age  for  broth  on  a  Saturday  evening,  she  is  used 
to  appoint  them  all  to  come  at  the  same  time ; 
and  after  she  has  filled  their  pitchers,  she  ranges 
them  round  her  in  the  garden,  and  examines 
them  in  their  catechism.  She  is  just  and  fair 
in  dealing  out  the  broth  and  beef,  not  making 
my  favour  to  the  parents  depend  on  the  skill  of 
their  children :  but  her  own  old  caps  and 
ribands,  and  cast-off  clothes,  are  bestowed  as 
little  rewards  on  the  best  scholars.  So  that  taking 
the  time  she  spends  in  working  for  them,  and 
the  things  she  gives  them,  there  is  many  a  lady 
who  does  not  exceed  Mrs.  Crew  in  acts  of  cha¬ 
rity.  This  I  mention  to  confirm  your  notion, 
that  it  is  not  necessary  to  bo  rich  in  order  to 
do  good  ;  a  religious  upper  servant  has  great  op¬ 
portunities  of  this  sort,  if  the  master  is  disposed 
to  encourage  her.’ 

My  readers,  I  trust,  need  not  be  informed, 
that  this  rs  that  very  Mrs.  Betty  Crew  who  as¬ 
sisted  Mrs.  Jones  in  teaching  poor  women  to 
cut  out  linen  and  dress  cheap  dishes,  as  related 
in  the  Cure  for  Melancholy.  Mrs.  Jones,  in 
the  following  week,  got  together  as  many  of 


173 

the  mothers  as  she  could,  and  spoke  to  them  as 
follows  ; 

Mrs.  Jones’s  Exhortation. 

‘  My  good  women,  on  Sunday  next  I  propose 
to  open  a  school  for  the  instruction  of  your  chil¬ 
dren.  Those  among  you,  who  know  what  it  is 
to  be  able  to  read  your  Bible,  will,  I  doubt  not, 
rejoice  that  the  same  blessing  is  held  out  to  your 
children.  You  who  are  not  able  yourselves  to 
read  what  your  Saviour  has  done  and  suffered 
for  you,  ought  to  be  doubly  anxious  that  your 
children  should  reap  a  blessing  which  you  have 
lost.  Would  not  that  mother  be  thought  an  un¬ 
natural  monster  who  should  stand  by  and  snatch 
out  of  her  child’s  mouth  the  bread  which  a  kind 
friend  has  just  put  into  it  ?  But  such  a  mother 
would  be  merciful,  compared  with  her  who 
should  rob  her  children  of  the  opportunity  of 
learning  to  read  the  word  of  God  when  it  is 
held  out  to  them.  Remember,  that  if  you  slight 
the  present  offer,  or  if,  after  having  sent  your 
children  a  few  times  you  should  afterwards  keep 
them  at  home  under  vain  pretences,  you  will 
have  to  answer  for  it  at  the  day  of  judgment. 
Let  not  your  poor  children,  then,  have  cause  to 
say,  ‘  My  fond  mother  was  my  worst  enem}^  I 
might  have  been  bred  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord, 
and  she  opposed  it  for  the  sake  of  giving  me  a 
little  paltry  pleasure. — For  an  idle  holiday,  I  am 
now  brought  to  the  gates  of  hell !’  My  dear 
women,  which  of  you  could  bear  to  see  your 
darling  child  condemned  to  everlasting  destruc¬ 
tion  ? — Which  of  you  could  bear  to  hear  him  ac¬ 
cuse  you  as  the  cause  of  it  ?  Is  there  any  mo- 
ther  here  present,  who  will  venture  to  say — ‘  I 
will  doom  the  child  I  bore  to  sin  and  hell,  rather 
than  put  them  or  myself  to  a  little  present  pain, 
by  curtailing  their  evil  inclinations  !  I  will  let 
them  spend  the  Sabbath  in  ignorance  and  idle¬ 
ness,  instead  of  rescuing  them  from  vanity  and 
sin,  by  sending  them  to  school!’  If  there  are 
any  such  here  present,  let  that  mother  who  va¬ 
lues  her  child’s  pleasure  more  than  his  soul, 
now  walk  away,  while  I  set  down  in  my  list  the 
names  of  all  those  who  wish  to  bring  their  young 
ones  up  in  the  way  that  leads  to  eternal  life,  in¬ 
stead  of  indulging  them  in  the  pleasures  of  sin, 
which  are  but  for  a  moment.’  ' 

When  Mrs.  Jones  had  done  speaking,  most 
of  the  women  thanked  her  for  her  good  advice, 
and  hoped  that  God  would  give  them  grace  to 
follow  it ;  promising  to  send  their  children  con¬ 
stantly.  Others,  who  were  not  so  well-disposed, 
were  yet  afraid  to  refuse,  after  the  sin  of  so  do¬ 
ing  had  been  so  plainly  set  before  them.  The 
worst  of  the  women  had  kept  away  from  this 
meeting,  resolving  to  set  their  faces  against  the 
school.  Most  of  those  also  who  were  present, 
as  soon  as  they  got  home,  set  about  providing 
their  children  with  what  little  decent  apparel 
they  could  raise.  Many  a  willing  mother  lent 
her  tall  daughter  her  hat,  best  cap,  and  white 
handkerchief ;  and  many  a  grateful  fatlier  spared 
his  linen  waistcoat  and  betterrnost  hat,  to  in¬ 
duce  his  grown  up  son  to  attend  ;  for  it  is  a  rule 
with  which  Mrs.  Jones  began,  that  she  would 
not  receive  the  younger  children  out  of  any  fa¬ 
mily  who  did  not  send  their  elder  ones.  Too 
many  made  excuses  that  their  shoos  were  old, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


;  74 


or  their  hat  worn  out.  But  Mrs.  Jones  told 
them  not  to  bring  any  excuse  to  her  which  they 
could  not  bring  to  the  day  of  judgment;  and 
among  those  excuses  she  would  hardly  admit 
any  except  accidents,  sickness  or  attendance  on 
sick  parents  or  young  children. 

Subscriptions. 

Mrs.  Jones,  who  had  secured  large  subscrip, 
tions  from  the  gentry,  was  desirous  of  getting 
the  help  and  countenance  of  the  farmers  and 
trades-people,  whose  duty  and  interest  she 
thought  it  was  to  support  a  plan  calculated  to 
improve  the  virtue  and  happiness  of  the  parish. 
Most  of  them  subscribed,  and  promised  to  see 
that  their  workmen  sent  their  children.  She 
met  with  little  opposition  till  she  called  on  far¬ 
mer  Hoskins.  She  told  him,  as  he  was  the 
richest  farmer  in  the  parish,  she  came  to  him 
for  a  handsome  subscription.  ‘  Subscription  !’ 
said  he,  ‘  it  is  nothing  but  subscriptions,  I  think;’ 
a  man,  had  need  be  made  of  money,’ — ‘  Farmer,’ 
said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  God  has  blessed  you  with 
abundant  prosperity,  and  he  expects  you  should 
be  liberal  in  proportion  to  your  great  ability.’ — 

‘  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  blessing,’ 
said  he  :  ‘I  have  been  up  early  and  late,  lived 
hard  while  I  had  little,  and  now  when  I  thought 
I  had  got  forward  in  the  world,  what  with 
tithes  taxes,  and  subscriptions,  it  all  goes,  I 
think.’ — ‘Mr.  Hoskins,’  said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  as  to 
tithes  and  taxes,  you  well  know  that  the  richer 
you  are  the  more  you  pay;  so  that  your  mur¬ 
murs  are  a  proof  of  your  wealth.  This  is  but 
an  ungrateful  return  for  all  your  blessings.’ 
— ‘You  are  again  at  your  blessings,’  said  the 
farmer ;  ‘  but  let  every  one  work  as  hard  as  I 
have  done,  and  I  dare  say  he  will  do  as  well. 
It  is  to  my  own  industry  I  own  what  I  have. 
My  crops  have  been  good,  because  I  minded 
my  ploughing  and  sowing.’  ‘  O,  farmer  !’  cried 
Mrs.  Jones,  ‘you  forget  whose  suns  and  showers 
make  your  crops  to  grow,  and  who  it  is  that 
giveth  strength  to  get  riches.  But  I  do  not 
come  to  preach,  but  to  beg.’ 

‘  Well,  madam,  what  is  the  subscription  now  ? 
Flannel  or  French  ?  or  weavers,  or  Swiss,  or  a 
new  churchf  or  large  bread,  or  cheap  rice  ?  or 
what  other  new  whim-wham  for  getting  the 
money  out  of  one’s  pocket  ?’ — ‘  I  am  going  to 
establish  a  Sunday-school,  farmer ;  and  I  come 
to  you  as  one  of  the  principal  inhabitants  of  the 
parish,  hoping  your  example  will  spur  on  the 
rest  to  give.’ — ‘  Why,  then,  said  the  farmer,  ‘  as 
one  of  the  principal  inhabitants  of  the  parish,  I 
will  give  nothing ;  hoping  it  will  spur  on  the 
rest  to  refuse.  Of  all  the  foolish  inventions,  and 
new  fangled  devices  to  ruin  the  country,  that 
of  teaching  the  poor  to  read  is  the  very  worst.’ 
— ‘  And  I,  farmer,  think  that  to  teach  good  prin¬ 
ciples  to  the  lower  classes,  is  the  most  likely 
way  to  save  the  country.  Now,  in  order  to  this, 
we  must  teach  them  to  read.’ — ‘Not  with  my 
consent,  nor  my  money,’  said  the  farmer  ;  ‘  for 
I  know  it  always  does  more  harm  than  good.’ 
— ‘  So  it  may,’  said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  if  you  only 
teach  them  to  read,  and  then  turn  them  adrift 
to  find  out  books  for  themselves.*  There  is  a 

*  rt  was  tms  consideration  chiefly,  which  stimulated 
the  conductors  of  the  Cheap  Repository  to  send  forth 


proneness  in  the  heart  to  evil,  which  it  is  our 
duty  to  oppose,  and  which  I  see  you  are  pro¬ 
moting.  Only  look  round  your  own  kitchen  ;  I 
am  ashamed  to  see  it  hung  round  with  locws’- 
songs  and  ballads.  I  grant,  indeed,  it  would'  be' 
better  for  young  men  and  maids,  and  even  your 
daughters,  not  to  be  able  to  read  at  all,  than  to 
read  such  stuff  as  this.  But  if,  when  they  ask- 
for  bread,  you  will  give  them  a  stone,  nay  worse;, 
a  serpent,  your’s  is  the  blame.’  Then  taking 
up  a  penny  book  which  had  a  very  loose  title, 
she  went  on. — ‘  I  do  not  wonder,  if  you,  who 
read  such  books  as  these,  think  it  safer  that 
people  should  not  read  at  all.’  The  farmer 
grinned,  and  said,  ‘  it  is  hard  if  a  man  of  my 
substance  may  not  divert  himself ;  when  a  bit 
of  fun  costs  only  a  penny,  and  a  man  can  spare 
that  penny,  there  is  no  harm  done.  When  it  is 
very  hot,  or  very  wet,  and  I  come  in  to  rest,  and 
have  drunk  my  mug  of  cider,  I  like  to  take  up 
a  bit  of  a  jest-book,  or  a  comical  story,  to  make 
me  laugh.’ 

‘  O,  Mr.  Hoskins  !’  replied  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  when 
you  come  in  to  rest  from  a  burning  sun  or 
shower,  do  you  never  think  of  Him  whose  sun 
it  is  that  is  ripening  your  corn?  or  whose 
shower  is  filling  the  ear,  or  causing  the  grass 
to  grow  ?  I  could  tell  you  of  some  books  which 
would  strengthen  such  thoughts,  whereas  such 
as  you  read  only  serve  to  put  them  out  of  your 
head.’ 

Mrs.  Jones  having  taken  pains  to  let  Mr- 
Hoskins  know,  that  all  the  genteel  and  wealthy 
people  had  subscribed,  he  at  last  said,  ‘  why  as 
to  the  matter  of  that,  I  do  not  value  a  crown ;  only 
I  think  it  might  be  better  bestowed ;  and  I  am 
afraid  my  own  workmen  will  fly  in  my  face  if 
once  they  are  made  scholars  ;  and  that  they 
will  think  themselves  too  good  to  work.’ — ‘  Now 
you  talk  soberly,  and  give  your  reasons,’  said 
Mrs.  Jones ;  ‘  weak  as  they  are,  they  deserve  an 
answer.  Do  you  think  that  either  man,  woman, 
or  child,  ever  did  his  duty  the  worse,  only  be¬ 
cause  he  knew  it  the  better  ?’  ‘  No,  perhaps  not.’' 
— ‘Now,  the  whole  extent  of  learning  which 
we  intend  to  give  the  poor,  is  only  to  enable 
them  to  read  the  Bible ;  a  book  which  brings  to 
us  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation,  in  which  every 
duty  is  explained,  every  doctrine  brought  into 
practice,  and  the  highest  truths  made  level  to 
the  meanest  understanding.  The  knowledge 
of  that  book,  and  its  practical  influence  on  the 
heart,  is  the  best  security  you  can  have,  both 
for  the  industry  and  obedience  of  your  servants. 
Now,  can  you  think  any  man  will  be  the  worse 
servant  for  being  a  good  Christian  ?’ — ‘  Perhaps 
not.’ — ‘  Are  not  the  duties  of  children,  of  ser¬ 
vants,  and  the  poor,  individually  and  expressly 
set  forth  in  the  Bible  ?’ — ‘Yes.’ — ‘  Do  you  think 
any  duties  are  likely  to  be  well  performed  from 
any  human  motives,  such  as  fear  or  prudence, 
as  from  those  religious  motives  which  are  back¬ 
ed  with  the  sanction  of  rewards  and  punish- 

that  variety  of  little  books  so  peculiarly  suited  to  the 
young.  They  considered  that  by  means  of  Sunday 
schools,  multitudes  were  now  taught  to  read,  who  would 
be  exposed  to  be  corrupted  by  all  the  ribaldry  and  pro¬ 
faneness  of  loose  songs,  vicious  stories,  and  especially 
by  the  new  influx  of  corruption  arising  from  Jacobini¬ 
cal  and  atheistical  pamphlets ,  and  that  it  was  a  buundec 
duty  to  counteract  such  temptations. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


175 


ments,  of  lieaven  or  hell  ?  Even  upon  your  own 
principles  of  worldly  policy,  do  you  think  a  poor 
man  is  not  less  likely  to  steal  a  sheep  or  a  horse, 
who  was  taught  when  a  boy  that  it  was  a  sin, 
that  it  was  breaking  a  commandment,  to  rob  a 
hen-roost,  or  an  orchard,  than  one  who  has  been 
bred  in  ignorance  of  God’s  law  ?  Will  your  pro¬ 
perty  be  secured  so  effectually  by  the  stocks  on 
the  green,  as  by  teaching  the  boys  in  the  school, 
that  for  all  these  things  God  will  bring  them 
into  judgment  ?  Is  a  poor  fellow  who  can  read 
his  Bible,  so  likely  to  sleep  or  to  drink  away  his 
few  hours  of  leisure,  as  one  who  cannot  read? 
He  may,  and  he  often  does,  make  a  bad  use  of 
his  reading ;  but  I  doubt  he  would  have  been  as 
bad  without  it :  and  the  hours  spent  in  learning 
to  read  will  always  have  been  among  the  most 
harmless  ones  of  his  life.’ 

•Well,  madam,’ said  the  farmer,  ‘if  you  do 
not  think  that  religion  will  spoil  my  young  ser¬ 
vants,  I  do  not  care  if  you  do  put  me  down  for 
half  a  guinea.  What  has  farmer  Dobson  given  V 
— ‘  Half  a  guinea,’  said  Mrs.  Jones. — ‘  Well,’ 
cried  the  farmer,  ‘it  shall  never  be  said  I  do 
not  give  more  than  he,  who  is  only  a  renter. 
Dobson  half  a  guinea  !  Why  he  wears  his  coat 
as  threadbare  as  a  labourer.’ — ‘  Perhaps,’  re¬ 
plied  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  that  is  one  reason  why  he 
gives  so  much.’ — ‘  Well,  put  me  down  a  guinea,’ 
cried  the  farmer  ;  ‘  as  scarce  as  guineas  are  just 
now.  I’ll  never  be  put  upon  the  same  footing 
with  Dobson  neither.’ — ‘Yes,  and  you  must  ex¬ 
ert  yourself  besides,  in  insisting  that  your  work¬ 
men  send  their  children,  and  often  look  into 
the  school  yourself,  to  see  if  they  are  there,  and 
reward  or  discourage  them  accordingly,’  added 
Mrs.  Jones.  ‘  The  most  zealous  teachers  will 
flag  in  their  exertions,  if  they  are  not  animated 
and  supported  by  the  wealthy ;  and  your  poor 
youth  will  soon  despise  religious  instruction  as 
a  thing  forced  upon  them,  as  a  hardship  added 
to  their  other  hardships,  if  it  be  not  made  plea¬ 
sant  by  the  encouraging  presence,  kind  words, 
and  little  gratuities,  from  their  betters.’ 

Here  Mrs.  Jones  took  her  leave  ;  the  farmer 
insisted  on  waiting  on  her  to  the  door.  When 
they  got  into  the  yard,  they  spied  Mr.  Simpson, 
who  was  standing  near  a  group  of  females,  con¬ 
sisting  of  the  farmer’s  two  young  daughters, 
and  a  couple  of  rosy  dairy  maids,  an  old  blind 
fiddler,  and  a  woman  who  led  him.  The  wo¬ 
man  had  laid  a  basket  on  the  ground,  out  of 
which  she  was  dealing  some  songs  to  the  girls, 
who  were  kneeling  round  it,  and  eagerly  pick¬ 
ing  out  such  whose  title  suited  their  tastes.  On 
seeing  the  clergyman  come  up,  the  fiddler’s 
companion,  (for  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  was  not 
his  wife)  pushed  some  of  the  songs  to  the  bot¬ 
tom  of  the  basket,  turned  round  to  the  company, 
and,  in  a  whining  tone,  asked  if  they  would 
please  to  buy  a  godly  book.  Mr.  Simpson  saw 
through  the  hypocrisy  at  once,  and  instead  of 
making  any  answer,  took  out  of  one  of  the  girl’s 
hands  a  song  which  the  woman  had  not  been 
able  to  snatch  away.  He  was  shocked  and 
grieved  to  sec  that  these  young  girls  were  about 
to  read,  to  sing,  and  to  learn  by  heart  such  ri¬ 
baldry  as  he  was  ashamed  oven  to  cast  his 
eyes  on.  He  turned  about  to  the  girl,  and 
gravely,  but  mildly  said,  ‘  Young  woman,  what 


do  you  think  should  be  done  to  a  person  who 
should  be  found  carrying  a  box  of  poison  round 
the  country,  and  leaving  a  little  to  every  house  ? 
The  girls  agreed  that  such  a  person  ought  to 
be  hanged.  ‘  That  he  should,’  said  the  farmer, 
‘  if  I  was  upon  the  jury,  and  quartered  too.’ 
The  fiddler  and  his  woman  were  of  the  same 
opinion,  declaring,  they  would  do  no  such  a 
wicked  thing  for  the  world,  for  if  they  were 
poor  they  were  honest.  Mr.  Simpson,  turning 
to  the  other  girl,  said,  ‘  Which  is  of  most  value, 
the  soul  or  the  body  ?’ — ‘  The  soul,  sir,’  said  the 
girl. — ‘  Why  so  ?’  said  he. — ‘  Because,  sir,  I 
have  heard  you  say  in  the  pulpit,  the  soul  is  to 
last  for  ever.’ — ‘  Then,’  cried  Mr.  Simpson,  in  a 
stern  voice,  turning  to  the  fiddler’s  woman, 
‘  are  you  not  ashamed  to  sell  poison  for  that  part 
which  is  to  last  forever  ?  poison  for  the  soul  V 
‘  Poison  ?’  said  the  terrified  girl,  throwing  down 
the  book,  and  shuddering  as  people  do  who  are 
afraid  they  have  touched  something  infectious. 
‘  Poison  !’  echoed  the  farmer’s  daughters,  recol¬ 
lecting  with  horror  the  ratsbane  which  Lion, 
the  old  house-dog,  had  got  at  the  day  before, 
and  after  eating  which  she  had  seen  him  drop 
down  dead  in  convulsions.  ‘Yes,’  said  Mr. 
Simpson  to  the  woman,  ‘I  do  again  repeat,  the 
souls  of  these  innocent  girls  will  be  poisoned, 
and  may  be  eternally  ruined  by  this  vile  trash 
which  you  carry  about.’ 

‘  I  now  see,’  said  Mrs.  Jones  to  the  farmer, 

‘  the  reason  why  you  think  learning  to  read  does 
more  harm  than  good.  It  is  indeed  far  better 
that  they  should  never  know  how  to  tell  a  let- 
ter,  unless  you  keep  such  trash  as  this  out  of 
their  way,  and  provide  them  with  what  is  good,, 
or  at  least  what  is  harmless.  Still  this  is  not 
the  fault  of  reading,  but  the  abuse  of  it.  Wine 
is  still  a  good  cordial,  though  it  is  too  often 
abused  to  the  purpose  of  drunkenness.’ 

The  farmer  said  that  neither  of  his  maids 
could  read  their  horn-book,  though  he  owned  he 
often  heard  them  singing  that  song  which  the 
parson  thought  so  bad,  but  for  his  part  it  made 
them  as  merry  as  a  nightingale. 

‘  Yes,’  said  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  as  a  proof  that  it  is 
not  merely  being  able  to  read  which  does  the 
mischief^  I  have  often  heard,  as  I  have  been 
crossing  a  hay-field,  young  girls  singing  such 
indecent  ribaldry  as  has  driven  me  out  of  tlje 
field,  though  I  well  knew  they  could  not  read  a 
line  of  what  they  were  singing,  but  had  caught 
it  from  others.  So  you  see  you  may  as  well  say 
the  memory  is  a  wicked  talent  because  some 
people  misapply  it,  as  to  say  that  reading  is 
dangerous  because  some  folks  abuse  it. 

While  they  were  talking,  the  fiddler  and  his 
woman  were  trying  to  steal  away  unobserved, 
but  Mr.  Simpson  stopped  them,  and  sternly 
said,  ‘  Woman,  I  shall  have  some  farther  talk 
with  you.  I  am  a  magistrate,  as  well  as  a 
minister,  and  if  I  know  it,  I  will  no  more  allow 
a  wicked  book  to  be  sold  in  my  parish  than  a 
dose  of  poison.’  The  girls  threw  away  all  their 
songs,  thanked  Mr.  Simpson,  begged  Mrs.  Jones 
would  take  them  into  her  school  after  they  had 
done  milking  in  the  evenings,  that  they  might 
learn  to  read  only  what  was  proper.  They  pro¬ 
mised  they  would  never  more  deal  with  any  but 
sober,  honest  hawkers,  such  as  sell  good  littlo 


176 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


books,  Christmas  carols,  and  harmless  songs, 
and  desired  the  fiddler’s  woman  never  to  call 
there  again. 

This  little  incident  afterwards  confirmed  Mrs. 
Jones  in  a  plan  she  had  before  some  thoughts  of 
.putting  in  practice.  This  was,  after  her  school 
had  been  established  a  few  months,  to  invite  all 
the  well-disposed  grown-up  youth  of  the  parish 
to  meet  her  at  the  school  an  hour  or  two  on  a 
Sunday  evening,  after  the  necessary  business  of 
the  dairy,  and  of  serving  the  cattle  was  over. 
Both  Mrs.  Jones  and  her  agent  had  the  talent  of 
making  this  time  pass  so  agreeably,  by  their 
manner  of  explaining  Scripture,  and  of  impress¬ 
ing  the  heart  by  serious  and  affectionate  dis¬ 
course,  that  in  a  short  time,  the  evening  school 
was  nearly  filled  with  a  second  company,  after 
the  younger  ones  were  dismissed.  In  time,  not 
only  the  servants,  but  the  sons  and  daughters  of 
the  most  substantial  people  in  the  parish  attend¬ 
ed.  At  length  many  of  the  parents,  pleased 
with  the  improvement  so  visible  in  the  young 


people,  got  a  habit  of  dropping  in,  that  they 
might  learn  how  to  instruct  their  own  families 
And  it  was  observed  that  as  the  school  filled, 
not  only  the  fives-court  and  public  house  were 
thinned,  but  even  Sunday  gossipping  and  tea. 
visiting  declined.  Even  farmer  Hoskins,  whc 
was  at  first  very  angry  with  his  maids  for  leaving 
off  those  merry  songs  (as  he  called  them)  was  so 
pleased  by  the  manner  in  which  the  psalms  were 
sung  at  the  school,  that  he  promised  Mrs.  Jones 
to  make  her  a  present  of  half  a  sheep  towards 
her  first  May-day  feast.  Of  this  feast  some  ac¬ 
count  shall  be  given  hereafter ;  and  the  reader 
may  expect  some  further  account  of  the  Sunday 
school  in  the  history  of  Hester  Wilmot.* 

*Por  a  continuation  of  the  Sunday  School,  see  the 
story  of  Hester  Wilniot,  in  two  parts,  in  this  edition. 
It  was  thought  proper  to  separate  them  in  this  collec¬ 
tion;  as  the  two  preceding  numbers  rather  tend  to  en¬ 
force  the  duties  of  the  higher  and  middle  class,  and  the 
two  subsequent  ones  those  of  the  poor. 


THE  PILGRIMS. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 


Methought  I  was  once  upon  a  time  travelling 
through  a  certain  land  which  was  very  full  of 
people  ;  but,  what  was  rather  odd,  not  one  of  all 
this  multitude  was  at  home  ;  they  were  all  bound 
to  a  far  distant  country.  Though  it  was  per¬ 
mitted  by  the  lord  of  the  land  that  these  pilgrims 
might  associate  together  for  their  present  mu¬ 
tual  comfort  and  convenience ;  and  each  was 
not  only  allowed,  but  commanded,  to  do  the 
others  all  the  services  he  could  upon  their  jour¬ 
ney,  yet  it  was  decreed,  that  every  individual 
traveller  must  enter  the  far  country  singly. 
There  was  a  great  gulf  at  the  end  of  the  journey, 
which  every  one  must  pass  alone,  and  at  his  own 
risk,  and  the  friendship  of  the  whole  united 
world  could  be  of  no  use  in  shooting  that  gulf. 
The  exact  time  when  each  was  to  pass  was  not 
known  to  any  ;  this  the  lord  always  kept  a  close 
secret  out  of  kindness,  yet  still  they  were  as  sure 
that  the  time  must  come,  and  that  at  no  very 
great  distance,  as  if  they  had  been  informed  of 
the  very  moment.  Now,  as  they  know  they 
were  always  liable  to  be  called  away  at  an  hour’s 
notice,  one  would  have  thought  they  would  have 
been  chiefly  employed  in  packing  up,  and  pre¬ 
paring,  and  getting  every  thing  in  order.  But 
tills  was  so  far  from  being  the  case,  that  it  was 
almost  the  only  thing  which  they  did  not  think 
about 

Now,  I  only  appeal  to  you,  my  readers,  if  any 
of  you  are  setting  out  upon  a  little  common 
journey,  if  it  is  only  to  London  or  York,  is  not 
all  your  leisure  time  employed  in  settling  your 
business  at  home,  and  packing  up  every  little 
necessary  for  your  expedition?  And  does  not 
the  fear  of  neglecting  any  thing  you  ought  to 
remember,  or  may  have  occasion  for,  haunt  your 
mind,  and  sometimes  even  intrude  upon  you  un- 
Beasonably?  And  when  you  are  actually  on 


your  journey,  especially  if  you  have  never  been 
to  that  place  before,  or  are  likely  to  remain  there, 
don’t  you  begin  to  think  a  little  about  the  plea¬ 
sures  and  the  employments  of  the  place,  and  to 
wish  to  know  a  little  what  sort  of  a  city  London 
or  York  is?  Don’t  you  wonder  what  is  doing 
there,  and  are  you  not  anxious  to  know  whether 
you  are  property  qualified  for  the  business,  or 
the  company  you  expect  to  be  engaged  in?  Do 
j^ou  never  look  at  the  map,  or  consult  Brooke’s 
Gazetteer?  And  don’t  you  try  to  pick  up  from 
your  fellow-passengers  in  the  stage  coach  any 
little  information  you  can  get?  And  though 
you  may  be  obliged,  out  of  civility,  to  converse 
with  them  on  common  subjects,  yet  do  not  your 
secret  thoughts  still  run  upon  London  or  York, 
its  business,  or  its  pleasures?  And  above  all,  if 
ybu  are  likely  to  set  out  early,  are  you  not  afraid 
of  over-sleeping,  and  does  not  that  fear  keep  you 
upon  the  watch,  so  that  you  are  commonly  up 
and  ready  before  the  porter  comes  to  summon 
you'?  Reader!  if  this  be  your  case,  how  sur¬ 
prised  will  you  be  to  hear  that  the  travellers  to 
the  far  country  have  not  half  your  prudence, 
though  embarked  on  a  journey  of  infinitely  more 
importance,  bound  to  a  land  where  nothing  can 
be  sent  after  them,  in  which,  when  they  are  once 
settled,  all  errors  are  irretrievable. 

I  observed  that  these  pilgrims,  instead  of  being 
upon  the  watch,  lest  they  should  be  ordered  off 
unprepared  ;  instead  of  laying  up  any  provision, 
or  even  making  memorandums  of  what  they 
would  be  likely  to  want  at  the  end  of  their  jour¬ 
ney,  spent  most  of  their  time  in  crowds,  either 
in  the  way  of  traffic  or  diversion.  At  first,  when 
I  saw  them  so  much  engaged  in  conversing  with 
each  other,  I  thought  it  a  good  sign,  and  listened 
attentively  to  their  talk,  not  doubting  but  the 
chief  turn  of  it  would  be  about  the  climate,  or 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


177 


Sreasures,  or  society,  they  should  probably  meet 
with  in  the  far  country.  I  supposed  they  might 
^e  also  discussing  about  the  best  and  safest  road 
to  it,  and  that  each  was  availing  himself  of  the 
knowledge  of  his  neighbour,  on  a  subject  of 
equal  importance  to  all.  I  listened  to  every 
party,  but  in  scarcely  any  did  I  hear  one  word 
about  the  land  to  which  they  were  bound,  though 
it  was  their  home,  the  place  where  their  whole 
interest,  expectation,  and  inheritance  lay  ;  to 
W'hich  also  great  part  of  their  friends  were  gone 
before,  and  whither  they  were  sure  all  the  rest 
would  follow. — Instead  of  this,  their  whole  talk 
was  about  the  business,  or  the  pleasures,  or  the 
fashions  of  the  strange  but  bewitching  country 
which  they  were  merely  passing  through,  and 
in  which  they  had  not  one  foot  of  land  which 
they  were  sure  of  calling  their  own  for  the  next 
quarter  of  an  hour.  What  little  estate  they  had 
was  personal,  and  not  real,  and  that  was  a  mort¬ 
gaged,  life-hold  tenement  of  clay,  not  properly 
their  own,  but  only  lent  to  them  on  a  short  un¬ 
certain  lease,  of  which  three-score  years  and 
ten  was  considered  as  the  longest  period,  and 
very  few  indeed  lived  in  it  to  the  end  of  the 
term  ;  for  this  was  always  at  the  will  of  the  lord, 
part  of  whose  prerogative  it  was,  that  he  could 
take  away  the  lease  at  pleasure,  knock  down 
the  stoutest  tenement  at  a  single  blow,  and  turn 
out  the  poor  shivering,  helpless  inhabitant  naked, 
to  that  far  country  for  which  he  had  made  no 
provision.  Sometimes,  in  order  to  quicken  the 
pilgrim  in  his  preparation,  the  lord  would  break 
down  the  tenement  by  slow  degrees;  sometimes 
he  would  let  it  tumble  by  its  own  natural  decay ; 
for  it  was  only  built  to  last  a  certain  term,  it 
would  often  grow  so  uncomfortable  by  increasing 
dilapidations  even  before  the  ordinary  lease  was 
out,  that  the  lodging  was  hardly  worth  keeping, 
though  the  tenant  could  seldom  be  persuaded  to 
think  so,  but  fondly  clung  to  it  to  the  last. — 
First  the  thatch  on  the  top  of  the  tenement 
changed  colour,  then  it  fell  off  and  left  the  roof 
bare ;  then  the  grinders  ceased  because  they 
were  few ;  then  the  windows  became  so  dark¬ 
ened  that  the  owner  could  scarcely  see  through 
them ;  then  one  prop  fell  away,  then  another, 
then  the  uprights  became  bent,  and  the  whole 
fabric  trembled  and  tottered,  with  every  other 
symptom  of  a  falling  house.  But  what  was  re¬ 
markable',  the  more  uncomfortable  the  house 
became,  and  the  Iqss  prospect  there  was  of  stay¬ 
ing  in  it,  the  more  preposterously  fond  did  the 
tenant  grow  of  his  precarious  habitation. 

On  some  occasions  the  lord  ordered  his  mes¬ 
sengers,  of  which  he  has  a  great  variety,  to  batter, 
injure,  deface,  and  almost  demolish  the  frail 
building,  even  while  it  seemed  new  and  strong ; 
this  was  what  the  landlord  called  giving  warn¬ 
ing  ;  but  many  a  tenant  would  not  take  w’arning, 
and  so  fond  of  staying  whore  he  was,  even  under 
all  these  inconveniences,  that  at  last  he  was  cast 
out  by  ejectment,  not  being  prevailed  on  to  leave 
his  dwelling  in  a  proper  manner,  though  one 
would  have  thought  the  fear  of  being  turned  out 
would  have  whetted  his  diligence  in  preparing 
for  a  better  and  more  enduring  inheritance.  For 
though  the  people  were  only  tenants  at  will  in 
these  crazy  tenements,  yet,  through  the  goodness 
of  the  same  lord,  they  were  assured  that  he  never 
VoL.  I.  M 


turned  them  out  of  these  habitations  before  he 
had  on  his  part  provided  for  them  a  better,  so 
that  there  was  not  such  a  landlord  in  the  world  ; 
and  though  their  present  dwelling  was  but  frail, 
being  only  slightly  run  up  to  serve  the  occasion, 
yet  they  might  hold  their  future  possession  by  a 
most  certain  tenure,  the  word  of  the  lord  himself. 
This  word  was  entered  in  a  covenant,  or  title- 
deed,  consisting  of  many  sheets,  and  because  a 
great  many  good  things  were  given  away  in 
this  deed,  a  book  was  made  of  which  every  soul 
might  get  a  copy. 

This  indeed  had  not  always  been  the  case , 
because,  till  a  few  ages  back,  there  had  been  a 
Sort  of  monopoly  in  the  case,  and  ‘  the  wise  and 
prudent that  is,  the  cunning  and  fraudful,  had 
hid  these  things  from  ‘  the  babes  and  sucklings 
that  is,  from  the  low  and  ignorant,  and  many 
frauds  had  been  practised,  and  the  poor  had  been 
cheated  of  their  right ;  so  that  not  being  allowed 
to  read  and  judge  for  themselves,  they  had  been 
sadly  imposed  upon  ;  but  all  these  tricks  had 
been  put  an  end  to  more  than  two  hundred  years 
when  I  passed  through  the  country,  and  the 
meanest  man  who  could  read  might  then  have  a 
copy  ;  so  that  he  might  see  himself  what  he  had 
to  trust  to ;  and  even  those  who  could  not  read, 
might  hear  it  read  once  or  twice  every  week,  at 
least,  without  pay,  by  learned  and  holy  men, 
whose  business  it  was.  But  it  surprised  me  to 
see  how  few  comparatively  made  use  of  these 
vast  advantages.  Of  those  who  had  a  copy, 
many  laid  it  carelessly  by,  expressed  a  general 
belief  in  the  truth  of  the  title  deed,  a  general 
satisfaetion  that  they  should  come  in  for  a  share 
of  the  inheritance,  a  general  good  opinion  of  the 
lord  whose  word  it  was,  and  a  general  disposi¬ 
tion  to  take  his  promise  upon  trust ;  always, 
however,  intending,  at  a  convenient  season,  to 
inquire  farther  into  the  matter ;  but  this  conve¬ 
nient  season  seldom  came  ;  and  this  neglect  of 
theirs  was  construed  by  their  lord  into  a  for¬ 
feiture  of  the  inheritance. 

At  the  end  of  this  country  lay  the  vast  gulf 
mentioned  before ;  it  was  shadowed  over  by  a 
broad  and  thick  cloud,  which  prevented  the  pil¬ 
grims  from  seeing  in  a  distinct  manner  what 
was  doing  behind  it,  yet  such  beams  of  bright¬ 
ness  now  and  then  darted  through  the  cloud,  as 
enabled  those  who  used  a  telescope,  provided  for 
that  purpose,  to  see  the  substance  of  things  hoped 
for  ;  but  it  was  not  every  one  who  could  make 
use  of  this  telescope ;  no  eye  indeed  was  natu¬ 
rally  disposed  to  it ;  but  an  earnest  desire  of 
getting  a  glimpse  of  the  invisible  realities,  gave 
such  a  strength  and  steadiness  to  the  eye  which 
used  the  telescope,  as  enabled  it  to  discern  many 
things  which  could  not  bo  seen  by  the  natural 
sight. — Above  the  cloud  was  this  inscription  : 
The  things  ivhich  are  seen  are  temporal,  but  the 
things  which  are  not  seen  are  eternal.  Of  these 
last  things  many  glorious  descriptions  had  been 
given ;  but  as  those  splendors  were  at  a  distance, 
and  as  the  pilgrims  in  general  did  not  care  to 
use  the  telescope,  these  distant  glories  made 
little  impression. 

The  glorious  inheritance  which  lay  beyond 
the  cloud,  was  called.  The  things  above,  while  a 
multitude  of  trifling  objects,  which  aiipeared 
contemptibly  small  when  looked  at  l(’'irough  tKj 


178 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


telescope,  were  called  the  things  below.  Now, 
as  we  know  it  is  nearness  which  gives  size  and 
bulk  to  any  object,  it  was  not  wonderful  that 
these  ill-judging  pilgrims  were  more  struck  with 
these  baubles  and  trifles,  which,  by  laying  close 
at  hand,  were  visible  and  tempting  to  the  naked 
eye,  and  which  made  up  the  sum  of  the  things 
below,  than  with  the  remote  glories  of  the  things 
above ;  but  this  was  chiefly  owing  to  their  not 
making  use  of  the  telescope,  through  which,  if 
you  examined  thoroughly  the  things  below,  they 
seemed  to  shrink  almost  down  to  nothing,  which 
was  indeed  their  real  size  ;  while  the  things  above 
appeared  the  more  beautiful  and  vast,  the  more 
the  telescope  was  used.  But  the  surprising  part 
of  the  story  was  this  ;  not  that  the  pilgrims  were 
captivated  at  first  sight  with  the  things  below, 
for  that  was  natural  enough ;  but  that  when  they 
had  tried  them  all  over  and  over,  and  found 
themselves  deceived  and  disappointed  in  almost 
every  one  of  them,  it  did  not  at  all  lessen  their 
fondness,  and  they  grasped  at  them  again  with 
the  same  eagerness  as  before.  There  were  some 
gay  fruits  which  looked  alluring,  but  on  being 
opened,  instead  of  a  kernel,  they  were  found  to 
contain  rottenness  ;  and  those  which  seemed  the 
fullest,  often  proved  on  trial  to  be  quite  hollow 
and  empty.  Those  which  were  most  tempting 
to  the  eye,  were  often  found  to  be  wormwood  to 
the  taste,  or  poison  to  the  stomach,  and  many 
flowers  that  seemed  most  bright  and  gay  had  a 
worm  gnawing  at  the  root ;  and  it  was  observa¬ 
ble  that  on  the  finest  and  brightest  of  them  was 
seen,  when  looked  at  through  the  telescope,  the 
word  vanity  inscribed  in  large  characters. 

Among  the  chief  attractions  of  the  things  be¬ 
low  were  certain  little  lumps  of  yellow  clay,  on 
which  almost  every  eye  and  every  heart  was 
fixed.  When  I  saw  the  variety  of  uses  to  which 
this  clay  could  be  converted,  and  the  respect 
which  was  shown  to  those  who  could  scrape 
together  the  greatest  number  of  pieces,  I  did  not 
much  wonder  at  the  general  desire  to  pick  up 
some  of  them  ;  but  when  I  beheld  the  anxiety, 
the  wakefulness,  the  competitions,  the  contri¬ 
vances,  the  tricks,  the  frauds,  the  seuffling,  the 
pushing,  the  turmoiling,  the  kicking,  the  shov¬ 
ing,  tlie  cheating,  the  circumvention,  the  envy, 
the  malignity,  which  was  excited  by  a  desire  to 
possess  this  article ;  when  I  saw  the  general 
scramble  among  those  who  had  little  to  get 
much,  and  of  those  who  had  much  to  get  more, 
then  I  could  not  help  applying  to  these  people  a 
proverb  in  use  among  us,  that  gold  may  be  bought 
too  dear. 

Though  I  saw  that  there  were  various  sorts 
of  baubles  which  engaged  the  hearts  of  different 
travellers,  such  as  an  ell  of  red  or  blue  ribbon, 
for  which  some  wore  content  to  forfeit  their 
future  inheritanee,  committing  the  sin  of  Esau, 
without  his  temptation  of  hunger  ;  yet  the  yellow 
slay  I  found  was  the  grand  object  for  which 
most  hands  were  scrambling,  and  most  souls 
were  risked.  One  thing  was  extraordinary,  that 
the  nearer  these  people  were  to  being  turned  out 
of  their  tenement,  the  fonder  they  grew  of  these 
pieces  of  clay  ;  so  that  I  naturally  concluded 
they  meant  to  take  the  clay  witli  them  to  the 
Jar  country,  io  assist  them  in  their  establishment 
in  it ;  but  I  soon  learnt  this  clay  was  not  current 


there,  the  lord  having  fartlier  declared  to  these 
pilgrims  that  as  they  had  brought  nothing  into 
this  world,  they  could  carry  nothing  away. 

I  inquired  of  the  different  people  who  were 
raising  the  various  heaps  of  clay,  some  of  a 
larger,  some  of  a  smaller  size,  why  they  dis¬ 
covered  such  unremitting  anxiety,  and  for  whom? 
Some,  whose  piles  were  immense,  told  me  they 
were  heaping  up  for  their  children ;  this  I 
thought  very  right,  till,  on  casting  my  eyes 
around,  I  observed  many  of  the  children  of  these 
very  people  had  large  heaps  of  their  own.  Others 
told  me  it  was  for  their  grand-children  ;  but  on 
inquiry  I  found  these  were  not  yet  born,  and  in 
many  cases  there  was  little  chance  that  they 
ever  would.  The  truth,  on  a  close  examination,., 
proved  to  be,  that  the  true  genuine  heapers  really 
heaped  for  themselves ;  that  it  was  in  fact  nei¬ 
ther  for  friend  nor  child,  but  to  gratify  an  inor¬ 
dinate  appetite  of  their  own.  Nor  was  I  much 
surprised  after  this  to  see  these  yellow  hoards 
at  length  canker,  and  the  rust  of  them  become  a 
witness  against  the  hoarders,  and  eat  their  flesh, 
as  it  were  fire. 

Many,  however,  who  had  set  out  with  a  high 
heap  of  their  father’s  raising,  before  they  had 
got  one  third  of  their  journey,  had  scarcely  a. 
single  piece  left.  As  I  was  wondering  what 
had  caused  these  enormous  piles  to  vanish  in  so 
short  a  time,  I  spied  scattered  up  and  down  the 
country  all  sorts  of  odd  inventions,  for  some  or 
other  of  which  the  vain  possessors  of  the  great 
heaps  of  clay  had  truckled  and  bartered  them 
away  in  fewer  hours  than  their  ancestors  had 
spent  years  in  getting  them  together.  O  what 
a  strange  unaccountable  medley  it  was and 
what  was  ridiculous  enough,  I  observed  that  the 
greatest  quantity  of  the  clay  was  alwaj^s  ex 
changed  for  things  that  were  of  no  use  that  I 
could  discover,  owing  I  suppose  to  my  ignorance 
of  the  manners  of  the  country. 

In  one  place  I  saw  large  heaps  exhausted,  in 
orderto  set  two  idle  pampered  horses  a  running 
but  the  worst  part  of  the  joke  was,  the  horses 
did  not  run  to  fetch  or  carry  any  thing,  of  course 
were  of  no  kind  of  use,  but  merely  to  let  the 
gazers  see  which  could  run  fastest.  Now,  this 
gift  of  swiftness,  exercised  to  no  useful  purpose, 
was  only  one  out  of  many  instances,  I  observed, 
of  talents  employed  to  no  end.  In  another  place 
I  saw  whole  piles  of  the  clay  spent  to  maintain 
long  ranges  of  buildings  full  of  dogs,  on  provi¬ 
sions  which  would  have  nicely  fattened  some 
thousands  of  pilgrims,  who  sadly  wanted  fatten¬ 
ing,  and  whose  ragged  tenements  were  out  at 
elbows,  for  want  of  a  little  help  to  repair  them. 
Some  of  the  piles  were  regularly  pulled  down 
once  in  seven  years,  in  order  to  corrupt  certain 
needy  pilgrims  to  belie  their  consciences,  by 
doing  that  for  a  bribe  which  they  were  bound  to 
do  from  principle.  Others  were  spent  in  play¬ 
ing  with  white  stiff  bits  of  paper,  painted  over 
with  red  and  black  spots,  in  which  I  thought 
there  must  be  some  conjuring,  because  the  very 
touch  of  these  painted  pasteboards  made  the 
heaps  fly  from  one  to  another,  and  back  again 
to  the  same,  in  a  way  that  natural  causes  could 
not  account  for.  There  was  another  proof  that 
there  must  be  some  magic  in  this  business 
which  was  that  if  a  pasteboard  with  red  spots 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


179 


fell  into  a  hand  which  wanted  a  black  one,  the 
person  changed  colour,  his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and 
he  discovered  other  symptoms  of  madness, 
which  showed  there  was  some  witchcraft  in  the 
case.  These  clean  little  pasteboards  as  harm¬ 
less  as  they  looked,  had  the  wonderful  power  of 
pulling  down  the  highest  piles  in  less  time  than 
all  the  other  causes  put  together.  I  observed 
that  many  small  pil^s  were  given  in  exchange 
for  an  enchanted  liquor  whieh  when  the  pur¬ 
chaser  had  drunk  to  a  lii!le  excess,  he  lost  power 
of  managing  the  rest  of  his  heap  without  losing 
the  love  of  it ;  and  thus  the  excess  of  indulgence, 
by  making  him  a  beggar,  deprived  him  of  that 
very  gratification  on  which  his  heart  was  set. 

Now  I  find  it  was  the  opinion  of  sober  pil¬ 
grims,  that  either  hoarding  the  clay,  or  trucking 
it  for  any  such  purposes  as  the  above,  was 
thought  exactly  the  same  offence  in  the  eyes  of 
the  lord ;  and  it  was  expected  that  when  they 
should  come  under  his  more  immediate  juris¬ 
diction  in  the  far  country,  the  penalty  annexed 
to  hoarding  and  squandering  would  be  nearly 
the  same. — While  I  examined  the  countenances 
of  the  owners  of  the  heaps,  I  observed  that  those 
who  I  well  knew  never  intended  to  make  any 
use  at  all  of  their  heap,  were  far  more  terrified 
at  the  thought  of  losing  it,  or  of  being  torn  from 
it,  than  those  were  who  were  employing  it  in 
the  most  useful  manner.  Those  who  best  knew 
what  to  do  with  it,  set  their  hearts  least  upon 
it,  and  were  always  most  willing  to  leave  it. 
But  such  riddles  were  common  in  this  odd 
country.  It  was  indeed  a  very  land  of  para¬ 
doxes. 

Now  I  wondered  why  these  pilgrims,  who 
were  naturally  made  erect  with  an  eye  formed 
to  look  up  to  the  things  above,  yet  had  their  eyes 
almost  constantly  bent  in  the  other  direction, 
riveted  to  the  earth,  and  fastened  on  things  be¬ 
low,  just  like  those  animals  who  walk  on  all 
four.  I  was  told  they  had  not  always  been  sub¬ 
ject  to  this  weakness  of  sight,  and  proneness  to 
earth  ;  that  they  had  originally  been  upright 
and  beautiful,  having  been  created  after  the 
image  of  the  lord,  who  was  himself  the  perfec¬ 
tion  of  beauty  ;  that  he  had,  at  first,  placed  them 
in  a  far  superior  situation,  which  he  had  given 
them  in  perpetuity ;  but  that  their  first  ances¬ 
tors  fell  from  it  through  pride  and  carelessness  ; 
that  upon  this  the  freehold  was  taken  away, 
they  lost  their  original  strength,  brightness,  and 
beauty,  and  were  driven  out  into  this  strange 
country,  where,  however,  they  had  every  oppor¬ 
tunity  given  them  of  recovering  their  original 
health,  and  the  lord’s  favour  and  likeness ;  for 
they  were  become  so  disfigured,  and  were  grown 
so  unlike  him,  that  you  would  hardly  believe 
they  were  his  own  children,  though,  in  some, 
the  resemblance  was  become  again  visible. 

The  lord,  however,  was  so  merciful,  that,  in¬ 
stead  of  giving  them  up  to  the  dreadful  conse¬ 
quences  of  their  own  folly,  as  he  might  have 
clone  without  any  impeachment  of  his  justice, 
ho  gave  them  immediate  CMmfort,  and  promised 
them  that,  in  due  time,  his  own  son  should  come 
down  and  restore  them  to  the  future  inheritance 
which  he  should  purchase  for  them.  And  now 
it  was,  that  in  order  to  keep  up  their  spirits, 
after  tliey  had  lost  their  estate  through  the  folly 


of  their  ancestors,  that  he  began  to  give  them  a 
part  of  their  former  title  deed.  He  continued 
to  send  them  portions  of  it  from  time  to  time 
by  different  faithful  servants,  whom,  however, 
these  ungrateful  people  generally  used  ill,  and 
some  of  whom  they  murdered.  But  for  all  this, 
the  lord  was  so  very  forgiving,  that  he  at  length 
sent  these  mutineers  a  proclamation  of  full  and 
free  pardon  by  his  son.  This  son,  though  they 
used  him  in  a  more  cruel  manner  than  they  had 
done  any  of  his  servants,  yet  after  having^'nisA- 
ed  the  work  his  father  gave  him  to  do,  went  back 
into  the  far  country  to  prepare  a  place  for  all 
them  who  believe  in  him  ;  and  there  he  still 
lives ;  begging  and  pleading  for  those  unkind 
people,  whom  he  still  loves  and  forgives,  and  will 
restore  to  the  purchased  inheritance  on  the  easy 
terms  of  their  being  heartily  sorry  for  what  they 
have  done,  thoroughly  desirous  of  pardon,  and 
convinced  that  he  is  able  and  willing  to  save  to 
the  utmost  all  them  that  come  unto  him. 

I  saw,  indeed,  that  many  old  offenders  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  sorry  for  what  they  had  done  ;  that 
is,  they  did  not  like  to  be  punished  for  it.  They 
were  willing  enough  to  be  delivered  from  the 
penalty  of  their  guilt,  but  they  did  not  heartily 
wish  to  be  delivered  from  the  power  of  it.  Many 
declared,  in  the  most  public  manner,  once  every 
week,  that  they  were  sorry  they  had  done  amiss; 
that  they  had  erred  and  strayed  like  lost  sheep , 
but  it  was  not  enough  to  declare  their  sorrow, 
ever  so  often,  if  they  gave  no  other  sign  of  their 
penitence.  For  there  was  so  little  truth  in  them, 
that  the  lord  required  other  proofs  of  their  sin¬ 
cerity  beside  their  own  word,  for  they  often  lied 
with  their  lips  and  dissembled  with  their  tongue. 
But  those  who  professed  to  be  penitents  must 
give  some  outward  proof  of  it.  They  were  nei 
ther  allowed  to  raise  heaps  of  clay,  by  circum  ■ 
venting  their  neighbours,  or  to  keep  great  piles 
lying  by  them  useless ;  nor  must  they  barter 
them  for  any  of  those  idle  vanities  which  re 
duced  the  heaps  on  a  sudden :  for  I  found  that 
among  the  grand  articles  of  future  reckoning, 
the  use  they  had  made  of  the  heaps  would  be  a 
principal  one. 

I  was  sorry  to  observe  many  of  the  fairer  part 
of  these  pilgrims  spend  too  much  of  their  heaps 
in  adorning  and  beautifying  their  tenements  ot 
clay,  in  painting,  white-washing,  and  enamel¬ 
ling  them.  All  those  tricks,  however,  did  not 
preserve  them  from  decay  ;  and  when  they  grew 
old,  they  even  looked  worse  for  all  this  cost  and 
varnish.  Some,  however,  acted  a  more  sensible 
part,  and  spent  no  more  upon  their  mouldering 
tenements  than  just  to  keep  them  whole  and 
clean,  and  in  good  repair,  which  is  what  every 
tenant  ought  to  do;  and  I  observed  that  those 
who  were  most  moderate  in  the  care  of  their 
own  tenements,  were  most  attentive  to  repair 
and  warm  the  ragged  tenements  of  others.  But 
none  did  this  with  much  zeal  or  acceptance,  but 
those  who  had  acquired  a  habit  of  overlooking 
the  things  below,  and  who  also,  by  the  constant 
use  of  the  telescope  had  got  their  natural  weak 
and  dim  sight  so  strengthened,  as  to  be  able  to 
discern  pretty  distinctly  the  nature  of  the  things 
above.  The  habit  of  fixing  their  eyes  on  those 
glories  made  all  the  shining  trifles,  which  corn- 
pose  the  mass  of  things  below,  at  last  appear  in 


180 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


their  own  diminutive  littleness.  For  it  was  in 
this  case  particularly  true,  that  things  are  only 
big  or  little  by  comparison  ;  and  there  was  no 
“Other  way  of  making  the  things  below,  appear  as 
small  as  they  really  were,  but  by  comparing 
them,  by  means  of  the  telescope,  with  the  things 
above.  But  I  observed  that  the  false  judgment 
of  the  pilgrims  ever  kept  pace  with  their  wrong 
practices  ;  for  those  who  kept  their  eyes  fasten¬ 
ed  on  the  things  below,  were  reckoned  wise  in 
Aheir  generation,  while  the  few  who  looked  for¬ 
ward  to  the  future  glories,  were  aceounted  by 
the  bustlers,  or  heapers,  to  be  either  fools  or 
mad. 

Most  of  these  pilgrims  went  on  in  adorning 
their  tenements,  adding  to  their  heaps,  grasping 
the  things  below  as  if  they  would  never  let  them 
go,  shutting  their  eyes,  instead  of  using  their 
telescope,  and  neglecting  their  title  deed,  as  if 
it  was  the  parchment  of  another  man’s  estate, 
and  not  of  their  own;  till  one  after  another  each 
felt  his  tenement  tumbling  about  his  ears. — Oh  ! 
then  what  a  busy,  bustling,  anxious,  terrifying, 
distraeting  moment  was  that !  What  a  deal  of 
business  was  to  be  done,  and  what  a  strange 
tim0  was  this  to  do  it  in  !  Now,  to  see  the  con- 
fusioBf  and  dismay  occasioned  by  having  left 
every  thing  to  the  last  minute.  First,  some  one 
was  sent  for  to  make  over  the  yellow  heaps,  to 
another,  which  the  heaper  now  found  would  be 
of  no  use  to  himself  in  shooting  the  gulf;  a 
transfer  which  ought  to  have  been  made  while 
the  tenement  was  sound.  Then  there  was  a 
consultation  between  two  or  threv-  masons  at 


once  perhaps,  to  try  to  patch  up  the  walls,  and 
strengthen  the  props,  and  stop  the  decays  of  the 
tumbling  tenement ;  but  not  till  the  masons 
were  forced  to  declare  it  was  past  repairing  (a 
truth  they  were  rather  too  apt  to  keep  back)  did 
the  tenant  seriously  think  it  was  time  to  pack 
up,  prepare  and  begone.  Then  what  seiiding  for 
the  wise  men  who  professed  to  explain  the  title 
deed  !  And  oh !  what  remorse  that  they  had  ne- 
glected  to  examine  it  till  their  senses  were  too 
confused  for  so  weighty  a  business  !  What  re 
proaches,  or  what  exhortations  to  others,  to  look 
better  after  their  own  affairs  than  they  had  dona’ 
Even  to  the  wisest  of  the  inhabitants  the  falling 
of  their  tenements  was  a  solemn  thing;  solemn, 
but  not  surprising  ;  they  had  long  been  packing 
up  and  preparing ;  they  praised  their  lord’s 
goodness  that  they  had  been  suffered  to  stay  so 
long ;  many  acknowledged  the  mercy  of  their 
frequent  warnings,  and  confessed  that  those  very 
dilapidations  which  had  made  the  house  uncom¬ 
fortable  had  been  a  blessing,  as  it  had  set  them 
on  diligent  preparation  for  their  future  inherit¬ 
ance  ;  had  made  them  more  earnest  in  examin¬ 
ing  their  title  to  it,  and  had  set  them  on  such  a 
frequent  application  to  the  telescope,  that  the 
things  above  had  seemed  every  day  to  approach 
nearer  and  nearer,  and  the  things  below  to  re¬ 
cede  and  vanish  in  proportion.  These  desired 
not  to  be  unclothed  hut  to  be  clothed  upon,  for 
they  hnew  that  if  their  tabernacle  was  dissolved, 
they  had  an  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal 
in  the  heavens.' 


THE  VALLEY  OF  TEARS 

A  VISION. 

OR,  BEAR  YE  ONE  ANOTHER'S  BURTHENS. 


Once  upon  a  time  methought  I  set  out  upon  a 
long  journey,  and  the  place  through  which  I 
travelled  appeared  to  be  a  dark  valley,  which 
"was  called  the  Valley  of  Tears.  It  had  obtained 
this  name,  not  only  on  account  of  the  many  sor¬ 
rowful  adventures  which  poor  passengers  com¬ 
monly  meet  with  in  their  journey  through  it ; 
but  also  because  most  of  these  travellers  entered 
it  weeping  and  crying,  and  left  it  in  very  great 
pain  and  anguish.  This  vast  valley  was  full  of 
I^ople  of  all  colours,  ages,  sizes  and  descrip¬ 
tions.  But  whether  white,  or  black,  or  tawny, 
all  were  travelling  the  same  road ;  or  rather 
they  were  taking  different  little  paths  which  all 
led  to  the  same  common  end. 

Now  it  was  remarkable,  that  notwithstanding 
the  different  complexions,  ages,  and  tempers  of 
this  vast  variety  of  people,  yet  all  resembled  each 
other  in  this  one  respect,  that  each  had  a  burthen 
on  his  back  which  he  was  destined  to  carry 
through  the  toil  and  heat  of  the  day,  until  he 
should  arrive,  by  a  longer  or  shorter  course,  at 
his  journey’s  end.  These  burthens  would  in 
general  have  made  the  pilgrimage  quite  intolera¬ 
ble,  had  not  the  lord  of  the  valley,  out  of  his 
great  compassion  for  these  poor  pilgrims,  pro- . 


vided,  among  other  things,  the  following  mean* 
for  their  relief: 

In  their  full  view  over  the  entrance  of  the 
valley,  there  were  written,  in  great  letters  of 
gold,  the  following  words  : 

Bear  ye  one  another's  burthens. 

Now  I  saw  in  my  vision  that  many  of  the 
travellers  hurried  on  without  stopping  to  read 
this  inscription,  and  others,  though  they  had 
once  read  it,  yet  paid  little  or  no  attention  to  it. 
A  third  sort  thought  it  very  good  advice  for 
other  people,  but  very  seldom  applied  it  to  them, 
selves.  They  uniformly  desired  to  avail  them- 
selves  of  the  assistance  which  by  this  injunction 
others  were  bound  to  offer  them,  but  seldom  con- 
sidered  that  the  obligation  was  mutual,  and  that 
reciprocal  wants  and  reciprocal  services  formed 
the  strong  cord  in  the  bond  of  charity.  In  short, 
I  saw  that  too  many  of  these  people  were  of  opi¬ 
nion  that  they  had  burthens  enough  of  their  own, 
and  that  there  was  therefore  no  occasion  to  take 
upon  them  those  of  others;  so  each  tried  to  make 
his  own  load  as  light,  and  his  own  journey  as 
pleasant  as  he  could,  without  so  much  as  once 
casting  a  thought  on  a  poor  overloaded  neigh. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


181 


hour.  Here,  however,  I  have  to  make  a  rather 
singular  remark,  by  which  I  shall  plainly  shov? 
the  folly  of  these  selfish  people.  It  was  so  or¬ 
dered  and  contrived  by  the  lord  of  this  valley, 
that  if  any  one  stretched  out  his  hand  to  lighten 
a  neighbour’s  burthen,  in  fact  he  never  failed  to 
find  that  he  at  that  moment  also  lightened  his 
own.  Besides  the  benefit  of  helping  each  other, 
was  as  mutual  as  the  obligation.  If  a  man  help¬ 
ed  his  neighbour,  it  commonly  happened  that 
some  other  neighbour  came  by-and-by  and  help¬ 
ed  him  in  his  turn  ;  for  there  was  no  such  thing 
as  what  we  called  independence  in  the  whole 
valley.  Not  one  of  all  these  travellers,  however 
stout  and  strong,  could  move  on  comfortably 
without  assistance,  for  so  the  lord  of  the  valley, 
whose  laws  were  all  of  them  kind  and  good,  had 
expressly  ordained. 

I  stood  still  to  watch  the  progress  of  these 
poor  way-faring  people,  who  moved  slowly  on, 
like  so  many  ticket-porters,  with  burthens  of 
various  kinds  on  their  backs ;  of  which  some 
were  heavier,  and  some  were  lighter,  but  from 
a  burthen  of  one  kind  or  other,  not  one  traveller 
was  entirely  free.  There  might  be  some  dif¬ 
ference  in  the  degree,  and  some  distinction  in 
the  nature,  but  exemption  there  was  none. 

The  Widow. 

A  sorrowful  widow,  oppressed  with  the  bur¬ 
then  of  grief  for  the  loss  of  an  affectionate  hus¬ 
band,  moved  heavily  on  ;  and  would  have  been 
bowed  down  by  her  heavy  load,  had  not  the 
surviving  children  with  great  alacrity  stepped 
forward  and  supported  her.  Their  kindness 
after  a  while,  so  much  lightened  the  load  which 
threatened  at  first  to  be  intolerable,  that  she 
even  went  on  her  way  with  cheerfulness,  and 
more  than  repaid  their  help,  by  applying  the 
strength  she  derived  from  it  to  their  future  as¬ 
sistance. 

The  Husband. 

I  next  saw  a  poor  old  man  tottering  under  a 
burthen  so  heavy,  that  I  expected  him  every 
moment  to  sink  under  it.  I  peeped  into  his 
pack,  and  saw  it  was  made  up  of  many  sad  ar¬ 
ticles  ;  there  were  poverty,  oppression,  sickness, 
debt,  and,  what  made  by  far  the  heaviest  part, 
undutiful  children.  I  was  wondering  how  it 
was  that  he  got  on  even  so  well  as  he  did,  till 
I  spied  his  wife,  a  kind,  meek,  Christian  woman, 
who  was  doing  her  utmost  to  assist  him.  She 
quietly  got  behind,  gently  laid  her  shoulder  to 
the  burthen,  and  carried  a  much  larger  portion 
of  it  than  appeared  to  me  when  I  was  at  a  dis¬ 
tance.  It  was  not  the  smallest  part  of  the  be¬ 
nefit  that  she  was  anxious  to  conceal  it.  She 
not  only  sustained  him  by  her  strength,  but 
cheered  him  by  her  counsels.  She  told  him, 
that  ‘  through  much  tribulation  we  must  enter 
into  rest that  ‘  he  that  overcometh  shall  in¬ 
herit  all  things.’  In  short,  she  so  supported 
his  fainting  spirit,  that  he  was  enabled  to  ‘  run 
w'ith  patience  the  race  which  was  set  before  him., 

The  Kind  Neighbour. 

An  infirm  blind  woman  was  creeping  forward 
with  a  very  heavy  burthen,  in  which  were 
packed  sickness  and  want,  with  numberless 


other  of  those  raw  materials,  out  of  which  hu¬ 
man  misery  is  worked  up.  She  was  so  weak 
that  she  could  not  have  got  on  at  all,  had  it  not 
been  for  the  kind  assistance  of  another  woman 
almost  as  poor  as  herself ;  who,  though  she  had 
no  light  burthen  of  her  own,  cheerfully  lent  an 
helping  hand  to  a  fellow  traveller  who  was  still 
more  heavily  laden.  This  friend  had  indeed 
little  or  nothing  to  give,  but  the  very  voice  of 
kindness  is  soothing  to  the  weary.  And  I  re¬ 
marked  in  many  other  cases,  that  it  was  not  so 
much  the  degree  of  the  help  afforded,  as  the 
manner  of  helping  that  lightened  the  burthens. 
Some  had  a  coarse,  rough,  clumsy  way  of  as¬ 
sisting  a  neighbour,  which,  though  in  fact  it 
might  be  of  real  use,  yet  seemed,  by  galling  the 
traveller,  to  add  to  the  load  it  was  intended  to 
lighten ;  while  I  observed  in  others  that  so 
cheap  a  kindness  as  a  mild  word,  or  even  an 
affectionate  look  made  a  poor  burthened  wretch 
move  on  cheerily. — The  bare  feeling  that  some 
human  being  cared  for  him,  seemed  to  lighten 
the  load. — But  to  return  to  this  kind  neighbour. 
She  had  a  little  old  book  in  her  hand,  the  covers 
of  which  were  torn  out  by  much  use.  When 
she  saw  the  blind  woman  ready  to  faint,  she 
would  read  her  a  few  words  out  of  this  book, 
such  as  the  following — ‘  Blessed  are  the  poor  in 
spirit,  fbr  theirs  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.’ — • 
‘  Blessed  are  they  that  mourn  for  they  shall  be 
comforted.’ — ‘  I  will  never  leave  thee  nor  for¬ 
sake  thee.’ — For  our  light  affliction,  which  is 
but  for  a  moment,  v/orketh  out  for  us  a  far  more 
exceeding  and  eternal  weight  of  glory.’  These 
quickened  the  pace,  and  sustained  the  spirits 
of  the  blind  traveller  :  and  the  kind  neighbour 
by  thus  directing  the  attention  of  the  poor  sufl 
ferer  to  the  blessings  of  a  better  world,  helped 
to  enable  her  to  sustain  the  afflictions  of  this, 
more  effectually  than  if  she  had  had  gold  and 
silver  to  bestow  on  her. 

The  Clergyman. 

A  pious  minister,  sinking  under  the  weight 
of  a  distressed  parish,  whose  worldly  wants  he 
was  totally  unable  to  bear,  was  suddenly  re¬ 
lieved  by  a  charitable  widow,  who  came  up  and 
took  all  the  sick  and  hungry  on  her  own  shoul¬ 
ders  as  her  part  of  the  load.  The  burthen  of 
the  parish  thus  divided  became  tolerable.  The 
minister  being  no  longer  bowed  down  by  the 
temporal  distresses  of  his  people,  applied  him¬ 
self  cheerfully  to  his  own  part  of  the  weight. 
And  it  was  pleasant  to  see  how  those  two  per¬ 
sons,  neither  of  them  very  strong,  or  rich,  or 
healthy,  by  thus  kindly  uniting  together,  were 
enabled  to  bear  the  weight  of  a  whole  parish ; 
though  singly,  either  of  them  must  have  sunk 
under  the  attempt.  And  I  remember  one  great 
grief  I  felt  during  my  whole  journey  was,  that 
I  did  not  see  more  of  this  union  and  concurring 
kindness,  more  of  this  acting  in  concert,  by 
which  all  the  burthens  might  have  been  so 
easily  divided.  It  troubled  me  to  observe,  that 
of  all  the  laws  of  the  valley  there  was  not  one 
more  frequently  broken  than  the  law  of  kindness. 

The  Negroes. 

I  now  spied  a  swarm  of  poor  black  men,  wo¬ 
men,  and  children,  a  multitude  which  no  man 


1B2 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


could  number ;  these  groaned  and  toiled,  and 
sweated,  and  bled  under  far  heavier  loads  than 
I  have  yet  seen.  But  for  a  while  no  man  help¬ 
ed  them ;  at  length  a  few  white  travellers  were 
touched  with  the  sorrowful  sighing  of  those 
millions,  and  very  heartily  did  they  put  their 
hands  to  the  burthens ;  but  their  number  was 
not  quite  equal  to  the  work  they  had  undertaken. 
I  perceived,  however,  that  they  never  lost  sight 
of  those  poor  heavy-laden  wretches;  though 
often  repulsed,  they  returned  again  to  the 
charge ;  though  discomfited,  they  renewed  the 
effort,  and  some  even  pledged  themselves  to  an 
annual  attempt  till  the  project  was  accomplish¬ 
ed  ;  and  as  the  number  of  these  generous  help¬ 
ers  increased  every  year,  I  felt  a  comfortable 
hope,  that  before  all  the  blacks  got  out  of  the 
valley,  the  whites  would  fairly  divide  the  burthen, 
and  the  loads  would  be  effectually  lightened. 

Among  the  travellers,  I  had  occasion  to  re¬ 
mark,  that  those  who  most  kicked  and  struggled 
under  their  burthens,  only  made  them  so  much 
the  heavier,  for  their  shoulders  became  ex¬ 
tremely  galled  by  those  vain  and  ineffectual 
struggles.  The  load,  if  borne  patiently,  would  in 
the  end  have  turned  even  to  the  advantage  of 
the  bearers,  for  so  the  lord  of  the  valley  had 
kindly  decreed ;  but  as  to  these  grumblers,  they 
had  all  the  smart,  and  none  of  the  benefit ;  they 
had  the  present  suffering  without  the  future  re¬ 
ward.  But  the  thing  which  made  all  these 
burthens  seem  so  very  heavy  was,  that  in  every 
one  without  exception,  there  was  a  certain  inner 
packet,  which  most  of  the  travellers  took  pains 
to  conceal,  and  kept  carefully  wrapped  up ;  and 
while  they  were  forward  enough  to  complain 
of  the  other  part  of  their  burthens,  few  said  a 
word  about  this,  though  in  truth  it  was  the 
pressing  -.weight  of  this  secret  packet  which 
served  to  render  the  general  burthen  so  intoler¬ 
able.  In  spite  of  all  their  caution,  I  contrived 
to  get  a  peep  at  it.  I  found  in  each  that  this 
packet  had  the  same  label ;  the  word  sin  was 
written  on  all  as  a  general  title,  and  in  ink  so 
black,  that  they  could  not  wash  it  out.  I  ob¬ 


served  that  most  of  them  took  no  small  pains  to 
hide  the  writing ;  but  I  was  surprised  to  see  tliat 
they  did  not  try  to  get  rid  of  the  load  but  the 
label.  If  any  kind  friend  who  assisted  these 
people  in  bearing  their  burthens,  did  but  so 
much  as  hint  at  the  secret  packet,  or  advise 
them  to  get  rid  of  it,  they  took  fire  at  once,  and 
commonly  denied  they  had  any  such  article  in 
their  portmanteau ;  and  it  was  those  whose  se¬ 
cret  packet  swelled  to  the  most  enormous  size, 
who  most  stoutly  denied  they  had  any. 

I  saw  with  pleasure,  however,  that  some  who 
had  long  laboured  heartily  to  get  rid  of  this  in¬ 
ward  packet,  at  length  found  it  much  diminish¬ 
ed,  and  the  more  this  packet  shrunk  in  size,  the 
lighter  was  the  other  part  of  their  burthen  also. 
I  observed,  moreover,  that  though  the  label,  al¬ 
ways  remained  in  some  degree  indelible,  yet 
that  those  who  were  earnest  to  get  rid  of  the 
load,  found  that  the  original  traces  of  the  label 
grew  fainter  also  ;  it  was  never  quite  obliterated 
in  any,  though  in  some  cases  it  seemed  nearly 
effaced. 

Then  methought,  all  at  once,  I  heard  a  voice, 
as  it  had  been  the  voice  of  an  angel,  crying  out 
and  saying,  ‘Ye  unhappy  pilgrims,  why  are 
ye  troubled  about  the  burthen  which  ye  are 
doomed  to  bear  through  this  valley  of  tears  ? 
Know  ye  not,  that  as  soon  as  ye  shall  have  es¬ 
caped  out  of  this  valley  the  whole  burthen  shall 
drop  off,  provided  ye  neglect  not  to  remove  that 
inward  weight,  that  secret  load  of  sin  which 
principally  oppresses  you  ?  Study  then  tlie  whole 
will  of  the  lord  of  this  valley.  Learn  from  him 
how  this  heavy  part  of  your  burthens  may  now 
be  lessened,  and  how  at  last  it  shall  be  removed 
for  ever.  Be  comforted.  Faith  and  hope  may 
cheer  you  even  in  this  valley.  The  passage, 
though  it  seems  long  to  weary  travellers,  is  com- 
parativel3’-  short ;  for  beyond  there  is  a  land  of 
everlasting  rest,  where  ye  shall  hunger  no  more, 
neither  thirst  any  more,  where  ye  shall  be  led 
by  living  fountains  of  waters,  and  all  tears  shall 
be  wiped  away  from  your  eyes.’ 


THE  STRAIT  GATE  AND  THE  BROAD  WAY 

AN  ALLEGORY. 


Now  I  had  a  second  vision  of  what  was  pass¬ 
ing  in  the  Valley  of  Tears.  Methought  I  saw 
again  the  same  kind  of  travellers  whom  I  had 
seen  in  the  former  part,  and  they  were  wander¬ 
ing  at  large  through  the  same  vast  wilderness. 
At  first  setting  out  on  his  journey,  each  travel¬ 
ler  had  a  small  lamp  so  fixed  in  his  bosom  that 
it  seemed  to  make  a  part  of  himself ;  but  as  this 
natural  light  did  not  prove  to  be  sufficient  to 
direct  them  in  the  right  way,  the  king  of  the 
country,  in  pity  to  their  wanderings  and  blind¬ 
ness,  out  of  his  gracious  condescension,  pro¬ 
mised  to  give  these  poor  wayfaring  people  an 
additional  supply  of  light  from  his  own  royal 
treasury.  But  as  ho  did  not  choose  to  lavish 
his  favours  where  there  seemed  no  disposition 
to  receive  them,  he  would  not  bestow  any  of  his 
oil  on  such  as  did  not  think  it  worth  asking  for 


‘  Ask  and  ye  shall  have,’  was  the  universal  rule 
he  had  laid  down  for  them.  But  though  they 
knew  the  condition  of  the  obligation,  many 
were  prevented  from  asking  through  pride  and 
vanity,  for  they  thought  they  had  light  enough 
already,  preferring  the  feeble  glimmerings  of 
their  own  lamp,  to  all  the  offered  light  from  the 
king’s  treasury.  Yet  it  was  observed  of  those 
who  rejected  it,  as  thinking  they  had  enough, 
that  hardly  an)’’  acted  up  to  what  even  their  own 
natural  light  showed  them.  Others  were  deter¬ 
red  from  asking,  because  they  were  lold  that  this 
light  notonly  pointed  out  the  dangers  and  di  ficul- 
tiesof  the  road,  but  by  a  certain  reflecting  power, 
it  turned  inward  on  themselves,  and  revealed 
to  them  ugly  sights  in  their  own  hearts,  to 
which  they  rather  chose  to  be  blind  ;  for  those 
travellers  were  of  that  preposterous  number 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


183 


who  ‘  chose  darkness  rather  Jfchan  light,’  and  for 
the  old  obvious  reason,  ‘  because  their  deeds  were 
evil.’  Now,  it  was  remarkable  that  these  two 
properties  were  inseparable,  and  that  the  lamp 
would  be  of  little  outward  use,  except  to  those 
who  used  it  as  an  internal  reflector.  A  threat 
and  a  promise  also  never  failed  to  accompany 
the  offer  of  this  light  from  the  king ;  a  promise 
that  to  those  who  improved  what  they  had,  more 
.  should  be  given ;  and  a  threat,  that  from  those 
who  did  not  use  it  wisely,  should  be  taken  away 
even  what  they  had. 

I  observed  that  when  the  road  was  very  dan¬ 
gerous  ;  when  terrors,  and  difficulties,  and  death 
beset  the  fervent  traveller  ;  then,  on  their  faithful 
importunity,  the  king  voluntarily  gave  large 
and  bountiful  supplies  of  light,  such  as  in  com¬ 
mon  seasons  never  could  have  been  expected  ; 
always  proportioning  the  quantity  given  to  the 
necessity  of  the  case  ;  ‘  as  their  day  was,  such 
was  their  light  and  strength.’ 

Though  many  chose  to  depend  entirely  on 
their  own  original  lamp,  yet  it  was  observed 
that  this  light  was  apt  to  go  out  if  left  to  itself. 
It  w’as  easily  blown  out  by  those  violent  gusts 
which  were  perpetually  howling  through  the 
wilderness  ;  and  indeed  it  was  the  natural  ten¬ 
dency  of  that  unwholesome  atmosphere  to  extin¬ 
guish  it,  just  as  you  have  seen  a  candle  go  out 
when  exposed  to  the  vapours  and  foul  air  of  a 
damp  room.  It  was  a  melancholy  sight  to  see 
multitudes  of  travellers  heedlessly  pacing  on, 
Tjoasting  they  had  light  enough  of  their  own, 
and  despising  the  offer  of  more.  But  what  as¬ 
tonished  me  most  of  all  was,  to  see  many,  and 
some  of  them  too  accounted  men  of  first  rate 
wit,  actually  busy  in  blowing  out  their  own  light, 
because  while  any  spark  of  it  remained,  it  only 
served  to  torment  them,  and  point  out  things 
which  they  did  not  wish  to  see.  And  having 
once  blown  out  their  own  light,  they  were  not 
easy  till  they  had  blown  out  that  of  their  neigh- 
Fours  also ;  so  that  a  good  part  of  the  wilderness 
seemed  to  exhibit  a  sort  of  universal  Hindman's 
buff,  each  endeavoring  to  catch  his  neighbour, 
while  his  own  voluntary  blindness  exposed  him 
to  be  caught  himself;  so  that  each  was  actually 
falling  into  the  snare  he  was  laying  for  another, 
till  at  length,  as  selfishness  is  the  natural  con¬ 
sequence  of  blindness,  ‘  catch  he  that  catch  can,’ 
■became  the  general  motto  of  the  wilderness. 

Now  I  saw  in  my  vision,  that  there  were  some 
others  who  were  busy  in  strewing  the  most  gaudy 
'flowers  over  the  numerous  bogs,  and  precipices, 
and  pitfalls  with  which  the  wilderness  abounded  ; 
and  thus  making  danger  and  death  look  so  gay, 
that  poor  thoughtless  creatures  seemed  to  delight 
in  their  own  destruction.  Those  pitfalls  did  not 
appear  deep  or  dangerous  to  the  eye,  because 
over  them  were  raised  gay  edifices  with  alluring 
names.  Those  were  filled  with  singing  men  and 
singing  women,  and  with  dancing,  and  feasting, 
and  gaming,  and  drinking,  and  jollity,  and  mad¬ 
ness.  But  though  the  scenery  was  gay,  the 
footing  w'as  unsound.  The  floors  were  full  of 
holes,  through  which  the  unthinking  merry¬ 
makers  were  continually  sinking.  Some  tum¬ 
bled  tlirough  in  the  middle  of  a  song  ;  more  at 
the  end  of  a  feast;  and  tliougli  there  was  many 
u  cup  of  intoxication  wreatlied  round  with  flow¬ 


ers,  yet  there  was  always  poison  at  the  bottom- 
But  what  most  surprised  me  was  that  though  no 
day  past  over  their  heads  in  which  some  of  the 
most  merry-makers  did  not  drop  through,  yet 
their  loss  made  little  impression  on  those  who 
were  left.  Nay,  instead  of  being  awakened  to 
more  circumspection,  and  self-denial  by  the  con¬ 
tinual  dropping  off  of  those  about  them,  several 
of  them  seemed  to  borrow  from  tlience  an  argu¬ 
ment  of  a  direct  contrary  tendency,  and  the  very 
shortness  of  time  was  only  urged  as  a  reason  to 
use  it  more  sedulously  for  the  indulgence  in 
sensual  delights.  ‘Let  us  eat  and  drink,  for  to¬ 
morrow  we  die.’  ‘Let  us  crown  ourselves  with 
rose-buds  before  they  are  withered.’  With  these 
and  a  thousand  other  such  little  inscriptions,  the 
gay  garlands  of  the  wilderness  were  decorated. 
Some  admired  poets  were  set  to  work  to  set  the 
most  corrupt  sentiments  to  the  most  harmonious 
tunes  ;  these  were  sung  without  scruple,  chiefly 
indeed  by  the  looser  sons  of  riot,  but  not  seldom 
also  by  the  more  orderly  daughters  of  sobriety, 
who  were  not  ashamed  to  sing  to  the  sound  of 
instruments,  sentiments  so  corrupt  and  immoral, 
that  they  would  have  blushed  to  speak  or  read 
them :  but  the  music  seemed  to  sanctify  the 
corruption,  especially  such  as  was  connected 
with  love  or  drinking. 

Now  I  observed  that  all  the  travellers  who 
had  so  much  as  a  spark  of  life  left,  seemed  every 
now  and  then,  as  they  moved  onwards,  to  cast 
an  eye,  though  with  very  different  degrees  of 
attention,  towards  the  Happy  Land,  which  they 
were  told  lay  at  the  end  of  their  journey  ;  but  as 
they  could  not  see  very  far  forward,  and  as  they 
knew  there  was  a  darlc  and  shadowy  valley  which 
must  needs  be  crossed  before  they  could  attain 
to  the  Happy  Land,  they  tried  to  turn  their  at¬ 
tention  from  it  as  much  as  thqy  could.  The 
truth  is,  they  were  not  sufficiently  apt  to  consult 
a  map  and  a  road-book  v/hich  the  King  had 
given  them,  and  which  pointed  out  the  path  to 
the  Happy  Land  so  clearly,  that  the  ‘  wayfaring 
men,  though  simple,  could  not  err.’  This  map 
also  defined  very  correctly  the  boundaries  of  the 
Happy  Land  from  the  Land  of  Misery,  both  of 
which  lay  on  the  other  side  of  the  dark  and  sha¬ 
dowy  valley  ;  but  so  many  beacons  and  light¬ 
houses  were  erected,  so  many  clear  and  explicit 
directions  furnished  for  avoiding  the  one  coun¬ 
try  and  attaining  the  other,  that  it  was  not  the 
king’s  fault,  if  even  one  single  traveller  got 
wrong.  But  i  am  inclined  to  think  that,  in 
spite  of  the  map  and  the  road-book,  and  the 
King’s  word,  and  his  offers  of  assistance  to  get 
them  thither,  that  the  travellers  in  general  did 
not  heartily  and  truly  believe,  after  all,  that 
there  was  any  such  country  as  the  Happy  Land; 
or  at  least  the  paltry  and  transient  pleasures  of 
the  wilderness  so  besotted  them,  the  thoughts  of 
the  dark  and  shadowy  valley  so  frightened  them, 
that  they  thought  they  sliould  be  more  com¬ 
fortable  by  banishing  all  thought  and  forecast, 
and  driving  the  subject  quite  out  of  their  heads. 

Now,  I  also  saw  in  my  dream,  that  tliere  were 
two  roads  through  the  wilderness,  one  of  which 
every  traveller  must  needs  take.  Tlie  first  was 
narrow,  and  difficult,  and  rough,  but  it  was  in¬ 
fallibly  safe.  It  did  not  admit  the  traveller  to 
stray  either  to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left,  yet 


184 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


it  was  far  from  being  destitute  of  real  comforts 
or  sober  pleasures.  The  other  was  a  broad  and 
tem,pting  way,  abounding  with  luxurious  fruits 
and  gaudy  flowers,  to  tempt  the  eye  and  please 
the  appetite.  To  forget  this  dark  valley,  through 
which  every  traveller  was  well  assured  he  must 
one  day  pass,  seemed  the  object  of  general  de¬ 
sire.  To  this  grand  end,  all  that  human  inge¬ 
nuity  could  invent  was  industriously  set  to  work. 
The  travellers  read,  and  they  wrote,  and  they 
painted,  and  they  sung,  and  they  danced,  and 
they  drank  as  they  went  along,  not  so  much 
because  they  all  cared  for  these  things,  or  had 
any  real  joy  in  them,  as  because  this  restless 
activity  served  to  divert  their  attention  from 
ever  being  fixed  on  the  dark  and  shadowy  valley. 

The  king,  who  knew  the  thoughtless  tempers 
of  the  travellers,  and  how  apt  they  were  to  forget 
their  journey’s  end,  had  thought  of  a  thousand 
little  kind  attentions  to  warn  them  of  their  dan¬ 
gers  :  and  as  we  sometimes  see  in  our  gardens 
written  on  a  board  in  great  letters.  Beware  of 

SPRING  GUNS - MAN  TRAPS  ARE  SET  HERE  ;  SO  had 

this  king  caused  to  be  written  and  stuck  up  be¬ 
fore  the  eyes  of  the  travellers,  several  little 
notices  and  cautions ;  such  as,  ‘  Broad  is  the 
way  that  leadeth  to  destruction. — ‘Take  heed, 
lest  ye  also  perish.’ — ‘  Wo  to  them  that  rise  up 
early  to  drink  wine.’ — ‘  The  pleasures  of  sin  are 
but  for  a  season,’  (Stc.  Such  were  the  notices 
directed  to  the  broad-way  travellers ;  but  they 
were  so  busily  engaged  in  plucking  the  flowers, 
sometimes  before  they  were  blown,  and  in  de¬ 
vouring  the  fruits  often  before  they  were  ripe, 
and  in  loading  themselves  with  yellow  cZay,  under 
the  weight  of  which  millions  perished,  that  they 
had  no  time  so  much  as  to  look  at  the  king’s 
directions.  Many  went  wrong  because  they 
preferred  a  merry  journey  to  a  safe  one,  and 
because  they  were  terrified  by  certain  notices 
chiefly  intended  for  the  narrow-way  travellers  ; 
such  as,  ‘ye  shall  weep  and  lament,  but  the 
world  shall  rejoice  :’  but  had  these  foolish  people 
allowed  themselves  time  or  patience  to  read  to 
the  end,  which  they  seldom  would  do,  they  would 
have  seen  these  comfortable  words  added,  ‘  But 
your  sorrow  shall  be  turned  into  joy  ;’  also, 
your  joy  no  man  taketh  from  you ;’  and,  ‘  they 
that  sow  in  tears  shall  reap  in  joy.’ 

Now,  I  also  saw  in  my  dream,  that  many 
travellers  who  had  a  strong  dread  of  ending  at 
tiie  Land  of  Misery  walked  up  to  the  Strait 
Gate,  hoping  that  though  the  entrance  was  nar¬ 
row,  yet  if  they  could  once  get  in,  the  road  would 
widen  ;  but  what  was  their  grief,  when  on  look¬ 
ing  more  closely  they  saw  written  on  the  inside, 
‘Narrow  is  the  way;’  this  made  them  take 
fright ;  they  compared  the  inscriptions  with 
which  the  whole  way  was  lined,  such  as,  ‘  Be 
ye  not  conformed  to  this  world  ;  deny  yourselves, 
take  up  your  cross,’  with  all  the  tempting  plea¬ 
sures  of  the  wilderness.  Some  indeed  recollected 
the  fine  descriptions  they  had  read  of  the  Happy 
hand,  the  Golden  City,  and  the  Rivers  of  Plea¬ 
sure,  and  they  sighed  :  but  then  those  joys  were 
distant,  and  from  the  faintness  of  their  light, 
they  soon  got  to  think  that  what  was  remote 
migl'.t  bo  uncertain,  and  while  the  present  good 
increased  in  bulk  the  distant  good  receded,  di¬ 
minished,  disappeared.  Their  faith  failed  ;  tliey 


would  trust  no  farther  than  they  could  see;  they 
drew  back  and  got  into  the  Broad  Way,  taking- 
a  common  but  sad  refuge  in  the  number,  the 
fashion,  and  the  gayety  of  their  companions. 
When  these  faint-hearted  people,  who  yet  had 
set  out  well,  turned  back,  their  light  was  quite 
put  out,  and  then  they  became  worse  than  those 
who  had  made  no  attempt  to  get  in.  ‘  For  it  is 
impossible,  that  is,  it  is  next  to  impossible,  for 
those  who  were  once  enlightened,  and  have  tasted 
of  the  heavenly  gift,  and  the  good  word  of  God, 
and  the  powers  of  the  world  to  come,  if  they  fall 
away,  to  renew  them  again  to  repentance.’ 

A  few  honest  humble  travellers  not  naturally 
stronger  than  the  rest,  but  strengthened  by  their 
trust  in  the  king’s  word,  came  up,  by  the  light 
of  their  lamps,  and  meekly  entered  in  at  the 
Strait  Gate.  As  they  advanced  farther  they 
felt  less  heavy,  and  though  the  way  did  not  in 
reality  grow  wider,  yet  they  grew  reconciled  to 
the  narrowness  of  it,  espeeially  when  they  saw  the 
walls  here  and  there  studded  with  certain  jewels 
called  promises,  sueh  as :  ‘He  that  endureth  to  the 
end  shall  be  saved ;’  and  ‘my  grace  is  sufficient  for 
you.’  Some,  when  they  were  almost  ready  to 
faint,  were  encouraged  by  seeing  that  many 
niches  in  the  Narrow  Way  were  filled  with  sta¬ 
tues  and  pictures  of  saints  and  martyrs,  who 
had  borne  their  testimony  at  the  stake,  that  the 
Narrow  Way  was  the  safe  way  ;  and  these  tra¬ 
vellers,  instead  of  sinking  at  the  sight  of  the 
painted  wheel  and  gibbet,  the  sword  and  furnace, 
were  animated  with  these  words  written  under 
them,  ‘  Those  that  wear  white  robes,  came  out 
of  great  tribulation,’  and  ‘  bo  ye  followers  of 
those  who  through  faith  and  patience  inherit  the 
promises.’ 

In  the  mean  time  there  came  a  great  multi¬ 
tude  of  travellers  all  from  Laodicea ;  this  was 
the  largest  party  I  had  yet  seen  ;  these  were 
neither  hot  nor  cold;  they  would  not  give  up 
future  hope,  and  they  eould  not  endure  present 
pain!  So  they  contrived  to  deceive  themselves, 
by  faneying  that  though  they  resolved  to  keep 
the  Happy  Land  in  view,  yet  there  must  needs 
be  many  different  ways  which  lead  to  it,  no  doubt 
all  equally  sure,  without  all  being  equally  rough  ; 
so  they  set  on  foot  certain  little  contrivances  to 
attain  the  end  without  using  the  means,  and 
softened  down  the  spirit  of  the  king’s  direetions 
to  fit  them  to  their  own  praetice.  Sometimes 
they  would  split  a  direction  in  two,  and  only  use 
that  half  which  suited  them.  For  instance  when 
they  met  with  the  following  rule  on  the  way- 
post,  ‘  Trust  in  the  Lord  and  be  doing  good,’ 
they  would  take  the  first  half,  and  make  them¬ 
selves  easy  with  a  general  sort  of  trust,  that 
through  the  mercy  of  the  king  all  would  go  well 
with  them,  though  they  themselves  did  nothing. 
And  on  the  other  hand,  many  made  sure  that  a 
few  good  works  of  their  own  would  do  tlieir 
business,  and  carry  therri  safely  to  the  Happy 
Ijand,  though  they  did  not  trust  in  the  I.ord, 
nor  place  any  faith  in  his  word.  So  they  took 
the  second  half  of  the  spliced  direction.  Tlm.s 
some  perished  by  a  lazy  faith,  and  others  by  a 
working  pride. 

A  large  party  of  Pharisees  now  appeared,  who 
had  so  neglected  their  lamp  that  they  did  not 
see  their  way  at  all,  though  they  fancied  tlicra- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


185  1 


selves  to  be  full  of  light ;  they  kept  up  appear¬ 
ances  so  well  as  to  delude  others,  and  most  effec¬ 
tually  to  delude  themselves,  with  a  notion  that 
they  might  be  found  in  the  right  way  at  last. 
In  this  dreadful  delusion  they  went  on  to  the 
end,  and  till  they  were  finally  plunged  in  the 
dark  valley,  never  discovered  the  horrors  which 
awaited  them  on  the  dismal  shore.  It  was  re¬ 
markable  that  while  these  Pharisees  were  often 
boasting  how  bright  their  light  burnt,  in  order 
to  get  the  praise  of  men,  the  humble  travellers, 
whose  steady  light  showed  their  good  works  to 
others,  refused  all  commendation,  and  the 
brighter  their  light  shined  before  men,  so  much 
the  more  they  insisted  that  they  ought  to  glorify 
not  themselves,  but  their  Father  which  is  in 
heaven. 

I  now  set  myself  to  observe  what  was  the 
particular  let,  molestation  and  hindrance  which 
obstructed  particular  travellers  in  their  endea- 
fours  to  enter  in  at  the  Strait  Gate.  I  re¬ 
marked  a  huge  portly  man  who  seemed  desirous 
of  getting  in,  but  he  carried  about  him  such  a 
vast  provision  of  bags  full  of  gold,  and  had  on 
so  many  rich  garments,  which  stuffed  him  out 
so  wide,  that  though  he  pushed  and  squeezed, 
like  one  who  had  really  a  mind  to  get  in,  yet 
he  could  not  possibly  do  so.  Then  I  heard  a 
voice  crying,  ‘  Wo  to  him  who  loadeth  himself 
with  thick  clay.’  The  poor  man  felt  something 
was  wrong,  and  even  went  so  far  as  to  change 
some  of  his  more  cumbersome  vanities  into 
others  which  seemed  less  bulky,  but  still  he 
and  his  pack  were  much  too  wide  for  the  gate. 
He  would  not  however  give  up  the  matter  so 
easily,  but  began  to  throw  away  a  little  of  the 
coarser  part  of  his  baggage,  but  still  I  remarked 
that  he  threw  away  none  of  the  vanities  which 
lay  near  his  heart.  He  tried  again,  but  it  would 
not  do  ;  still  his  dimensions  were  too  large.  He 
now  looked  up  and  read  these  words,  ‘  How 
hardly  shall  those  who  have  riches  enter  into 
the  kingdom  of  God.’  The  poor  man  sighed  to 
find  that  it  was  impossible  to  enjoy  his  fill  of 
both  worlds,  and  ‘  went  away  sorrowing.’  If  he 
ever  afterwards  cast  a  thought  towards  the 
Happy  Land.,  it  was  only  to  regret  that  the  road 
which  led  to  it  was  too  narrow  to  admit  any  but 
the  meagre  children  of  want,  who  were  not  so 
encumbered  by  wealth  as  to  be  too  big  for  the 
passage.  Had  he  read  on,  he  would  have  seen 
that  ‘  with  God  all  things  are  possible.’ 

Another  advanced  with  much  confidence  of 
success,  for  having  little  worldly  riches  or  ho¬ 
nours,  the  gate  did  not  seem  so  strait  to  him. 
Ho  got  to  the  threshold  triumphantly,  and  seem, 
ed  to  look  back  with  disdain  on  all  that  he  was 
quitting.  He  soon  found,  however,  that  he  was 
so  bloated  with  pride,  and  stuffed  out  with  self- 
sufficiency,  that  he  could  not  get  in.  Nay,  he 
was  in  a  worse  way  than  the  rich  man  just 
named;  for  he  had  been  willing  to  throw  away 
some  of  his  outward  luggage,  whereas  this  man 
refused  to  part  with  a  grain  of  that  vanity  and 
self-api)liiuse  which  made  liim  too  largo  for  the 
way.  The  sense  of  his  own  worth  so  swelled 
him  out  that  ho  stuck  fast  in  the  gateway,  and 
could  neither  get  iti  nor  out.  Finding  now  that 
he  must  cut  olf  all  those  big  thoughts  of  himself, 
if  he  wished  to  be  reduced  to  such  a  size  as  to 


pass  the  gate,  he  gave  up  all  thoughts  of  it.  He 
scorned  that  humility  and  self-denial  which 
might  have  shrunk  him  down  to  the  proper  di¬ 
mensions  ;  the  more  he  insisted  on  his  own  qua¬ 
lifications  for  entrance,  the  more  impossible  it 
became  to  enter,  for  the  bigger  he  grew.  Find¬ 
ing  that  he  must  become  quite  another  manner 
of  man  before  he  could  hope  to  get  in,  he  gave 
up  the  desire ;  and  I  now  saw  that  though  when 
he  set  his  face  towards  the  Happy  Land  he  could 
not  get  an  inch  forward,  yet  the  instant  he  made 
a  motion  to  turn  back  into  the  world,  his  speed 
became  rapid  enough,  and  he  got  back  into  the 
Broad  Way  much  sooner  than  he  got  out  of  it. 

Many,  who  for  a  time  were  brought  down 
from  their  usual  bulk  by  some  affliction,  seemed 
to  get  in  with  ease.  They  now  thought  all  their 
difficulties  over,  for  having  been  surfeited  with 
the  world  during  their  late  disappointment,  they 
turned  their  backs  upon  it  willingly  enough,  and 
fancied  they  were  tired  of'it.  A  fit  of  sickness, 
perhaps,  which  is  very  apt  to  reduce,  had  for  a 
time  brought  their  bodies  into  subjection,  so  that 
they  were  enabled  just  to  get  in  at  the  gateway  * 
but  as  soon  as  health  and  spirits  returned,  the 
way  grew  narrower  and  narrower  to  them ;  and 
they  could  not  get  on,  but  turned  short,  and  got 
back  into  the  world.  I  saw  many  attempt  to 
enter  who  were  stopped  short  by  a  large  burthen 
of  worldly  cares ;  others  by  a  load  of  idolatrous 
attachments ;  but  I  observed  that  nothing  proved 
a  more  complete  bar  than  that  vast  bundle  of 
prejudices  with  which  multitudes  were  loaded. 
— Other  were  fatally  obstructed  by  loads  of  6ad. 
habits  which  they  would  not  lay  down,  though 
they  knew  it  prevented  their  entrance. 

Some  few,  however,  of  most  descriptions,  who 
had  kept  their  light  alive  by  craving  constant 
supplies  from  the  king’s  treasury,  got  through 
at  last  by  a  strength  which  they  felt  not  to  be 
their  own.  One  poor  man,  who  carried  the 
largest  bundle  of  had  habits  I  had  seen,  could 
not  get  on  a  step  ;  he  never  ceased,  however,  to 
implore  for  light  enough  to  see  where  his  mise¬ 
ry  lay ;  he  threw  down  one  of  his  bundles,  then 
another,  but  all  to  little  purpose ;  still  he  could 
not  stir.  At  last  striving  as  if  in  agony  (which 
is  the  true  way  of  entering)  he  threw  down  the 
the  heaviest  article  in  his  pack  ;  this  was  sel¬ 
fishness:  the  poor  fellow  felt  relieved  at  once,, 
his  light  burned  brightly,  and  the  rest  of  his 
pack  was  as  nothing. 

Then  I  heard  a  great  noise  as  of  carpenters 
at  work.  I  looked  what  this  might  be,  and  saw 
many  sturdy  travellers,  who  finding  they  were 
too  bulky  to  get  through,  took  it  into  their  heads 
not  to  reduce  themselves,  but  to  widen  the  gate ; 
they  hacked  on  this  side,  and  hewed  on  that; 
but  all  their  hacking  and  hewing,  and  hammer¬ 
ing  was  to  no  purpose,  they  got  their  labour  for 
their  pains.  It  would  have  been  possible  for 
them  to  have  reduced  themselves,  had  they  at¬ 
tempted  it,  but  to  widen  the  narrow  way  was 
impossible. 

What  grieved  mo  most  was  to  observe  that 
many  who  had  got  on  successfully  a  good  way, 
now  stopped  to  rest  and  to  admire  tbeir  own 
progress.  While  they  were  thus  valuing  them¬ 
selves  on  their  attainments,  their  light  diminish 
cd.  While  these  were  boasting  how  far  they  had 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Uiy 

left  others  behind  who  had  setout  much  earlier, 
some  slower  travellers  whoso  beginning  had  not 
been  so  promising,  but  who  had  walked  meekly 
and  circumspectly,  now  outstripped  them. — 
These  last  walked'not  as  though  they  had  already 
attained ;  but  this  one  thing  they  did,  forgetting 
the  things  which  were  behind,  they  pushed  for¬ 
ward  to  the  mark,  for  the  prize  of  their  high 
calling.  These,  though  naturally  weak,  yet  by 
laying  aside  every  weight,  finished  the  race  that 
was  before  them.  Those  who  had  kept  their 
‘  light  burning,’  who  were  not  ‘  wise  in  their 
own  conceit,’  who  ‘  laid  their  help  on  one  that  is 
mighty,’  who  had  chosen  to  suffer  affliction  ra¬ 
ther  than  to  enjoy  the  pleasure  of  sin  for  a  sea¬ 
son,’  came  at  length  to  the  Happy  Land. — They 
bad  indeed  the  Dark  and  Shadowy  Valley  to 


cross,  but  even  there  tl^  found  a  rod  and  a 
staff  to  comfort  them.  Tiieir  light  instead  of 
being  put  out  by  the  damps  of  the  Valley  and 
of  the  Shado'W  of  Death,  often  burnt  with  added 
brightness.  Some  indeed  suffered  the  terrors 
of  a  short  eclipse;  but  even  then  their  light,  like 
that  of  a  dark  lantern,  was  not  put  out ;  it  was 
only  turned  for  a  while  from  him  who  carried 
it,  and  even  these  often  finished  their  course 
with  joy. — But  be  that  as  it  might,  the  instant 
they  reached  the  Happy  Land,  all  tears  were 
wiped  from  their  eyes,  and  the  king  himself 
came  forth  and  welcomed  them  into  his  pre¬ 
sence,  and  put  a  crown  upon  their  heads,  with 
these  words,  ‘  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  ser 
vant,  enter  thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  lord.’ 


PARLEY,  THE  PORTER. 

AN  ALLEGORY : 

Showing  how  robbers  without  can  never  get  into  a  house,  unless  there  are  traitors  within. 


There  was  once  a  certain  nobleman  who  had 
a  house  or  castle  situated  in  the  midst  of  a  great 
wilderness,  but  inclosed  in  a  garden.  Now  there 
was  a  band  of  robbers  in  the  wilderness  who 
had  a  great  mind  to  plunder  and  destroy  the 
castle,  but  they  had  not  succeeded  in  their  en¬ 
deavours,  because  the  master  had  given  strict 
orders  to  ‘  watch  without  ceasing.’’  To  quicken 
their  vigilance  he  used  to  tell  them  that  their 
care  would  soon  have  an  end;  that  though  the 
nights  they  had  to  watch  were  dark  and  stormy, 
yet  they  were  but  few  ;  the  period  of  resistance 
was  short,  that  of  rest  would  be  eternal. 

The  robbers,  however,  attacked  the  castle  in 
various  ways.  They  tried  at  every  avenue, 
watched  to  take  advantage  of  every  careless  mo¬ 
ment  ;  looked  for  an  open  door  or  a  neglected 
window.  But  though  they  often  made  the  bolts 
shake  and  the  windows  rattle,  they  could  never 
greatly  hurt  the  house,  much  less  get  into  it. 
Do  you  know  the  reason  ?  it  was  because  the 
servants  were  never  off  their  guard.  They 
beard  the  noises  plain  enough,  and  used  to  be 
not  a  little  frightened,  for  they  were  aware  both 
of  the  strength  and  perseverance  of  their  ene¬ 
mies.  But  what  seemed  rather  odd  to  some  of 
these  servants,  the  lord  used  to  tell  them,  that 
while  they  continued  to  be  afraid  they  would  be 
safe  ;  and  it  passed  into  a  sort  of  proverb  in  that 
family  ‘  Happy  is  he  that  feareth  always.’  Some 
of  the  servants,  however,  thought  this  a  contra¬ 
diction. 

One  day,  when  the  master  was  going  from 
home,  he  called  his  servants  all  together,  and 
spoke  to  them  as  follows  :  ‘  I  will  not  repeat  to 
you  the  directions  I  have  so  often  given  you  ; 
tliey  are  all  written  down  in  the  book  of  laws, 
of  wliich  every  one  of  you  has  a  copy.  Reme.m- 
ber,  it  is  a  very  short  time  that  you  are  to  re¬ 
main  in  tliis  castle;  you  will  soon  remove  to  my 
more  settled  habitation,  to  a  more  durable  house, 
not  made  with  hands.  As  that  house  is  never 
e.xposed  to  any  attack,  so  it  never  stands  in  need 
of  any  repair ;  for  that  country  is  never  infested 


by  any  sons  of  violence.  Here  you  are  servants ; 
there  you  will  be  princes.  But  mark  my  words, 
and  you  will  find  the  same  in  the  book  of  my 
LAWS,  whether  you  will  ever  attain  to  that  house, 
will  depend  on  the  manner  in  which  you  defend 
yourselves  in  this.  A  stout  vigilance  for  a  short 
time  will  secure  your  certain  happiness  for  ever. 
But  every  thing  depends  on  your  present  exer¬ 
tions.  Don’t  complain  and  take  advantage  of 
my  absence,  and  call  me  a  hard  master,  and 
grumble  that  you  are  placed  in  the  midst  of  an 
howling  wilderness  without  peace  or  security. 
Say  not,  that  you  are  exposed  to  temptations 
without  any  power  to  resist  them.  You  have 
some  difficulties,  it  is  true,  but  you  have  many 
helps  and  many  comforts  to  make  this  house 
tolerable,  even  before  you  get  to  the  other.  Y  our’s 
is  not  a  hard  service;  and  if  it  were,  ‘  the  time 
is  short.’  You  have  arms  if  you  will  use  them, 
and  doors  if  you  will  bar  them,  and  strength  if 
you  will  use  it.  I  would  defy  all  the  attacks  of 
the  robbers  without,  if  I  could  depend  on  the 
fidelity  of  the  people  within.  If  the  thieves  ever 
get  in  and  destroy  the  house,  it  must  be  by  the 
connivance  of  one  of  the  family.  For  it  is  a 
standing  law  of  this  castle,  that  mere  outward 
attack  can  never  destroy  it,  if  there  he  no  con¬ 
senting  traitor  within.  You  will  stand  or  fall 
as  you  will  observe  this  rule.  If  you  are  finally 
happy,  it  will  be  by  my  grace  and  favour  ;  if  you 
are  ruined,  it  will  be  your  own  fault.’ 

When  the  nobleman  had  done  speaking,  every 
servant  repeated  his  assurance  of  attachment 
and  firm  allegiance  to  his  master.  But  among 
them  all,  not  one  was  so  vehement  and  loud  in 
his  professions  as  old  Parley  the  porter.  Parley, 
indeed,  it  was  well  known,  was  always  talking, 
which  exposed  him  to  no  small  danger  ;  for  as 
he  was  the  foremost  to  promise,  so  he  was  the 
slackest  to  perform  :  and,  to  speak  the  truth, 
though  he  was  a  civil  spoken  fellow,  his  lord  was 
more  afraid  of  him,  with  all  his  professions,  than 
he  was  of  the  rest  who  protested  less.  He  knew 
that  Parley  was  vain,  credulous,  and  self.suffi 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


187 


•cient ;  and  he  always  apprehended  more  dangler 
from  Parley’s  impertinence,  curiosity,  and  love 
of  novelty,  than  even  from  the  stronger  vices  of 
some  of  his  other  servants.  The  rest  indeed, 
seldom  got  into  any  scrape,  of  which  Parley  was 
not  the  cause  in  some  shape  or  other. 

I  am  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  confess,  that 
though  Parley  was  allowed  every  refreshment, 
and  all  the  needful  rest  which  the  nature  of  his 
place  permitted,  yet  he  thought  it  very  hard  to 
be  forced  to  be  so  constantly  on  duty.  ‘  Nothing 
but  watching,’  said  Parley.  ‘  I  have,  to  be  sure, 
many  pleasures,  and  meat  suflBcient ;  and  plenty 
of  chat,  in  virtue  of  my  office,-  and  I  pick  up  a 
good  deal  of  news  of  the  comers  and  goers  by 
day,  but  it  is  hard  that  at  night  I  must  watch 
as  narrowly  as  a  house-dog,  and  yet  let  in  no 
company  without  orders  ;  only  because  there  is 
-said  to  be  a  few  straggling  robbers  here  in  the 
wilderness,  with  whom  my  master  does  not  care 
to  let  us  be  acquainted.  He  pretends  to  make 
us  vigilant  through  fear  of  the  robbers,  but  I 
suspect  it  is  only  to  make  us  mope  alone.  A 
merry  companion  and  a  mug  of  beer  would 
make  the  night  pass  cheerily.’  Parley,  how¬ 
ever,  kept  all  these  thoughts  to  himself,  or  ut¬ 
tered  them  only  when  no  one  heard,  for  talk  he 
must.  He  began  to  listen  to  the  nightly  whist¬ 
ling  of  the  robbers  under  the  windows  witli 
rather  less  alarm  than  formerly,  and  was  some¬ 
times  so  tired  of  watching,  that  he  thought  it 
was  even  better  to  run  the  risk  of  being  robbed 
«nce,  than  to  live  always  in  the  fear  of  robbers. 

There  was  certain  bounds  in  which  the  lord 
allowed  his  servants  to  walk  and  divert  them¬ 
selves  at  all  proper  seasons.  A  pleasant  garden 
surrounded  the  castle,  and  a  thick  hedge  sepa¬ 
rated  this  garden  from  the  wilderness,  which 
was  infested  by  the  robbers ;  in  this  gar¬ 
den  they  were  permitted  to  amuse  themselves. 
The  master  advised  them  always  to  keep  within 
these  bounds.  ‘  While  you  observe  this  rule,’ 
said  be,  ‘  you  will  be  safe  and  well ;  and  you 
will  consult  your  own  safety  and  happiness,  as 
well  as  show  your  love  to  me,  by  not  venturing 
over  to  the  extremity  of  your  bounds  ;  he  who 
goes  as  far  as  he  dares,  always  shows  a  wish  to 
go  farther  than  he  ought,  and  commonly  does 
so.’ 

It  was  remarkable,  that  the  nearer  these  ser¬ 
vants  kept  to  the  castle,  and  the  farther  from 
the  hedge,  the  more  ugly  the  wilderness  appear¬ 
ed.  And  the  nearer  they  approached  the  for- 
“bidden  bounds,  their  own  home  appeared  more 
dull,  and  the  wilderness  more  delightful.  And 
this  the  master  knew  when  he  gave  his  orders ; 
for  he  never  either  did  or  said  any  thing  without 
a  good  reason.  And  when  his  servants  some¬ 
times  desired  an  explanation  of  the  reason,  he 
used  to  tell  them  they  would  understand  it  when 
they  came  to  the  other  house ;  for  it  was  one  of 
the  pleasures  of  that  house,  that  it  would  ex¬ 
plain  all  the  mysteries  of  this,  and  any  little  ob¬ 
scurities  in  the  master’s  conduct  would  be  then 
made  quite  plain. 

Parley  was  the  first  who  promised  to  keep 
clear  of  the  hedge,  and  yet  was  often  seen  look¬ 
ing  as  near  as  he  durst.  One  day  he  ventured 
close  up  to  the  hedge,  put  two  or  three  stones 
x»ne  on  another,  and  tried  to  peep  over.  Ho  saw 


one  of  the  robbers  strolling  as  near  as  he  could 
be  on  the  forbidden  side.  This  man’s  name  was 
Mr.  Flatterwell,  a  smooth  civil  man,  ‘  whose 
words  were  softer  than  butter,  having  war  in  his 
heart.’  He  made  several  low  bows  to  Parley. 

Now,  Parley  knew  so  little  of  the  world,  that 
he  actually  concluded  all  robbers  must  have  an 
ugly  look  which  should  frighten  you  at  once, 
and  coarse  brutal  manners  which  would  at  first 
sight  show  they  were  enemies.  He  thought, 
like  a  poor  ignorant  fellow  as  he  was,  that  this 
mild  specious  person  could  never  be  one  of  the 
band.  Flatterwell  accosted  Parley  with  the 
utmost  civility,  which  put  him  quite  off  his 
guard  ;  for  Parley  had  no  notion  that  he  could 
be  an  enemy  who  was  so  soft  and  civil.  For  an 
open  foe  he  would  have  been  prepared.  Parley, 
however,  after  a  little  discourse  drew  this  con¬ 
clusion,  that  either  Mr.  Flatterwell  could  not  be 
one  of  the  gang,  or  that  if  he  was,  the  robbers 
themselves  could  not  be  such  monsters  as  his 
master  had  described,  and  therefore  it  was  a 
folly  to  be  afraid  of  them. 

Flatterwell  began,  like  a  true  adept  in  his  art, 
by  lulling  all  Parley’s  suspicions  asleep  ;  and  in¬ 
stead  of  openly  abusing  his  master,  which  would 
have  opened  Parley’s  eyes  at  once,  he  pretended 
rather  to  commend  him  in  a  general  way,  as  a 
person  who  meant  well  himself,  but  was  too  apt 
to  suspect  others.  To  this  Parley  assented. 
The  other  then  ventured  to  hint  by  degrees,  that 
though  the  nobleman  might  be  a  good  master  in 
the  main,  yet  he  must  say  he  was  a  little  strict, 
and  a  little  stingy,  and  not  a  little  censorious. 
That  he  was  blamed  by  the  gentlemen  of  the 
wilderness  for  shutting  his  house  against  good 
company,  and  his  servants  were  laughed  at  by 
people  of  spirit  for  submitting  to  the  gloomy 
life  of  the  castle,  and  the  insipid  pleasures  of 
the  garden,  instead  of  ranging  in  the  wilderness 
at  large. 

‘  It  is  true  enough,’  said  Parley,  who  was 
generally  of  the  opinion  of  the  person  he  was 
talking  with,  ‘  My  master  is  rather  harsh  and 
close.  But  to  own  the  truth,  all  the  barring, 
and  locking,  and  bolting,  is  to  keep  out  a  set  of 
gentlemen,  who  he  assures  us  are  robbers,  and 
who  are  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  destroy 
us.  I  hope  no  offence,  sir,  but  by  your  livery 
I  suspect  you,  sir,  are  one  of  the  gang  he  is  so 
much  afraid  of.’ 

Flatterwell.  Afraid  of  me?  Impossible  dear 
Mr.  Parley.  You  see,  I  do  not  look  like  an 
enemy.  I  am  unarmed ;  what  harm  can  a  plain 
man  like  me  do  ? 

Parley.  Why,  that  is  true  enough.  Yet  my 
master  says,  if  we  were  to  let  you  into  the  house, 
we  should  be  ruined  soul  and  body. 

Flatterwell.  I  am  sorry  Mr.  Parley  to  hear 
so  sensible  a  man  as  you  are  so  deceived.  This 
is  mere  prejudice.  He  knows  we  are  cheerful 
entertaining  people,  foes  to  gloom  and  super¬ 
stition,  and  therefore  he  is  so  morose  he  will  not, 
let  you  get  acquainted  with  us. 

Parley.  Well ;  he  says  you  are  a  band  of 
thieves,  gamblers,  murderers,  drunkards,  and 
j^atheists. 

Flatterwell.  Don’t  believe  him;  the  worst 
wc  should  do,  perhaps,  is,  we  might  drink  a 
friendly  glass  with  you  to  your  master’s  health 


188 


THE  WORKS  OF  HA.NNAH  MORE. 


or  play  an  innocent  game  of  cards  just  to  keep 
you  awake,  or  sing  a  cheerful  song  with  the 
maids  ;  now  is  there  any  harm  in  all  this  ? 

Parley.  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  And 
I  begin  to  think  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth  in 
all  my  master  says. 

Flalterwell.  The  more  you  know  us,  the  more 
you  will  like  us.  But  I  wish  there  was  not  this 
ugly  hedge  between  us.  I  have  a  great  deal  to 
say,  and  I  am  afraid  of  being  overheard. 

Parley  was  now  just  going  to  give  a  spring 
over  the  hedge,  but  checked  himself,  saying, 

‘  I  dare  not  come  on  your  side,  there  are  people 
about,  and  every  thing  is  earned  to  my  master.’ 
Flatterwell  saw  by  this  that  his  new  friend  was 
kept  on  his  own  side  of  the  hedge  by  fear  rather 
than  by  principle,  and  from  that  moment  he 
made  sure  of  him.  ‘  Dear  Mr.  Parley,’  said  he, 

‘  if  you  will  allow  me  the  honour  of  a  little  con¬ 
versation  with  you,  I  will  call  under  the  window 
of  your  lodge  this  evening.  I  have  something 
to  tell  you  greatly  to  your  advantage.  I  ad¬ 
mire  you  exceedingly.  I  long  for  your  friend¬ 
ship  ;  our  whole  brotherhood  is  ambitious  of  be¬ 
ing  known  to  so  amiable  a  person.’ — ‘  O  dear,’ 
said  Parley,  ‘  I  shall  be  afraid  of  talking  to  you 
at  night.  It  is  so  against  my  master’s  orders. 
But  did  you  say  you  had  something  to  tell  me 
to  my  advantage?’ 

Flatterwell.  Yes,  I  can  point  out  to  you  how 
you  may  be  a  richer,  a  merrier,  and  a  happier 
man.  If  you  will  admit  me  to-night  under  the 
window,  I  will  convince  you  that  it  is  prejudice 
and  not  wisdom,  which  makes  your  master  bar 
his  door  against  us ;  I  will  convince  you  that 
the  mischief  of  a  robber,  as  your  master  scurri- 
lously  calls  us,  is  only  in  the  name ;  that  we  are 
your  true  friends,  and  only  mean  to  promote 
your  happiness. 

‘  Don’t  say  we,'  said  Parley,  ‘  pray  come 
alone ;  I  would  not  see  the  rest  of  the  gang  for 
the  world ;  but  I  think  there  can  be  no  great 
harm  in  talking  to  you  through  the  bars,  if  you 
come  alone  ;  but  I  am  determined  not  to  let  you 
in.  Yet  I  can’t  say  but  I  wish  to  know  what 
you  can  tell  me  so  much  to  my  advantage  ;  in¬ 
deed,  if  it  is  for  my  good  I  ouglit  to  know  it.’ 

Flatterwell.  {going  out,  turns  back.)  Dear 
Mr.  Parley,  there  is  one  thing  I  had  forgotten. 
I  eannot  get  over  the  hedge  at  niglit  without 
assistance.  You  know  there  is  a  secret  in  the 
nature  of  that  hedge ;  you  in  the  house  may  get 
over  it  into  the  wilderness  of  your  own  accord, 
but  we  cannot  get  to  your  side  by  our  own 
strength.  You  must  look  about  to  see  where 
the  hedge  is  thinnest,  and  then  set  to  work  to 
clear  away  here  and  there  a  little  bough  for  me, 
it  won’t  be  missed ;  and  if  there  is  but  the 
smallest  hole  made  on  your  side,  those  on  ours 
can  get  through  ;  otherwise  wo  do  but  labour  in 
vain.  To  this  Parley  made  some  objection, 
through  the  fear  of  being  seen.  Flatterw’ell  re¬ 
plied,  that  the  smallest  hole  from  within  would 
be  sullicient,  for  lie  could  then  work  his  own 
way.  ‘  Well,’  said  Parley,  ‘  I  will  consider  of 
it.  To  be  sure  I  shall  even  then  be  equally  saf^ 
in  the  castle,  as  I  shall  have  all  the  bolts,  bar^ 
and  locks  between  us,  so  it  will  make  but  little 
difterence.’ 

‘  Certainly  not,’  said  Flatterwell,  who  laiew 


it  would  make  all  the  difference  in  the  world. 
So  they  parted  with  mutual  protestations  of  re- 
gard.  Parley  went  home  charmed  with  his 
new  friend.  His  eyes  were  now  clearly  opened 
as  to  his  master’s  prejudices  against  the  rob¬ 
bers,  and  he  was  convinced  there  was  more  in 
the  name  than  in  the  thing.  ‘  But,’  said  he, 

‘  though  Mr.  Flatterwell  is  eertainly  an  agree, 
able  companion,  he  may  not  be  so  safe  an  in¬ 
mate.  There  can,  however,  be  no  harm  in  talk¬ 
ing  at  a  distanee,  and  I  certainly  won’t  let  him 
in.’ 

Parley,  in  the  course  of  the  day,  did  not  for¬ 
get  his  promise  to  thin  the  hedge  of  separation 
a  little.  At  first  he  only  tore  off  a  handful  of 
leaves,  then  a  little  sprig,  then  he  broke  away 
a  bough  or  two.  It  was  observable,  the  larger 
the  breach  became,  the  worse  he  began  to  think 
of  his  master,  and  the  better  of  himself.  Every 
peep  he  took  through  the  broken  hedge  increas¬ 
ed  his  desire  to  get  out  into  the  wilderness,  and 
made  the  thoughts  of  the  castle  more  irksome 
to  him. 

He  was  continually  repeating  to  himself,  ‘I 
wonder  what  Mr.  Flatterwell  can  haye  to  say 
so  much  to  my  advantage  ?  I  see  he  does  not 
wish  to  hurt  my  master,  he  only  wishes  to  serve  ' 
me.’  As  the  hour  of  meeting,  however,  drew 
near,  the  master’s  orders  now  and  then  came 
across  Parley’s  thoughts.  So  to  divert  them, 
he  took  up  THE  BOOK.  He  happened  to  open  it 
at  these  words :  ‘  My  son,  if  sinners  entice  thee, 
consent  thou  not.’  For  a  moment  his  heart 
failed  him.  ‘  If  this  admonition  should  be  sent 
on  purpose  ?’  said  he ;  ‘  but  no,  ’tis  a  bugbear. 
My  master  told  me  that  if  I  went  to  the  bounds 
I  should  get  over  the  hedge.  Now  I  went  to 
the  utmost  limits,  and  did  not  get  over.’  Here 
conscience  put  in  ;  ‘  Yes,  but  it  was  because  you 
were  watched.’ — ‘  I  am  sure,’  continued  Parley, 

‘  one  may  always  stop  where  one  will,  and  this 
is  only  a  trick  of  my  master’s  to  spoil  sport.  So 
I  will  even  hear  what  Mr.  Flatterwell  has  to  say 
so  much  to  my  advantage.  I  am  not  obliged 
to  follow  his  counsels,  but  there  can  be  no  harm 
in  hearing  them.’ 

Flatterwell  prevailed  on  the  rest  of  the  rob¬ 
bers  to  make  no  public  attack  on  the  castle  that 
night.  ‘  My  brethren,’  said  he,  ‘  you  now  and 
then  fail  in  your  schemes,  because  you  are  for 
violent  beginnings,  w'hile  my  smoothing  in¬ 
sinuating  measures  hardly  ever  miss.  You 
eome  blustering  and  roaring,  and  frighten  peo. 
pie,  and  set  them  on  their  guard.  You  inspire 
them  with  terror  of  you,  while  my  whole  scheme 
is  to  make  them  think  well  of  themselves,  and 
ill  of  their  master.  If  I  onee  get  them  to  enter¬ 
tain  hard  thoughts  of  him,  and  high  thoughts 
of  themselves,  my  business  is  done,  and  they 
fall  plump  into  my  snares.  So  let  this  delicate 
affair  alone  to  me ;  Parley  is  a  softly  fellow ; 
he  must  not  be  frightened,  but  cajoled.  He  is 
the  very  sort  of  a  man  to  succeed  with  ;  and 
worth  a  hundred  of  ^^our  sturdy  sensible  fellows. 
With  them  we  want  strong  arguments  and 
strong  temptations  ;  but  with  such  fellows  as 
Parley,  in  whom  vanity  and  sensuality  are  the 
leading  qualities  (as,  let  me  tell  you,  is  the  case 
with  far  the  greater  part)  flattery  and  a  promise 
of  ease  and  pleasure,  will  do  more  than  vour 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


189 


whole  battle  array.  If  you  wiH  let  me  manage, 
I  will  get  you  all  into  the  castle  before  mid¬ 
night.’ 

At  night  the  castle  was  barricadoed  as  usual, 
and  no  one  had  observed  the  hole  which  Parley 
had  made  in  the  hedge.  This  oversight  arose 
that  night  from  the  servants’  neglecting  one  of 
the  master’s  standing  orders — to  make  a  nightly 
examination  of  the  state  of  things.  The  ne¬ 
glect  did  not  proceed  so  much  from  wilful  dis¬ 
obedience,  as  from  having  passed  the  evening  in 
sloth  and  diversion,  which  often  amounts  to 
nearly  the  same  in  its  consequences. 

As  all  was  very  cheerful  within,  so  all  was 
very  quiet  without.  And  before  they  went  to 
bed,  some  of  the  servants  observed  to  the  rest, 
that  as  they  heard  no  robbers  that  night,  they 
thought  they  might  now  begin  to  remit  some¬ 
thing  of  their  diligence  in  bolting  and  barring : 
that  all  this  fastening  and  locking  was  very 
troublesome,  and  they  hoped  the  danger  was  now 
pretty  well  over.  It  was  rather  remarkable, 
that  they  never  made  these  sort  of  observa¬ 
tions,  but  after  an  evening  of  some  excess,  and 
when  they  had  neglected  their  private  business 
with  their  master.  All,  however,  except  Parley, 
went  quietly  to  bed,  and  seemed  to  feel  uncom¬ 
mon  security. 

Parley  crept  down  to  his  lodge.  He  had  half 
a  mind  to  go  to  bed  too.  Yet  he  was  not  will¬ 
ing  to  disappoint  Mr.  Flatterwell.  So  civil  a 
gentleman  !  To  bo  sure  he  might  have  had  bad 
designs.  Yet  what  right  had  he  to  suspect  any 
body  who  made  such  professions,  and  who  was 
so  very  civil  ?  ‘  Besides,  it  is  something  for  my 
advantage,’  added  Parley.  ‘  I  will  not  open  the 
door,  that  is  certain  ;  but  as  he  is  to  come  alone, 
he  can  do  me  no  harm  through  the  bars  of  the 
windows  :  and  he  will  think  I  am  a  coward  if  I 
don’t  keep  my  word.  No,  I  will  let  him  see 
•that  I  am  not  afraid  of  my  own  strength  ;  I  will 
show  him  I  can  go  what  length  I  please,  and 
stop  short  when  I  please.’  Had  Flatterwell 
heard  this  boastful  speech,  he  would  have  been 
quite  sure  of  his  man. 

About  eleven.  Parley  heard  the  signal  agreed 
upon.  It  was  so  gentle  as  to  cause  little  alarm. 
So  much  the  worse.  Flatterwell  never  frighten¬ 
ed  any  one,  and  therefore  seldom  failed  of  any 
one.  Parley  stole  softly  down,  planted  himself 
at  his  little  window,  opened  the  casement,  and 
spied  his  new  friend.  It  was  pale  starlight. 
Parley  was  a  little  frightened  ;  for  he  thought  he 
perceived  one  or  two  persons  behind  Flatter- 
well  ;  but  the  other  assured  him  it  was  only  his 
own  shadow,  which  his  fears  had  magnified  into 
a  company.  ‘Though  I  assure  you,’  said  he, 
‘  I  have  not  a  friend  but  what  is  as  harmless  as 
myself.’ 

They  now  entered  into  serious  discourse,  in 
which  Flatterwell  showed  himself  a  deep  poli¬ 
tician.  Ho  skilfully  mixed  up  in  his  conver¬ 
sation  a  proper  proportion  of  praise  on  the  plea¬ 
sures  of  the  wilderness,  of  compliments  to  Par- 
ley,  of  ridicule  on  his  master,  and  of  abusive 
sneers  on  tlie  book  in  which  the  master’s  laws 
wore  written.  Against  this  last  he  had  always 
a  particular  spite,  for  he  considered  it  as  the 
grand  instrument  by  which  the  lord  maintain¬ 
ed  his  servants  in  their  allegiance ;  and  when 


they  could  once  be  brought  to  sneer  at  the  book 
there  was  an  end  of  submission  to  the  lord 
Parley  had  not  penetration  enough  to  see  his 
drift.  ‘  As  to  the  book,  Mr.  Flatterwell,’  said 
he,  ‘  I  do  not  know  whether  it  be  true  or  false. 
I  rather  neglect  than  disbelieve  it.  I  am  forced, 
indeed,  to  hear  it  read  once  a  week,  but  I  never 
look  into  it  myself,  if  I  can  help  it.’ — ‘  Excel 
lent,’  said  Flatterwell  to  himself,  ‘  that  is  just 
the  same  thing.  This  is  safe  ground  for  me. 
For  whether  a  man  does  not  believe  in  the  book, 
or  does  not  attend  to  it,  it  comes  pretty  much  to 
the  same,  and  I  generally  get  him  at  last.’ 

‘  Why  cannot  we  be  a  little  nearer,  Mr.  Par¬ 
ley,’  said  Flatterwell ;  ‘  I  am  afraid  of  being 
overheard  by  some  of  your  master’s  spies.  The 
window  from  which  you  speak  is  so  high  ;  I 
wish  you  would  come  down  to  the  door.’ — 
‘Well,’  said  Parley,  ‘I  see  no  great  harm  in 
that.  There  is  a  little  wicket  in  the  door 
through  which  we  may  converse  with  more  ease 
and  equal  safety.  The  same  fastenings  will  be 
still  between  us.’  So  down  he  went,  but  not 
without  a  degree  of  fear  and  trembling. 

The  little  wicket  being  now  opened,  and 
Flatterwell  standing  close  on  the  outside  of 
the  door,  they  conversed  with  great  ease. 
‘Mr.  Parley,’  said  Flatterwell, ‘I  should  not 
have  pressed  you  so  much  to  admit  me  into 
the  castle,  but  out  of  pure  disinterested  regard 
to  your  own  happiness.  I  shall  get  nothing  by 
it,  but  I  cannot  bear  to  think  that  a  person  so 
wise  and  amiable  should  be  shut  up  in  this' 
gloomy  dungeon,  under  a  hard  master,  and  a 
slave  to  the  unreasonable  tyranny  of  his  book 
OF  LAWS.  If  you  admit  me,  you  need  have  no 
more  waking,  no  more  watching.’  Here  Par¬ 
ley  involuntarily  slipped  back  the  bolt  of  the  door. 

‘  To  convince  you  of  my  true  love,'  continued 
Flatterwell,  ‘  I  have  brought  a  bottle  of  the  most 
delicious  wine  that  grows  in  the  wilderness. 
You  shall  taste  it,  but  you  must  put  a  glass 
through  the  wicket  to  receive  it,  for  it  is  a 
singular  property  in  this  wine,  that  we  of  the 
wilderness  cannot  succeed  in  conveying  it  to 
you  of  the  castle,  without  you  hold  out  a  vessel 
to  receive  it.’ — ‘  O  here  is  a  glass,’  said  Parley, 
holding  out  a  large  goblet,  which  he  always 
kept  ready  to  be  filled  by  any  chance-comer. 
The  other  immediately  poured  into  the  capa¬ 
cious  goblet  a  large  draught  of  that  delicious  in¬ 
toxicating  liquor,  with  which  the  family  of  the 
Flatterwells  have  for  near  six  thousand  years 
gained  the  hearts,  and  destroyed  the  souls  of  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  castle,  whenever  they 
have  been  able  to  prevail  on  them  to  hold  out  a 
hand  to  receive  it.  This  the  wise  master  of  the 
castle  well  knew  would  be  the  case,  for  he  knew 
what  was  in  men  ;  he  knew  their  propensity  to 
receive  the  delicious  poison  of  the  Flatterwells  ; 
and  it  was  for  this  reason  tha-t  he  gave  them  tub 
COOK  of  his  laws,  and  planted  the  hedge  and  in¬ 
vented  the  bolts,  and  doubled  the  lock. 

As  soon  as  poor  Parley  had  swallowed  the 
fatal  draught,  it  acted  like  enchantment.  He 
at  once  lost  all  power  of  resistance.  He  had 
10  sense  of  fear  loft.  He  despised  his  own  safe- 
y,  forgot  his  master,  lost  all  sight  of  the  house  in 
the  other  country,  and  reached  out  for  another 
draught  as  eagerly  ps  Flatterwell  held  out  the 


190 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


bottle  to  administer  it.  ‘  Wliat  a  fool,  have  I 
been,’  said  Parley,  ‘  to  deny  myself  so  long  !’ — 
‘  Will  you  nov/  let  me  in  V  said  Flatterwell. 
‘  Ay,  that  I  will,’  said  the  deluded  Parley. 
Though  the  train  was  now  increased  to  near  a 
hundred, robbers,  yet  so  intoxicated  was  Parley, 
that  he  did  not  see  one  of  them  except  his  new 
friend.  Parley  eagerly  pulled  down  the  bars, 
drew  back  the  bolts  and  forced  open  the  locks  ; 
thinking  he  could  never  let  in  his  friend  soon 
enough.  He  had,  however,  just  presence  of 
mind  to  say,  ‘  My  dear  friend,  I  hope  you  are 
alone.’  Flatterwell  swore  he  was — Parley  open¬ 
ed  the  door — in  rushed,  not  Flatterwell  only,  but 
the  whole  banditti,  who  always  lurked  behind 
in  his  train.  The  moment  they  had  got  sure 
possession,  Flatterwell  changed  his  soft  tone, 
and  cried  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  ‘  Down  with  the 
castle — kill,  burn,  and  destroy.’ 

Rapine,  murder,  and  conflagration,  by  turns 


took  place.  Parley  was  the  very  first  whom  Iney 
attacked.  He  was  overpowered  with  wounds. 
As  he  fell  he  cried  out,  ‘O  my  master,  I  die  a 
victim  to  my  unbelief  in  thee,  and  to  my  own 
vanity  and  imprudence.  O  that  the  guardians 
of  all  other  castles  would  hear  me  with  my  dying 
breath  repeat  my  master’s  admonition,  that  all 
attacks  from  without  will  not  destroy  unless  there 
is  some  confederate  within,  O  that  the  keepers 
of  all  other  castles  would  learn  from  my  ruin, 
that  he  who  parleys  with  temptation  is  already 
undone.  That  he  who  allows  himself  to  go  to 
the  very  bounds  will  soon  jump  over  the  hedge  ; 
that  he  who  talks  out  of  the  window  with  the 
enemy,  will  soon  open  the  door  to  him  ;  that  he. 
who  holds  out  his  hand  for  the  cup  of  sinful 
flattery,  loses  all  power  of  resisting  ;  that  when 
he  opens  the  door  to  one  sin,  all  the  rest  fly  in. 
upon  him,  and  the  man  perishes  as  I  now  do.’ 


TALES 


FOR  THE  COMMON  PEOPLE. 

Religion  is  for  the  man  in  humble  life,  and  to  raise  his  nature,  and  to  put  him  in  mind  of  a 
state  in  which  the  privileges  of  opulence  will  cease,  when  he  will  be  equal  by  nature,  and  may 
be  more  than  equal  by  virtue. — Burke  on  the  French  Revolution. 

ADVERTISEMENT 

TO  THESE  AND  THE  PRECEDING  TALES. 

To  improve  the  habits,  and  raise  the  principles  of  the  common  people,  at  a  time  when  their 
dangers  and  temptations,  moral  and  political,  were  multiplied  beyond  the  example  of  any  former 
period,  was  the  motive  which  impelled  the  author  of  these  volumes  to  devise  and  prosecute  the 
institution  of  the  Cheap  Repository.  This  plan  was  established  with  an  humble  wish  not  only  to 
counteract  vice  and  profligacy  on  the  one  hand,  but  error,  discontent,  and  false  religion  on  the 
other.  And  as  an  appetite  for  reading  had,  from  a  variety  of  causes,  been  increased  among  the 
inferior  ranks  in  this  country,  it  was  judged  expedient,  at  this  critical  period,  to  supply  such 
wholesome  aliment  as  might  give  a  new  direction  to  their  taste,  and  abate  their  relish  for  those 
corrupt  and  inflammatory  publications  which  the  consequences  of  the  French  Revolution  have 
been  so  fatally  pouring  in  upon  us. 

The  success  of  the  plan  exceeded  the  most  sanguine  e.xpectations  of  its  projector.  Above  two 
millions  of  the  tracts  were  sold  within  the  first  year,  besides  very  large  numbers  in  Ireland  ;  and 
they  continue  to  be  very  extensively  circulated,  in  their  original  form  of  single  tracts,  by  Evans, 
in  Long-lane,  West  Smithfield,  Hatchard  in  Piccadilly,  and  Hazard  in  Bath,  as  well  as  in  three 
bound  volumes,  sold  by  Rivington,  Hatchard,  and  all  other  booksellers. 

As  these  stories,  though  principally,  are  not  calculated  exclusively  for  the  middle  and  lower 
classes  of  society,  the  author  has,  at  the  desire  of  her  friends,  selected  those  which  were  written 
by  herself,  and  presented  them  to  the  public  in  this  collection  of  her  works,  in  an  enlarged  and 
improved  form. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  SALISBURY  PLAIN. 


Mr.  Johnson,  a  very  worthy  charitab’e  gentle¬ 
man,  was  travelling  some  time  ago  8.jross  one 
of  those  vast  plains  which  are  well  known  in 
Wiltshire.  It  was  a  fine  summer’s  evening,  and' 
he  rode  slowly  that  he  might  have  leisure  to 
admire  God  in  the  works  of  his  creation.  For 


this  gentleman  was  of  opinion,  that  a  walk  or  a 
ride  was  as  proper  a  time  as  any  to  think  about 
good  things :  for  which  reason,  on  such  occa¬ 
sions,  he  seldom  thought  so  much  about  his 
money,  or  his  trade,  or  public  news,  as  at  other 
times,  that  he  might  with  more  ease  and  satis 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


131 


faction  enjoy  the  pious  thought  which  the 
wonderful  works  of  the  great  Maker  of  heaven 
and  earth  are  intended  to  raise  in  the  mind. 

As  this  serene  contemplation  of  the  visible 
heavens  insensibly  lifted  up  his  mind  from  the 
works  of  God  in  nature,  to  the  same  God  as  he 
is  seen  in  Revelation,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
this  very  connexion  was  clearly  intimated  by 
the  Royal  Prophet  in  the  nineteenth  Psalm. — 
That  most  beautiful  description  of  the  greatness 
and  power  of  God  e.xhibited  in  the  former  part, 
plainly  seeming  intended  to  introdu«e,  illustrate, 
and  unfold  the  operations  of  the  word  and  Spirit 
of  God  on  the  heart  in  the  latter.  And  he  began 
to  run  a  parallel  in  his  own  mind  between  the 
effects  of  that  highly  poetical  and  glowing  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  material  sun  in  searching  and  warm¬ 
ing  the  earth,  in  the  first  six  verses,  and  the 
spiritual  operation  attributed  to  the  ‘  law  of  God,’ 
which  fills  up  the  remaining  part  of  the  Psalm. 
And  he  persuaded  himself  that  the  divine  Spirit 
which  dictated  this  fine  hymn,  had  left  it  as  a 
kind  of  general  intimation  to  what  use  we  were 
to  convert  our  admiration  of  created  things ; 
namely,  that  we  might  be  led  by  a  sight  of  them 
to  raise  our  views  from  the  kingdom  of  nature 
to  that  of  grace,  and  that  the  contemplation  of 
God  in  his  works  might  draw  us  to  contemplate 
him  in  his  word. 

In  the  midst  of  these  reflections,  Mr.  John¬ 
son’s  attention  was  all  of  a  sudden  called  off  by 
the  barking  of  a  shepherd’s  dog,  and  looking  up 
he  spied  one  of  those  little  huts,  which  are  here 
and  there  to  be  seen  on  those  great  downs ;  and 
near  it  was  the  shepherd  himself  busily  employ¬ 
ed  with  his  dog  in  collecting  together  his  vast 
flock  of  sheep.  As  he  drew  nearer,  he  perceived 
him  to  be  a  clean,  well-looking,  poor  man,  near 
fifty  years  of  age.  His  coat,  though  at  first  it 
had  probably  been  of  one  dark  colour,  had  been 
in  a  long  course  of  years  so  often  patched  with 
different  sorts  of  cloth,  that  it  was  now  become 
hard  to  say  which  had  been  the  original  colour. 
But  this,  while  it  gave  a  plain  proof  of  the  shep¬ 
herd’s  poverty,  equally  proved  the  exceeding 
neatness,  industry  and  good  management  of  his 
wife.  His  stockings  no  less  proved  her  good 
house- wifery,  for  they  were  entirely  covered  with 
darns  of  different  coloured  worsted,  but  had  not 
a  hole  in  them  ;  and  his  shirt,  though  nearly  as 
coarse  as  the  sails  of  a  ship,  was  as  white  as  the 
drifted  snow,  and  was  neatly  mended  where  time 
had  either  made  a  rent,  or  worn  it  thin.  This 
furnishes  a  rule  of  judging,  by  which  one  shall 
seldom  be  deceived.  If  I  meet  with  a  labourer, 
hedging,  ditching,  or  mending  the  highways, 
with  his  stockings  and  shirt  tight  and  whole, 
however  mean  and  bad  his  other  garments  are, 
I  have  seldom  failed,  on  visiting  his  cottage,  to 
find  that  also  clean  and  well  ordered,  and  his 
wife  notable,  and  worthy  of  encouragement. 
Whereas  a  poor  woman,  who  will  be  lying  a-bed, 
or  gossiping  with  her  neighbours  when  she  ought 
to  be  fitting  out  her  husband  in  a  cleanly  man¬ 
ner,  will  seldom  be  found  to  be  very  good  in  other 
respects. 

This  was  not  the  case  with  our  shepherd  : 
and  Mr.  Johnson  was  not  more  struck  with  the 
decency  of  his  mean  and  frugal  dress,  than  with 


his  open  honest  countenance,  which  bore  strong 
marks  of  health,  cheerfulness,  and  spirit. 

Mr.  Johnson,  who  was  on  a  journey,  and 
somewhat  fearful  from  the  appearance  of  the 
sky,  that  rain  was  at  no  great  distance,  accosted 
the  shepherd  with  asking  what  sort  of  weather 
he  thought  it  would  be  on  the  morrow.  ‘  It  will 
be  such  weather  as  pleases  me,’  answered  the 
shepherd.  Though  the  answer  was  delivered 
in  the  mildest  and  most  civil  tone  that  could  be 
imagined,  the  gentleman  thought  the  words 
themselves  rather  rude  and  surly,  and  asked 
him  how  that  could  be.  ‘  Because,’  replied  the 
shepherd,  ‘  it  will  be  such  weather  as  shall  please 
God,  and  whatever  pleases  him  always  pleases 
me.’ 

Mr.  Johnson,  who  delight^  in  good  men  and 
good  things,  was  very  well  satisfied  with  his 
reply.  For  he  justly  thought  that  though  a 
hypocrite  may  easily  contrive  to  appear  better 
than  he  really  is  to  a  stranger ;  and  that  no  one 
should  be  too  soon  trusted,  merely  for  having  a 
few  good  words  in  his  mouth  ;  yet  as  he  knew 
that  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth 
speaketh ;  he  always  accustomed  himself  to 
judge  favorably  of  those  who  had  a  serious  de¬ 
portment  and  solid  manner  of  speaking.  It 
looks  as  if  it  proceeded  from  a  good  habit,  said 
he,  and  though  I  may  now  and  then  be  deceived 
by  it,  yet  it  has  not  often  happened  to  me  to  be 
so.  Whereas  if  a  man  accosts  me  with  an  idle, 
dissolute,  vulgar,  indecent,  or  profane  expres¬ 
sion,  I  have  never  been  deceived  in  him,  but 
have  generally  on  inquiry  found  his  character 
to  be  as  bad  as  his  language  gave  me  room  to 
expect. 

He  entered  into  conversation  with  the  shep 
herd  in  the  following  manner:  ‘Your’s  is  a 
troublesome  life,  honest  friend,’  said  he.  ‘  To  be 
sure,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  ’tis  not  a  very 
lazy  life  ;  but  ’tis  not  near  so  toilsome  as  that 
which  my  Great  Master  led  for  my  sake  ;  and 
he  had  every  state  and  condition  of  life  at  his 
choice,  and  chose  a  hard  one  ;  while  I  only  sub¬ 
mit  to  the  lot  that  is  appointed  to  me.’  ‘  You 
are  exposed  to  great  cold  and  heat,’  said  the 
gentleman  :  ‘  True,  sir,’  said  the  shepherd  ;  ‘  but 
then  I  am  not  exposed  to  great  temptations  ;  and 
so  throwing  one  thing  against  another,  God  is 
pleased  to  contrive  to  make  things  more  equal 
than  we  poor,  ignorant,  short-sighted  creatures, 
are  apt  to  think.  David  was  happier  when  he 
kept  his  father’s  sheep  on  such  a  plain  as  this, 
and.employed  in  singing  some  of  his  own  Psalms 
perhaps,  than  ever  he  was  when  he  became  king 
of  Israel  and  Judah.  And  I  dare  say  we  should 
never  have  had  some  of  the  most  beautiful  texts 
in  all  those  fine  Psalms,  if  he  had  not  been  a 
shepherd,  which  enabled  him  to  make  so  many 
fine  comparisons  and  similitudes,  as  one  may 
say,  from  country  life,  flocks  of  sheep,  hills,  and 
vallies,  fields  of  corn,  and  fountains  of  water.’ 

‘  You  think  then,’  said  the  gentleman,  ‘  that  a 
laborious  life  is  a  happy  one.’  ‘  I  do,  sir ;  and 
more  so  especially,  as  it  exposes  a  man  to  fewer 
sins.  If  king  Saul  had  continued  a  poor  labori¬ 
ous  man  to  the  end  of  his  days,  he  might  havo 
lived  happy  and  honest,  and  died  a  natural  death 
in  his  bed  at  last,  which  you  know,  sir  was 


192 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


more  than  he  did.  But  I  speak  with  reverence, 
for  it  was  divine  Providence  overruled  all  that, 
you  know  sir,  and  I  do  not  presume  to  make 
comparisons. — Besides,  sir,  my  employment  has 
been  particularly  honoured — Moses  was  a  shep¬ 
herd  in  the  plains  of  Midian.  It  was  to  “  shep¬ 
herds  keeping  their  flocks  by  night,”  that  the 
angels  appeared  in  Bethlehem,  to  tell  the  best 
news,  the  gladdest  tidings,  that  ever  were  re¬ 
vealed  to  poor  sinful  men  ;  often  and  often  has 
the  thought  warmed  my  poor  heart  in  the  cold¬ 
est  night,  and  filled  me  with  more  joy  and  thank¬ 
fulness  than  the  best  supper  could  have  done.’ 

Here  the  shepherd  stopped,  for  he  began  to 
feel  that  he  had  made  too  free,  and  talked  too 
long.  But  Mr.  Johnson  was  so  well  pleased  with 
what  he  said,  and, with  the  cheerful  contented 
manner  in  which  he  said  it,  that  he  desired  him 
to  go  on  freely,  for  that  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him 
to  meet  with  a  plain  man,  who,  without  any 
kind  of  learning  but  what  he  had  got  from  the 
Bible,  was  able  to  talk  so  well  on  a  subject  in 
which  all  men,  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  are 
equally  concerned. 

‘  Indeed  I  am  afraid  I  make  too  bold,  sir,  for 
it  better  becomes  me  to  listen  to  such  a  gentle¬ 
man  as  you  seem  to  be,  than  to  talk  in  my  poor 
way :  but  as  I  was  saying,  sir,  I  wonder  all 
working  men  do  not  derive  as  great  joy  and  de¬ 
light  as  1  do  from  thinking  how  God  has  ho¬ 
noured  poverty  !  Oh  !  sir,  what  great,  or  rich, 
or  mighty  men  have  had  such  honour  put  on 
them,  or  their  condition,  as  shepherds,  tent- 
makers,  fishermen,  and  carpenters  have  had  ? 
Besides,  it  seems  as  if  God  honoured  indus- 
try  also.  The  way  of  duty  is  not  only  the  way 
of  safety,  but  it  is  remarkable  how  many  in  the 
exercise  of  the  common  duties  of  their  calling, 
humbly  and  rightly  performed,  as  we  may  sup¬ 
pose,  have  found  honours,  preferment,  and  bless¬ 
ing  :  while  it  does  not  occur  to  me  that  the 
whole  sacred  volume  presents  a  single  instance 
of  a  like  blessing  conferred  on  idleness.  Re- 
bekah,  Rachel,  and  Jethro’s  daughters,  were 
diligently  employed  in  the  lowest  occupations  of 
a  country  life,  when  Providence,  by  means  of 
those  very  occupations,  raised  them  up  husbands 
so  famous  in  history,  as  Isaac,  Jacob,  and  the 
prophet  Moses.  The  shepherds  were  neither 
playing  nor  sleeping,  but  “  watching  their 
flocks,”  when  they  received  the  news  of  a  Sa¬ 
viour’s  birth  :  and  the  woman  of  Samaria,  by 
the  laborious  office  of  drawing  water,  was 
brought  to  the  knowledge  of  Him  who  gave  her 
to  drink  of  “  living  water.” 

‘  My  honest  friend,’  said  the  gentleman,  ‘  I 
perceive  you  are  well  acquainted  with  scripture.’ 
— ‘  Yes,  sir,  pretty  well,  blessed  be  God!  through 
liis  mercy  I  learned  to  read  when  I  was  a  little 
boy  ;  though  reading  was  not  so  common  when 
I  was  a  child,  as  I  am  told,  through  the  good¬ 
ness  of  Providence  and  the  generosity  of  the 
rich,  it  is  likely  to  become  now-a-days.  I  be¬ 
lieve  there  is  no  day  for  the  last  thirty  years 
that  I  have  not  peeped  at  my  Bible.  If  we  can't 
find  time  to  read  a  chapter,  I  defy  any  man  to 
say  he  can’t  find  time  to  read  a  verse :  and  a 
single  text,  sir,  well  followed,  and  put  in  prac¬ 
tice  every  day,  would  make  no  bad  figure  at  the 
year’s  end ;  tJireo  hundred  and  sixty-five  texts. 


without  the  loss  of  a  moment’s  time,  would 
make  a  pretty  stock,  a  little  golden  treasury,  as 
one  may  say,  from  new-year’s  day  to  new-year’s 
day  ;  and  if  children  were  brought  up  to  it,  tliey 
would  come  to  look  for  their  text  as  naturally  as 
they  do  for  their  breakfast.  No  labouring  man, 
’tis  true,  has  so  much  leisure  as  a  shepherd,  for 
while  the  flock  is  feeding  I  am  obliged  to  be 
still,  and  at  such  times  I  can  now  and  then  tap 
a  shoe  for  my  children  or  myself,  which  is  a 
great  saving  to  us,  and  while  I  am  doing  that  I 
repeat  a  chapter  or  a  psalm,  which  makes  the 
time  pass  pleasantly  in  this  wild  solitary  place. 
I  can  say  the  best  part  of  the  New  Testament 
by  heart;  I  believe  I  should  not  say  the  best 
part,  for  every  part  is  good,  but  I  mean  the 
greatest  part.  I  have  led  but  a  lonely  life,  and 
have  often  had  but  little  to  eat,  but  my  Bible, 
has  been  meat,  drink,  and  company  to  me,  as  I 
may  say,  and  when  want  and  trouble  have  come 
upon  me,  I  don’t  know  what  I  should  have  done 
indeed,  sir,  if  I  had  not  had  the  promises  of  this 
book  for  my  stay  and  support.’ 

‘  You  have  had  great  difficulties  then  ?’  said 
Mr.  Johnson.  ‘  Why,  as  to  that,  sir,  not  more 
than  neighbours’  fare  ;  I  have  but  little  cause 
to  complain,  and  much  to  be  thankful;  but  I 
have  had  some  little  struggles,  as  I  will  leave 
you  to  judge.  I  have  a  wife  and  eight  children, 
whom  I  bred  up  in  that  little  cottage  which  you 
see  under  the  hill,  about  half  a  mile  off.’  ‘  what, 
that  with  the  smoke  coming  out  of  the  chimney?’ 
said  the  gentleman.  ‘  O  no,  sir,’  replied  the 
shepherd,  smiling,  ‘  we  have  seldom  smoke  in 
the  evening,  for  we  have  little  to  cook,  and  firing 
is  very  dear  in  these  parts.  ’Tis  that  cottage 
which  you  see  on  the  left  hand  of  the  church, 
near  that  little  tuft  of  hawthorns.’ — ‘  What,  tliat 
hovel  with  only  one  room  above  and  below,  with 
searcely  any  chimney  ?  how  is  it  ])ossible  that 
you  can  live  there  with  such  a  family  ?’  ‘  O  it 

is  very  possible,  and  very  certain  too,’  cried  the 
shepherd.  *  How  many  better  men  have  been 
worse  lodged  !  how  many  good  Christians  have 
perished  in  prisons  and  dungeons,  in  compari¬ 
son  of  which  my  cottage  is  a  palace  !  The  house 
is  very  well,  sir;  and  if  the  rain  did  not  some¬ 
times  beat  down  upon  us  through  the  thatch 
when  we  are  a-bed,  I  should  not  desire  a  better  ; 
for  I  have  health,  peace,  and  liberty,  and  no  man 
maketh  me  afraid.’ 

‘  Well,  I  will  certainly  call  on  you  before  it 
be  long ;  but  how  can  you  contrive  to  lodge  so 
many  children?’  ‘  We  do  the  best  we  can,  sir. 
My  poor  wife  is  a  very  sickly  woman  ;  or  we 
should  always  have  done  tolerably  well.  There 
are  no  gentry  in  the  parish,  so  that  she  has  not 
met  with  any  great  assistance  in  her  sickness. 
The  good  curate  of  the  parish,  who  lives  in  that 
pretty  parsonage  in  the  valley,  is  very  willing, 
but  not  very  able  to  assist  us  on  these  trying 
occasions,  for  he  has  little  enough  for  himself, 
and  a  large  family  into  the  bargain.  Yet  he 
does  what  he  can,  and  more  than  many  other 
men  do,  and  more  than  he  can  well  afford.  Be- 
sides  that,  his  prayers  and  good  advice  wc  are 
always  sure  of,  and  we  are  truly  thankful  for 
that,  for  a  man  must  give,  you  know,  sir,  ac¬ 
cording  to  what  he  hath,  and  not  according  to 
what  he  hath  not.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


193 


‘  I  am  afraid,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  that  your 
difficulties  may  sometimes  lead  you  to  repine.’ 

‘No,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘it  pleases 
God  to  give  me  two  ways  of  bearing  up  under 
them.  I  pray  that  they  may  be  either  removed 
or  sanctified  to  me.  Besides,  if  my  road  be 
right  I  am  contented  though  it  be  rough  and 
uneven.  I  do  not  so  much  stagger  at  hardships 
in  the  right  way,  as  I  dread  a  false  security, 
and  a  hollow  peace,  while  I  may  be  walking  in 
a  more  smoth,  but  less  safe  way.  Besides,  sir, 
I  strengthen  my  faith  by  recollecting  what  the 
beat  men  have  suffered,  and  my  hope,  with  the 
view  of  the  shortness  of  all  suffering.  It  is  a 
good  hint,  sir,  of  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  pos¬ 
sessions,  that  though  the  whole  Land  of  Pro¬ 
mise  was  his,  yet  the  first  bit  of  ground  which 
Abraham,  the  father  of  the  faithful,  got  posses¬ 
sion  of,  in  the  land  of  Canaan,  was  a  grave, 

‘  Are  you  in  any  distress  at  present  ?’  said  Mr. 
Johnson.  ‘  No,  sir,  thank  God,’  replied  the  shep¬ 
herd.  ‘  I  get  my  shilling  a-day,  and  most  of  my 
children  will,  soon  be  able  to  earn  something ; 
for  we  have  only  three  under  five  years  old.’ — 
*  Only  !’  said  the  gentleman,  ‘  that  is  a  heavy 
burden.’ — ‘Not  at  all;  God  fits  the  back  to  it. 
Though  my  wife  is  not  able  to  do  any  out-of- 
door  work,  yet  she  breeds  up  our  children  to 
such  habits  of  industry,  that  our  little  maids,  be¬ 
fore  they  are  six  years  old,  can  first  get  a  half¬ 
penny,  and  then  a  penny  a  day  by  knitting.  The 
boys,  who  are  too  little  to  do  hard  work,  get  a 
trifle  by  keeping  the  birds  off  the  corn  ;  for  this 
the  farmers  w  ill  give  them  a  penny  or  two  pence, 
and  now  and  then  a  bit  of  bread  and  cheese  into 
the  bargain.  When  the  season  of  crow-keeping 
is  over,  then  they  glean  or  pick  stones  ;  any  thing 
is  better  than  idleness,  sir,  and  if  they  did  not 
get  a  farthing  by  it,  I  would  make  them  do  it 
just  the  same,  for  the  sake  of  giving  them  early 
habits  of  labour. 

‘  So  you  see,  sir,  I  am  not  so  badly  off  as 
many  are  ;  nay,  if  it  were  not  that  it  costs  me 
so  much  in  ’pothecary’s  stuff  for  my  poor  wife, 
I  should  reckon  myself  well  off,  nay  I  do  reckon 
myself  well  off ;  for  blessed  be  God,  ho  has 
granted  her  life  to  my  prayers,  and  I  would 
work  myself  to  a  ’natomy,  and  live  on  one  meal 
a  day,  to  add  any  comfort  to  her  valuable  life  ; 
indeed  I  have  often  done  the  last,  and  thought  it 
no  great  matter  neither.’ 

While  they  were  in  this  part  of  the  discourse, 
a  fine  plump  cherry-cheek  little  girl  ran  up  out 
breath,  with  a  smile  on  her  young  happy  face, 
and  without  taking  any  notice  of  the  gentleman, 
cried  out  with  great  joy — ‘Look  here,  father, 
only  see  how  much  1  have  got !’  Mr.  Johnson 
was  much  struck  with  her  simplicity,  but  puz¬ 
zled  to  know  what  was  the  occasion  of  this  great 
joy.  On  looking  at  her  he  perceived  a  small 
quantity  of  coarse  wool,  some  of  which  had 
found  its  way  through  the  holes  of  her  clean, 
but  scanty  and  ragged  woollen  apron.  The 
father  said,  ‘  this  has  been  a  successful  day  in¬ 
deed,  Molly,  but  don’t  you  see  the  gentleman  V 
Molly  now  made  a  curtesy  down  to  the  very 
ground  ;  while  Mr.  Johnson  inquired  into  the 
cause  of  mutual  satisfaction  which  both  father 
and  daughter  had  expressed,  at  the  unusual  good 
fortune  of  the  day 

Vox..  I.  N 


‘  Sir,’  said  the  shepherd,  ‘  poverty  is  a  great 
sharpener  of  the  wits — My  wife  and  I  cannot 
endure  to  see  our  children  (poof  as  they  are,) 
without  shoes  and  stockings,  not  only  on  ac¬ 
count  of  the  pinching  cold  which  cramps  their 
poor  little  limbs,  but  because  it  degrades  and 
debases  them  ;  and  poor  people  who  have  but 
little  regard  to  appearances,  will  seldom  be 
found  to  have  any  great  regard  for  honesty  and 
goodness;  I  don’t  say  this  is  always  the  case; 
but  I  arn  sure  it  is  so  too  often.  Now  shoes  and 
stockings  being  very  dear,  we  could  never  afford 
to  get  them  without  a  little  contrivance.  I  must 
show  you  how  I  manage  about  the  shoes  when 
you  condescend  to  call  at  our  cottage,  sir  ;  as  to 
stockings,  this  is  one  way  we  take  to  help  to 
get  them.  My  young  ones,  who  are  too  little  to 
do  much  work,  sometimes  wander  at  odd  hours 
over  the  hills  for  the  chance  of  finding  what 
little  wool  the  sheep  may  drop  when  they  rub 
themselves,  as  they  are  apt  to  do  against  the 
bushes.*  These  scattered  bits  of  wool  the  ehil- 
dren  pick  out  of  the  brambles,  which  I  see  have 
torn  sad  holes  in  Molly’s  apron  to-day ;  they 
carry  this  wool  home,  and  when  they  have  got 
a  pretty  parcel  together,  their  mother  cards  it ; 
for  she  can  sit  and  card  in  the  chimney  corner, 
when  she  is  not  able  to  wash  or  work  about 
house.  The  biggest  girl  then  spins  it ;  it  does 
very  well  for  us  without  dying,  for  poor  people 
must  not  stand  for  the  colour  of  their  stockings. 
After  this  our  little  boys  knit  it  for  themselves, 
while  they  are  employed  in  keeping  cows  in  the 
fields,  and  after  they  get  homo  at  night.  As  for 
the  knitting  which  the  girls  and  their  mother 
do,  that  is  chiefly  for  sale,  which  helps  to  pay 
our  rent.’ 

Mr.  Johnson  lifted  up  his  eyes  in  silent  asto¬ 
nishment,  at  the  shifts  which  honest  poverty 
can  make  rather  than  beg  or  steal ;  and  was 
surprised  to  think  how  many  ways  of  subsisting 
there  are,  which  those  who  live  at  their  ease 
little  suspect.  He  secretly  resolved  to  be  more 
attentive  to  his  own  petty  expenses  than  he  had 
hitherto  been ;  and  to  be  more  watchful  that  no¬ 
thing  was  wasted  in  his  family. 

But  to  return  to  the  shepherd.  Mr.  Johnson 
told  him  that  as  he  must  needs  bo  at  his  friend’s 
house,  who  lived  many  miles  off,  that  night,  he 
could  not  as  he  wished  to  do,  make  a  visit  to  his 
cottage  at  present.  ‘  But  I  will  certainly  do  it,’ 
said  he,  ‘  on  my  return,  for  I  long  to  see  your 
wife  and  her  nice  little  family,  and  to  be  an  eye¬ 
witness  of  her  neatness  and  good  management. 
The  poor  man’s  tears  started  into  his  eyes  on 
he.aring  the  commendation  bestowed  on  his  wife; 
and  wiping  them  off  with  the  sleeve  of  his  coat; 
for  he  was  not  worth  a  handkerchief  in  the 
world,  he  said — ‘Oh,  sir,  you  just  now,  I  am 
afraid  called  me  an  humble  man,  but  indeed  I 
am  a  very  proud  one.’ — ‘  Proud !’  cxelaiined 
Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  I  hope  not — Pride  is  a  great  sin, 
and  as  the  poor  are  liable  to  it  as  well  as  the 
rich,  so  good  a  man  as  you  seem  to  be,  ought  to 
guard  against  it.’ — ‘  Sir,’  said  he,  ‘  you  are  right, 
but  I  am  not  proud  of  myself,  God  knows  1  have 
nothing  to  be  proud  of.  I  am  a  poor  sinner,  but 

*  This  piece  of  frugal  industry  is  not  imaginary,  but 
a  real  fact,  as  is  the  character  of  the  shepherd,  and  his 
uncommon  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures. 


194 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


indeed,  sir,  I  am  proud  of  my  wife :  she  is  not 
only  the  most  tidy,  notable  woman  on  the  plain, 
but  she  is  the  kindest  wife  and  mother,  and  the 
most  contented,  thankful  Christian  that  I  know. 
Last  year  I  thought  I  should  have  lost  her  in  a 
violent  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  caught  by  going 
to  work  too  soon  after  her  lying-in,  I  fear ;  for 
’tis  but  a  bleak  coldish  place,  as  you  may  see, 
sir,  in  winter,  and  sometimes  the  snow  lies  so 
long  under  the  hill,  that  I  can  hardly  make  my¬ 
self  a  path  to  get  out  and  buy  a  few  necessaries 
in  the  next  village ;  and  we  are  afraid  to  send 
out  the  children,  for  fear  they  should  be  lost 
when  the  snow  is  deep.  So,  as  I  was  saying, 
the  poor  soul  was  very  bad  indeed,  and  for 
several  weeks  lost  the  use  of  all  her  limbs  ex¬ 
cept  her  hands ;  a  merciful  Providence  spared 
her  the  use  of  these,  so  that  when  she  could  not 
turn  in  her  bed,  she  could  contrive  to  patch  a 
rag  or  two  for  her  family.  She  was  always 
saying,  had  it  not  been  for  the  great  goodness 
of  God,  she  might  have  had  her  hands  lame  as 
well  as  her  feet,  or  the  palsy  instead  of  the 
rheumatism,  and  then  she  could  have  done  no¬ 
thing — but,  nobody  had  so  many  mercies  as  she 
had. 

‘  I  will  not  tell  you  what  we  suffered  during 
that  bitter  weather,  sir,  but  my  wife’s  faith  and 
patience  during  that  trying  time,  were  as  good 
a  lesson  to  me  as  any  sermon  I  could  hear,  and 
yet  Mr.  Jenkins  gave  us  very  comfortable  ones 
too,  that  helped  to  keep  up  my  spirits.’ 

‘  I  fear,  shepherd,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  you 
have  found  this  to  be  but  a  bad  world.’ 

‘  Yes,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  but  it  is 
governed  by  a  good  God.  And  though  my 
trials  have  now  and  then  been  sharp,  why  then, 
sir,  as  the  saying  is,  if  the  pain  be  violent,  it  is 
seldom  lasting,  and  if  it  be  but  moderate,  why 
then  we  can  bear  it  the  longer,  and  when  it  is 
quite  taken  away,  ease  is  the  more  precious, 
and  gratitude  is  quickened  by  the  remem¬ 
brance  ;  thus  every  way,  and  in  every  case,  I 
can  always  find  out  a  reason  for  vindicating 
Providence.’ 

‘But,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  how  do  you  do  to 
support  yourself  under  the  pressure  of  actual 
want.  Is  not  hunger  a  great  weakener  of  your 
faith  ?’ 

‘  Sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  I  endeavour  to 
live  upon  the  promises.  You  who  abound  in 
the  good  things  of  this  world  are  apt  to  set  too 
high  a  value  on  them.  Suppose,  sir,  the  king, 
seeing  me  at  hard  work,  were  to  say  to  me,  that, 
if  I  would  patiently  work  on  till  Christmas,  a 
fine  palace  and  a  great  estate  should  be  the  re¬ 
ward  of  my  labours.  Do  you  think,  sir,  that 
a  little  hunger,  or  a  little  wet,  would  make  me 
flinch,  when  I  was  sure  that  a  few  months 
would  put  me  in  possession  !  Should  I  not  say 
to  myself  frequently — cheer  up,  shepherd,  ’tis 
but  till  Christinas  !  now  is  there  not  much  less 
difference  between  this  supposed  day  and  Christ¬ 
mas,  when  I  should  take  possession  of  the  es¬ 
tate  and  palace,  than  there  is  between  time  and 
eternity,  when  I  am  sure  of  entering  on  a  king¬ 
dom  not  made  with  hands  7  There  is  some  com¬ 
parison  between  a  moment  and  a  thousand  years, 
because  a  thousand  years  are  made  up  of  mo- 
«>cnts,  all  lime  being  made  up  of  the  same  sort 


of  stuff,  as  I  may  say  ;  while  there  is  no  sort  of 
comparison  between  the  longest  portion  of  time' 
and  eternity.  You  know,  sir,  there  is  no  way 
of  measuring  two  things,  one  of  which  has 
length  and  breadth,  which  shows  it  must  have 
an  end  somewhere,  and  another  thing,  which 
being  eternal,  is  without  end  and  without  mea 
sure.’ 

‘Bat,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘is  not  the  fear  of 
death  sometimes  too  strong  for  your  faith  ?’ 

‘Blessed  be  God,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd, 

‘  the  dark  passage  through  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,  is  made  safe  by  the  power  of 
Him  who  conquered  death.  I  know,  indeed, 
we  shall  go  as  naked  out  of  this  world  as  wo 
came  into  it,  but  an  humble  penitent  will 
not  be  found  naked  in  the  other  world,  sir.  My 
Bible  tells  me  of  garments  of  praise,  and  robes 
of  righteousness.  And  is  it  not  a  support,  sir, 
under  any  of  the  petty  difficulties  and  distresses 
here,  to  be  assured  by  the  word  of  Him  who 
cannot  lie,  that  those  who  were  in  white  robes 
came  out  of  tribulation  ?  But,  sir,  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  being  so  talkative.  Indeed  you 
great  folks  can  hardly  imagine  how  it  raises 
and  cheers  a  poor  man’s  heart,  when  such  as 
you  condescend  to  talk  familiarly  to  him  on  re- 
ligious  subjects.  It  seems  to  be  a  practical 
comment  on  that  text  which  says,  the  rich  and 
the  poor  meet  together,  the  Lord  is  the  maker  Oj 
them  all.  And  so  far  from  creating  disrespect, 
sir,  and  that  nonsensical  wicked  notion  about 
equality,  it  rather  prevents  it.  But  to  turn  to 
my  wife.  One  Sunday  afternoon  when  she 
was  at  the  worst,  as  I  was  coming  out  of 
church,  for  I  went  one  part  of  the  day,  and 
my  eldest  daughter  the  other,  so  my  poor  wife 
was  never  left  alone  ;  as  I  was  coming  out  of 
church,  I  say,  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  minister,  called 
out  to  me  and  asked  me  how  my  wife  did,  saying 
he  had  been  kept  from  coming  to  see  her  by  the 
deep  fall  of  snow,  and  indeed  from  the  parson- 
age-house  to  my  hovel  it  was  quite  impas.sablc. 
I  gave  him  all  the  particulars  he  asked,  and  I 
am  afraid  a  good  many  more,  for  my  heart  was 
quite  full.  He  kindly  gave  me  a  shilling,  and 
said  he  would  certainly  try  to  pick  out  his  way 
and  come  and  see  her  in  a  day  or  two. 

‘  While  he  was  talking  to  me  a  plain  farmer¬ 
looking  gentleman  in  boots,  who  stood  by,  listen¬ 
ed  to  all  I  said,  but  seemed  to  take  no  notice. 
It  was  Mr.  Jenkin’s  wife’s  father,  who  was  come 
to  pass  the  Christmas-holidays  at  the  parsonage- 
house.  I  had  always  heard  him  spioken  of  as 
a  plain  frugal  man,  who  lived  close  himself, 
but  was  remarked  to  give  away  more  than  any 
of  his  show-away  neighbours. 

‘  Well !  I  went  home  with  great  spirits  at 
this  seasonable  and  unexpeeted  supply ;  for  we 
had  lapped  our  last  sixpence,  and  there  was 
little  work  to  be  had  on  account  of  the  weather. 

I  told  my  wife  I  had  not  come  back  empty- 
handed. — ‘No,  I  dare  say  not,’  says  she,  ‘you 
have  been  serving  a  master  who  Jilletk  the 
hungry  with  good  things,  though  he  sendelh  the 
rich  empty  away.'  True ;  Mary,  says  I,  we 
seldom  fail  to  get  good  spiritual  food  from  Mr. 
Jenkins,  but  to-day  he  has  kindly  supplied  our 
bodily  wants.  She  was  more  thankful  when  1 
showed  her  the  shilling,  than,  I  dare  sav,  some 


Tli£;  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ot  your  great  people  are  wheh  they  get  a  hun¬ 
dred  pounds.’ 

Mr.  Johnson’s  heart  smote  him  when  he 
heard  such  a  value  set  upon  a  shilling  ;  surely, 
said  he  to  himself,  I  will  never  waste  another ; 
hut  he  said  nothing  to  the  shepherd,  who  thus 
pursued  his  story  : 

‘  Ne.xt  morniug  before  I  went  out,  I  sent  part 
of  the  money  to  buy  a  little  ale  and  brown  sugar 
to  put  into  her  water-gruel ;  which  you  know, 
sir,  made  it  nice  and  nourishing.  I  went  out 
to  cleave  wood  in  a  farm-yard,  for  there  was  no 
standing  out  on  tlie  plain,  after  such  snow  as 
had  fallen  in  the  night.  I  went  with  a  lighter 
heart  than  usual,  because  I  had  left  my  poor 
wife  a  little  better,  and  comfortably  supplied  for 
this  day,  and  I  now  resolved  more  than  ever  to 
trust  God  for  the  supplies  of  the  next.  When 
I  came  back  at  night,  my  wife  fell  a  crying  as 
soon  as  she  saw  me-  This,  I  own,  I  thought 
but  a  bad  return  for  the  blessings  she  had  so 
lately  received,  and  so  I  told  her. — ‘  Oh,’  said 
she,  ‘  it  is  too  much,  we  are  too  rich ;  I  am  now 
frightened,  not  lest  we  should  have  no  portion 
in  this  world,  bJit  for  fear  we  should  have  our 
whole  portion  in  it.  Look  here,  John  I’  So  say¬ 
ing,  she  uncovered  the  bed  whereon  she  lay, 
and  showed  me  two  warm,  thick,  new  blankets. 
I  could  not  believe  my  own  eyes,  sir,  because 
when  I  went  out  in  the  morning,  I  had  left  her 
with  no  other  covering  than  our  little  old,  thin, 
blue  rug.  I  was  still  more  amazed  when  she 
put  half  a  crown  into  my  hand,  telling  me  she 
had  had  a  visit  from  Mr.  Jenkins,  and  Mr. 
Jones,  the  latter  of  whom  had  bestowed  all  these 
good  things  upon  us.  Thus,  sir,  have  our  lives 
been  crowned  with  mercies.  My  wife  got 
about  again,  and  I  do  believe,  under  Providence, 
it  was  owing  to  these  comforts ;  for  the  rheu¬ 
matism,  sir,  without  blankets  by  night,  and 
flannel  by  day,  is  but  a  baddish  job,  especially 
to  people  who  have  little  or  no  fire.  She  will 
always  be  a  weakly  body ;  but  thank  God  her 
soul  prospers  and  is  in  health.  But  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  for  talking  on  at  this  rate.’ — ‘  Not 
at  all,  not  at  all,’  said  Mr.  Johnson  ;  ‘  I  am  much 
pleased  with  your  story,  you  shall  certainly  see 
me  in  a  few  days.  Good  night.’  So  saying, 
he  slipped  a  crown  into  his  hand  and  rode  olF. 
Surely,  said  the  shepherd,  goodness  and  mercy 
have  followed  me  all  the  days  of  my  life,  as  he 
gave  the  money  to  his  wife  when  he  got  home 
at  night. 

As  to  Mr.  Johnson,  he  found  abundant,  mat¬ 
ter  for  his  thoughts  during  the  rest  of  his  jour¬ 
ney.  On  the  whole,  he  was  more  disposed  to 
envy  than  to  pity  the  shepherd.  I  have  seldom 
seen,  said  he,  so  happy  a  man.  It  is  a  sort  of 
happiness  which  the  world  could  not  give,  and 
which  I  plainly  see,  it  has  not  been  able  to  take 
away.  This  must  be  the  true  spirit  of  religion. 
I  see  more  and  more,  that  true  goodness  is  not 
merely  a  thing  of  words  and  opinions,  but  a 
living  principle  brought  into  every  common  ac¬ 
tion  of  a  man’s  life.  What  else  could  have  sup¬ 
ported  tills  poor  couple  under  every  bitter  trial 
of  want  and  sickness  ?  No,  my  honest  shepherd, 
I  dij  not  pity,  but  I  respect  and  even  honour 
thee  ;  and  I  will  visit  thy  poor  hovel  on  my  re¬ 


]95^ 

turn  to  Salisbury,  with  as  much  pleasure  as  I 
am  now  going  to  the  house  of  my  friend. 

If  Mr.  Johnson  keeps  his  word  in  sending 
me  an  account  of  his  visit  to  the  shepherd’s 
cottage,  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  entertain  my 
readers  with  it. 


PART  II. 

I  AM  willing  to  hope  that  my  readers  will  not 
be  sorry  to  hear  some  farther  particulars  of 
their  old  acquaintance,  the  Shepherd  of  Salis¬ 
bury  Plain.  They  will  call  to  mind  that  at  the 
end  of  the  first  part,  he  was  returning  home  full 
of  gratitude  for  the  favours  he  had  received 
from  Mr.  Johnson,  whom  we  left  pursuing  his 
journey,  after  having  promised  to  make  a  visit 
to  the  shepherd’s  cottage. 

Mr.  Johnson,  after  having  passed  some  time 
with  his  friend,  set  out  on  his  return  to  Salis¬ 
bury,  and  on  the  Saturday  evening  reached  a 
very  small  inn,  a  mile  or  two  distant  from  the 
shepherd’s  village  ;  for  he  never  travelled  on  a 
Sunday  without  such  a  reason  as  he  might  be 
able  to  produce  at  the  day  of  judgment.  He 
went  the  next  morning  to  the  church  nearest 
the  house  where  he  had  passed  the  night ;  and 
after  taking  such  refreshment  as  he  could  get 
at  that  house,  he  walked  on  to  find  out  the  shep¬ 
herd’s  cottage.  His  reason  for  visiting  him  on 
a  Sunday  was  chiefly  because  he  supposed  it  to 
be  the  only  day  which  the  shepherd’s  employ¬ 
ment  allowed  him  to  pass  at  home  wdth  his  fa¬ 
mily  ;  and  as  Mr.  Johnson  had  been  struck  with 
his  talk,  he  thought  it  would  be  neither  un¬ 
pleasant  or  unprofitable  to  observe  how  a  man 
who  carried  such  an  appearance  of  piety  spent 
his  Sunday  :  for  though  he  was  so  low  in  the 
world,  this  gentleman  was  not  above  entering 
very  closely  into  his  character,  of  which  he 
thought  he  should  be  able  to  form  a  better  judg¬ 
ment,  by  seeing  whether  his  practice  at  home 
kept  pace  with  his  professions  abroad ;  for  it  is 
not  so  much  by  observing  how  people  talk,  as 
how  they  live,  that  we  ought  to  judge  of  their 
characters. 

After  a  pleasant  walk,  Mr.  Johnson  got  with- 
in  sight  of  the  cottage,  to  which  he  was  direct¬ 
ed  by  the  clump  of  hawthorns  and  the  broken 
chimney.  He  wished  to  take  the  family  by 
surprise  ;  and  walking  gently  up  to  the  house 
he  stood  awhile  to  listen.  The  door  being  half 
open  he  saw  the  shepherd  who  (looked  so  re. 
spectable  in  his  Sunday  coat  that  he  should  hard¬ 
ly  have  known  him)  his  wife,  and  their  nu¬ 
merous  young  family,  drawing  round  their  little 
table,  which  was  covered  with  a  clean,  though 
very  coarse  cloth.  There  stood  on  it  a  large 
dish  of  potatoes,  a  brown  pitcher,  and  a  piece  of 
a  coarse  loaf.  The  wife  and  children  stood  in 
silent  attention,  while  the  shepherd,  with  up¬ 
lifted  hands  and  eyes,  devoutly  begged  the  bles¬ 
sing  of  heaven  on  their  homely  fare.  Mr. 
Johnson  could  not  help  sighing  to  reflect,  that 
he  had  sometimes  seen  better  dinners  eaten  with 
less  appearance  of  thankfulness. 

The  siiephord  and  his  wife  sat  down  witli 


196 


THE  'WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


great  seeming  cheerfulness,  but  the  children 
stood ;  and  while  the  mother  was  helping  them, 
little  fresh-coloured  Molly,  who  had  picked  the 
wool  from  the  bushes  with  so  much  delight, 
cried  out,  ‘  Father  I  wish  I  was  big  enough  to 
say  grace,  I  am  sure  I  should  say  it  very  hearti¬ 
ly  to-day,  for  I  was  thinking  what  must  poor 
people  do  who  have  no  salt  to  their  potatoes  ; 
and  do  but  look,  our  dish  is  quite  full.’ — ‘  That 
is  the  true  way  of  thinking,  Molly,’  said  the 
father ;  ‘  in  whatever  concerns  bodily  wants  and 
bodily  comforts,  it  is  our  duty  to  compare  our 
own  lot  with  the  lot  of  those  who  are  worse  off, 
and  will  keep  us  thankful :  on  the  other  hand, 
whenever  we  are  tempted  to  set  up  our  own 
wisdom  or  goodness,  we  must  compare  ourselves 
with  those  who  are  wiser  and  better,  and  that 
will  keep  us  humble.’  Molly  was  now  so  hun¬ 
gry,  and  found  the  potatoes  so  good,  that  she 
had  no  time  to  make  any  more  remarks ;  but 
was  devouring  her  dinner  very  heartily,  when 
the  barking  of  the  great  dog  drew  her  attention 
from  her  trencher  to  the  door,  and  spying  the 
stranger,  she  cried  out,  ‘Look  father,  see  here, 
if  yonder  is  not  the  good  gentleman  !’  Mr.  John¬ 
son  finding  himself  discovered,  immediately 
walked  in,  and  was  heartily  welcomed  by  the 
honest  shepherd,  who  told  his  wife  that  this  was 
the  gentleman  to  whom  they  were  so  much 
obliged. 

The  good  woman  began,  as  some  very  neat 
people  are  rather  apt  to  do,  with  making  many 
apologies  that  her  house  was  not  cleaner,  and 
that  things  were  not  in  a  fitter  order  to  receive 
such  a  gentleman.  Mr.  Johnson,  however,  on 
looking  round,  could  discover  nothing  but  the 
most  perfect  neatness.  The  trenchers  on  which 
they  were  eating,  were  almost  as  white  as  their 
•linen ;  and  notwithstanding  the  number  and 
smallness  of  the  children,  there  was  not  the  least 
appearance  of  dirt  or  litter.  The  furniture  was 
very  simple  and  poor,  hardly  indeed  amounting 
to  bare  necessaries.  It  consisted  of  four  brown 
wooden  chairs,  which  by  constant  rubbing,  were 
become  as  bright  as  a  looking-glass  ;  an  iron 
pot  and  kettle ;  a  poor  old  grate,  which  scarcely 
held  a  handful  of  coal,  and  out  of  which  the  little 
fire  that  had  been  in  it  appeared  to  have  been 
taken,  as  soon  as  it  had  answered  the  end  for 
which  it  had  been  lighted — that  of  boiling  their 
potatoes.  Over  the  chimney  stood  an  old-fashion¬ 
ed  broad  bright  candlestick,  and  a  still  brighter 
spit,'  it  was  pretty  clear  that  this  last  was  kept 
rather  for  ornament  than  use.  An  old  carved 
elbow  chair,  and  a  chest  of  the  same  date,  which 
stood  in  the  corner,  were  considered  the  most 
valuable  part  of  the  shepherd’s  goods,  having 
been  in  his  family  for  three  generations.  But 
all  these  were  lightly  esteemed  by  him,  in  com¬ 
parison  of  another  possession,  which,  added  to 
the  above,  made  up  the  whole  of  what  he  had 
inherited  from  .his  father  ;  and  which  last  he 
would  not  have  parted  with,  if  no  other  could 
have  been  had,  for  the  king’s  ransom :  this  was 
a  large  old  Bible,  which  lay  on  the  window-seat, 
neatly  covered  with  brown  cloth,  variously 
patched.  This  sacred  book  was  most  reverently 
preserved  from  dog’s  ears,  dirt,  and  every  other 
injury,  but  such  as  time  and  muck  use  had 
made  it  suffer  in  spite  of  care.  On  the  clean 


white  walls  was  pasted,  a  hymn  on  the  Cruci 
fixion  of  our  Saviour,  a  print  of  the  Prodiga’ 
Son,  the  Shepherd’s  Hymn,  a  New  History  of  a 
True  Book,  and  Patient  Joe,  or  the  Newcastle 
Collier.* 

After  the  first  salutations  were  over,  Mr. 
Johnson  said,  that  if  they  would  go  on  with  their 
dinner  he  would  sit  down.  Though  a  good  deal 
ashamed,  they  thought  it  more  respectful  to 
obey  the  gentleman,  who  having  cast  his  eye  on 
their  slender  provisions,  gently  rebuked  the 
shepherd  for  not  having  indulged  himself,  as  it 
was  Sunday,  with  a  morsel  of  bacon  to  relish 
his  potatoes.  The  shepherd  said  nothing,  but 
poor  Mary  coloured  and  hung  down  her  head, 
saying,  ‘  Indeed,  sir,  it  is  not  my  fault,  I  did  beg 
my  husband  to  allow  himself  a  bit  of  meat  to¬ 
day  out  of  your  honour’s  bounty  ;  but  he  was 
too  good  to  do  it,  and  it  is  all  for  my  sake.’  The 
shepherd  seemed  unwilling  to  come  to  an  expla¬ 
nation,  but  Mr.  Johnson  desired  Mary  to  go  on. 
So  she  continued  :  ‘  You  must  know,  sir,  that 
both  of  us,  next  to  a  sin,  dread  a  debt,  and  in¬ 
deed  in  some  cases  a  debt  is  a  sin ;  but  with  all 
our  care  and  pains,  we  have  never  been  able 
quite  to  pay  off  the  doctor’s  bill  for  that  bad  fit 
of  rheumatism  which  I  had  last  winter.  Now 
when  you  were  pleased  to  give  my  husband  that 
kind  present  the  other  day,  I  heartily  desired 
him  to  buy  a  bit  of  meat  for  Sunday  as  I  said 
before,  that  he  might  have  a  little  refreshment 
for  himself  out  of  your  kindness. — ‘  But  answer¬ 
ed  he,  ‘  Mary,  it  is  never  out  of  my  mind  long 
together  that  we  still  owe  a  few  shillings  to  the 
doctor  (and  thank  God  it  is  all  we  did  owe  in 
the  world.)  Now  if  I  carry  him  this  money  di¬ 
rectly  it  will  not  only  show  him  our  honesty 
and  our  good-will,  but  it  will  be  an  encourage 
ment  to  him  to  come  to  you  another  time  in  case 
you  should  be  taken  once  more  in  such  a  bad 
fit ;  for  I  must  own,’  added  my  poor  husband, 
‘that  the  thought  of  your  being  so  terribly  ill 
without  any  help,  is  the  only  misfortune  that  I 
want  courage  to  face.’ 

Here  the  grateful  woman’s  tears  ran  down  so 
fast  that  she  could  not  go  on.  She  wiped  them 
with  the  corner  of  her  apron,  and  humbly  beg. 
ged  pardon  for  making  so  free.  ‘  Indeed,  sir,’ 
said  tbe  shepherd,  ‘  though  my  wife  is  full  as 
unwilling  to  be  in  debt  as  myself,  yet  I  could 
hardly  prevail  on  her  to  consent  to  my  paying 
this  money  just  then,  because  she  said  it  was 
hard  I  should  not  have  a  taste  of  the  gentle¬ 
man’s  bounty  myself. — But  for  once,  sir,  I  would 
have  my  own  way.  For  you  must  know,  as  I 
pass  best  part  of  my  time  alone,  tending  my 
sheep,  ’tis  a  great  point  with  me,  sir,  to  get 
comfortable  matter  for  my  own  thoughts  ;  so 
that  ’tis  rather  self-interest  in  me  to  allow  my 
self  in  no  pleasures  and  no  practices  that  won’t 
bear  thinking  on  over  and  over.  For  when  one 
is  a  good  deal  alone,  you  know,  sir,  all  one’s  bad 
deeds  do  so  rush  in  upon  one,  as  I  may  say,  and 
so  torment  one,  that  there  is  no  true  comfort  to 
be  had  but  in  keeping  clear  of  wrong  doings 
and  false  pleasures  ;  and  that  I  suppose  may  be 
one  reason  why  so  many  folks  hate  to  slay  a  bit 
by  themselves.  But  as  I  was  saying — when  1 
came  to  think  tlie  matter  over  on  the  hill  yon- 
•  Printed  for  the  Cheap  Eepoeitory. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


197 


def,  said  I  to  myself,  a  good  dinner  is  a  good 
thing  I  grant,  and  yet  it  will  be  but  cold  corn- 
fort  to  me  a  week  after,  to  be  able  to  say — to  be 
sure  I  had  a  nice  shoulder  of  mutton  last  Sun¬ 
day  for  dinner,  thanks  to  the  good  gentleman ! 
but  then  I  am  in  debt.  I  had  a  rare  dinner, 
that’s  certain,  but  the  pleasure  of  that  has  long 
been  over,  and  the  debt  still  remains.  I  have 
spent  the  crown ;  and  now  if  ray  poor  wife 
should  be  taken  in  one  of  those  fits  again,  die 
she  must,  unless  God  work  a  miracle  to  prevent 
it,  for  I  can  get  no  help  for  her.  This  thought 
settled  all ;  and  I  set  off  directly  and  paid  the 
crown  to  the  doctor  with  as  much  cheerfulness 
as  I  should  have  felt  on  sitting  down  to  the  fat¬ 
test  shoulder  of  mutton  that  ever  was  roasted. 
And  if  I  was  contented  at  the  time,  think  how 
much  more  happy  I  have  been  at  the  remem¬ 
brance  !  O  sir,  there  are  no  pleasures  worth  the 
name  but  such  as  bring  no  plague  or  penitence 
after  them.’ 

Mr.  Johnson  was  satisfied  with  the  shepherd’s 
reasons  ;  and  agreed  that  though  a  good  dinner 
was  not  to  be  despised,  yet  it  was  not  worthy 
to  be  compared  with  a  contented  mind,  which  (as 
the  Bible  truly  says)  is  a  continual  feast.  ‘  But 
come,’  said  the  good  gentleman,  ‘  what  have  we 
got  in  this  brown  mug  ?’ — ‘  As  good  water,’  said 
the  shepherd,  ‘  as  any  in  the  king’s  dominions. 
I  have  heard  of  countries  beyond  sea,  in  which 
there  is  no  wholesome  water ;  nay,  I  have  been 
myself  in  a  great  town  not  far  off,  where  they 
are  obliged  to  buy  all  the  water  which  they  get, 
while  a  good  Providence  sends  to  my  very  door 
a  spring  as  clear  and  fine  as  Jacob’s  well.  When 
I  am  tempted  to  repine  that  I  have  often  no 
other  drink,  I  call  to  mind,  that  it  was  nothing 
better  than  a  cup  of  cold  water  which  the  wo¬ 
man  at  the  well  of  Sychar  drew  fbr  the  greatest 
guest  that  ever  visited  this  world. 

‘  Very  well,’  replied  Mr.  Johnson ;  ‘  but  as 
your  honesty  has  made  you  prefer  a  poor  meal 
to  being  in  debt,  I  will  at  least  send  and  get 
something  for  you  to  drink.  I  saw  a  little  public 
house  just  by  the  church,  as  I  came  along.  Let 
that  little  rosy-faced  fellow  fetch  a  mug  of  beer.’ 
So  saying,  he  looked  full  at  the  boy,  who  did 
not  offer  to  stir ;  but  cast  an  eye  at  his  father 
to  know  what  he  was  to  do.  ‘  Sir,’  said  the 
shepherd,  ‘  I  hope  we  shall  not  appear  ungrate¬ 
ful,  if  wo  seem  to  refuse  your  favour ;  my  little 
body  would,  I  am  sure,  fly  to  serve  you  on  any 
other  occasion.  But,  good  sir,  it  is  Sunday; 
and  should  any  of  my  family  be  seen  at  a  public 
house  on  a  Sabbath-day,  it  would  be  a  much 
greater  grief  to  me  than  to  drink  water  all  my 
life.  I  am  often  talking  against  these  doings  to 
others;  and  if  I  should  say  one  thing  and  do 
another,  you  can’t  think  what  an  advantage  it 
would  give  many  of  my  neighbours  over  me, 
who  would  be  glad  enough  to  report  that  they 
had  caught  the  shepherd’s  son  at  the  alehouse 
without  explaining  how  it  happened.  Christians 
you  know,  sir,  must  be  doubly  watchful ;  or  they 
will  not  only  bring  disgrace  on  themselves,  but 
wliat  IS  mucli  worse,  on  that  holy  name  by 
whicli  they  are  called.’ 

‘  Are  you  not  a  little  too  cautious,  my  honesA 
friend  ?’  said  Mr.  Johnson.  ‘  I  humbly  ask  your 
pardon,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  if  I  think 


that  is  impossible.  In  my  poor  notion  I  no  more 
understand  how  a  man  can  be  too  cautious,  than 
how  he  can  be  too  strong,  or  too  healthy.’ 

‘You  are  right  indeed,’  said  Mr.  Johnson, 
‘  as  a  general  principle,  but  this  struck  me  as  a 
very  smalt  thing.’ — ‘Sir,’  said  the  shepherd, 
am  afraid  you  will  think  me  very  bold,  but  you 
encourage  me  to  speak  out.’ — ‘  ’Tis  what  I 
wish,’  said  the  gentleman.  ‘  Then,  sir,’  resumed 
the  shepherd,  ‘  I  doubt  if,  where  there  is  a  fre¬ 
quent  temptation  to  do  wrong,  any  fault  can  be 
called  small ;  that  is,  in  short,  if  there  is  any 
such  thing^as  a  small  wilful  sin.  A  poor  man 
like  me  is  seldom  called  out  to  do  great  things, 
so  that  it  is  not  by  a  few  striking  deeds  his 
character  can  be  judged  by  his  neighbours,  but 
by  the  little  round  of  daily  customs  he  allows 
himself  in.’ 

‘  I  should  like,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  to  know 
how  you  manage  in  this  respect.’ 

‘  I  am  but  a  poor  scholar,  sir’  replied  the  shep¬ 
herd,  ‘  but  I  have  made  myself  a  little  sort  of 
rule.  I  always  avoid,  as  I  am  an  ignorant  man, 
picking  out  any  one  single  difficult  text  to  dis¬ 
tress  my  mind  about,  or  to  go  and  build  opinions 
upon,  because  I  know  that  puzzles  and  injures 
poor  unlearned  Christians.  But  I  endeavour  to 
collect  what  is  the  general  spirit  or  meaning  of 
Scripture  on  any  particular  subject,  by  putting 
a  few  texts  together,  which  though  I  find  them 
dispersed  up  and  down,  yet  all  seem  to  look  the 
same  way,  to  prove  the  same  truth,  or  hold  out 
the  same  comfort.  So  when  I  am  tried  or  tempt¬ 
ed,  or  any  thing  happens  in  which  I  am  at  a 
loss  what  to  do,  I  apply  to  my  rule — to  the  law 
and  the  testimony.  To  be  sure  I  can’t  always 
find  a  particular  direction  as  to  the  very  case, 
because  then  the  Bible  must  have  been  bigger 
than  all  those  great  books  I  once  saw  in  the  li¬ 
brary  at  Salisbury  palace,  which  the  butler  told 
me  were  acts  of  parliament ;  and  had  that  been 
the  case,  a  poor  man  would  never  have  had  mo¬ 
ney  to  buy,  nor  a  working  man  time  to  read  the 
Bible ;  and  so  Christianity  could  only  have  been 
a  religion  for  the  rich,  for  those  who  had  money 
and  leisure ;  which,  blessed  be  God  !  is  so  far 
from  being  the  truth,  that  in  all  that  fine  dis¬ 
course  of  our  Saviour  to  John’s  disciples,  it  is 
enough  to  reconcile  any  poor  man  in  the  world 
to  his  low  condition,  to  observe,  when  Christ 
reckons  up  the  things  for  which  he  came  on 
earth,  to  observe,  I  say,  what  he  keeps  for  last. 
Go  tell  John,  says  he,  those  things  which  ye  do 
hear  and  see;  the  blind  receive  their  sight,  and 
the  lame  walk,  the  lepers  are  cleansed,  and  the 
deaf  hear,  and  the  dead  are  raised  up.  Now, 
sir,  all  these  are  wonders  to  be  sure,  but  they 
are  nothing  to  what  follows.  Tliey  are  but  like 
the  lower  rounds  of  a  ladder,  as  I  may  say,  by 
whicli  you  mount  to  the  top — and  the  poor  have 
the  Gospel  preached  to  them.  I  dare  say,  if  John 
had  any  doubts  before,  this  part  of  the  message 
must  have  cleared  them  up  at  once.  For  it  must 
have  made  him  certain  sure  at  once,  that  a  reli¬ 
gion  which  placed  preaching  salvation  to  the 
poor  above  healing  the  sick,  whicli  ranked  tlie 
soul  above  the  body,  and  set  heaven  above  healtli, 
must  have  come  from  God.’ 

‘But,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘you  say  you  can 
generally  pick  out  your  particular  duty  from 


198 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAXNAH  MORE, 


the  Bible,  though  that  immediate  duty  be  not 
fully  explained.’ 

‘  Indeed,  sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  I  think 
I  can  find  out  the  principle  at  least,  if  I  bring 
hut  a  willing  mind.  The  want  of  that  is  the 
great  hindrance.  Whoso  doeth  my  will,  he  shall 
know  of  the  doctrine.  You  know  that  text,  sir. 
I  believe  a  stubborn  will  makes  the  Bible  harder 
to  be  understood  than  any  want  of  learning. 
’Tis  corrupt  affections  which  blind  the  under¬ 
standing,  sir.  The  more  a  man  hates  sin,  the 
clearer  he  will  see  his  way,  and  the  more  he 
loves  holiness,  the  better  he  will  understand  his 
Bible — the  more  practical  conviction  will  he  get 
of  that  pleasant  truth,  that  the  secret  of  the  Lord 
is  with  them  that  fear  him.  Now,  sir,  suppose 
I  had  time  and  learning,  and  possessed  of  all 
the  books  I  saw  at  the  bishop’s,  where  could  I 
find  out  a  surer  way  to  lay  the  axe  to  the  root 
of  all  covetousness,  selfishness,  and  injustice, 
than  the  plain  and  ready  rule,  to  do  unto  all  men 
as  I  would  they  should  do  unto  me.  If  my  neigh¬ 
bour  does  mo  an  injury,  can  I  be  at  any  loss 
how  to  proceed  with  him,  when  I  recollect  the 
parable  of  the  unforgiving  steward,  who  refused 
to  pardon  a  debt  of  a  hundred  pence,  when  his 
own  ten  thousand  talents  had  been  remitted  to 
him?  I  defy  any  man  to  retain  habitual  selfish¬ 
ness,  hardness  of  heart,  or  any  other  allowed 
sin,  who  daily  and  conscientiously  tries  his  own 
heart  by  this  touchstone.  The  straight  rule 
will  show  the  crooked  practice  to  every  one  who 
Iionestly  tries  the  one  by  the  other.’ 

‘  Why  you  seem  to  make  Scripture  a  thing  of 
•general  application,’  said  Mr.  Johnston,  ‘  in  cases 
in  which  many,  I  fear  do  not  apply.’ 

‘  It  applies  to  every  thing,  sir,’  replied  the 
■shepherd.  ‘  When  those  men  who  are  now  dis¬ 
turbing  the  peace  of  the  world,  and  trying  to 
destroy  the  confidence  of  God’s  children  in  their 
Maker  and  their  Saviour ;  when  those  men,  I 
say,  came  to  my  poor  hovel  with  their  new  doc¬ 
trines  and  their  new  books,  I  would  never  look 
into  one  of  them ;  for  I  remember  it  was  the 
first  sin  of  the  first  pair  to  lose  their  innocence 
for  the  sake  of  a  little  wicked  knowledge  ;  be¬ 
sides,  my  own  book  told  me — To  fear  God  and 
■honour  the  king — To  meddle  not  with  them  who 
are  given  to  change — Not  to  speak  evil  of  digni¬ 
ties —  To  render  honour  to  whom  honour  is  due. 
So  that  I  was  furnished  with  a  little  coat  of  mail, 
as  I  may  say,  which  preserved  me,  while  those 
who  had  no  such  armour  fell  into  the  snare.’ 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  the  children 
who  had  stood  very  quietly  behind,  and  had  not 
stirred  a  foot,  now  began  to  scamper  about  all  at 
once,  and  in  a  moment  ran  to  tbe  window-seat 
to  pick  up  their  little  old  hats.  Mr.  Johnson 
looked  surprised  at  this  disturbance  ;  the  shep¬ 
herd  asked  his  pardon,  telling  him  it  was  the 
sound  of  the  church  bell  which  had  been  the 
cause  of  their  rudeness ;  for  their  mother  had 
brought  them  up  with  such  a  fear  of  being  too 
late  for  church,  that  it  was  but  who  could  catch 
the  first  stroke  of  the  bell,  and  be  first  ready. 
He  had  always  taught  them  (o  tliink  that  no¬ 
thing  was  nore  indecent  than  to  get  into  church 
after  it  was  begun ;  for  as  the  service  opened 
with  an  exhortation  to  repentance,  and  a  con- 
^ssion  of  sin,  it  looked  very  presumptuous  not 


to  be  ready  to  join  it;  it  looKed  as  if  people  did 
not  feel  themselves  to  be  sinners.  And  though 
such  as  lived  at  a  great  distance  might  plead 
ditference  of  clocks  as  an  excuse,  yet  those  who 
lived  within  the  sound  of  the  bell,  could  pretend 
neither  ignorance  nor  mistake. 

Mary  and  her  children  set  forward.  Mr. 
Johnson  and  the  shepherd  followed,  taking  care 
to  talk  the  whole  way  on  such  subjects  ai!  might 
fit  them  for  the  solemn  duties  of  the  place  to 
which  they  were  going.  ‘  I  have  often  been 
sorry  to  observe,  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  that  many 
who  are  reckoned  decent,  good  kind  of  people, 
and  who  would  on  no  account  neglect  going  to 
church,  yet  seem  to  care  but  little  in  what  frame 
or  temper  of  mind  they  go  thither.  They  will 
talk  of  their  worldly  concerns  till  they  get  within 
the  door,  and  then  take  them  up  again  the  very 
minute  the  sermon  is  over,  which  makes  me 
ready  to  fear  they  lay  too  much  stress  on  the 
mere  form  of  going  to  a  plaee  of  worship.  Now, 
for  my  part,  I  always  find  that  it  requires  a  little 
time  to  bring  my  mind  into  a  state  fit  to  do  any 
common  business  w’ell,  much  more  this  great  and 
most  necessary  business  of  all.’ — ‘  Yes,  sir,’  re¬ 
plied  the  shepherd  ;  ‘  and  then  I  think  too  how 
busy  I  should  be  in  preparing  my  mind,  if  I 
were  going  into  the  presence  of  a  great  gentle¬ 
man,  or  a  lord,  or  the  king ;  and  shall  the  King 
of  kings  be  treated  with  less  respect  ?  Besides, 
one  likes  to  see  people  feel  as  if  going  to  church 
was  a  thing  of  choice  and  pleasure,  as  well  as  a 
duty,  and  that  they  were  as  desirous  not  to  be 
the  last  there,  as  they  would  be  if  they  were 
going  to  a  feast  or  a  fair.’ 

After  service,  Mr.  Jenkins  the  clergyman, 
who  was  well  acquainted  with  the  character  of 
Mr.  Johnson,  and  had  a  great  respect  for  him, 
accosted  him  with  much  civility ;  expressing 
his  concern  that  he  could  not  enjoy  just  now  so 
much  of  his  conversation  as  he  wished,  as  he 
was  obliged  to  visit  a  sick  person  at  a  distance, 
but  hoped  to  have  a  little  talk  with  him  before 
he  left  the  village.  As  they  walked  along  to¬ 
gether,  Mr.  Johnson  made  such  inquiries  about 
the  shepherd,  as  served  to  confirm  him  in  the 
high  opinion  he  entertained  of  his  piety,  good 
sense,  industry,  and  self-denial.  They  parted  ; 
the  clergyman  promising  to  call  in  at  the  cottage 
in  his  way  home. 

The  shepherd,  who  took  it  for  granted  that 
3Ir.  Johnson  was  gone  to  the  parsonage,  walked 
home  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  was  be¬ 
ginning  in  his  usual  way  to  catechise  and  instruct 
his  family,  when  Mr.  Johnson  came  in,  and  in¬ 
sisted  that  the  shepherd  should  go  on  with  his 
instructions  just  as  if  he  were  not  there.  This 
gentIeman,who  was  very  desirous  of  being  useful 
to  his  own  servants  and  workmen  in  the  way  of 
religious  instruction,  was  sometimes  sorry  to 
find  that  though  he  took  a  good  deal  of  pains, 
they  now  and  then  did  not  quite  understand 
him  ;  for  though  his  meaning  was  very  good, 
his  language  was  not  always  very  plain  ;  and 
though  the  things  he  said  were  not  hard  to  be 
understood,  yet  the  words  were,  especially  to 
such  as  were  very  ignorant.  And  he  now  began 
to  find  out  that  if  people  were  ever  so  wise  and 
good,  yet  if  they  had  not  a  simple,  agreeable, 
and  familiar  way  of  expressing  themselves,  some 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAIvNAH  MORE. 


199 


of  their  plain  hearers  would  not  be  much  the 
better  for  them.  For  this  reason  he  was  not 
above  listening;  tc  the  plain,  humble  way  in 
which  this  honest  man  taught  his  family  ;  for 
though  he  knew  that  he  himself  had  many  ad¬ 
vantages  over  the  shepherd  ;  had  more  learning, 
and  could  teach  him  many  things,  yet  he  was 
not  too  proud  to  learn  even  of  so  poor  a  man,  in 
any  [xiint  where  he  thought  the  shepherd  might 
have  the  advantage  of  him. 

This  gentleman  was  much  pleased  with  the 
knowledge  and  piety  which  he  discovered  in  the 
answers  of  the  children  :  and  desired  the  shep¬ 
herd  to  tell  him  how  he  contrived  to  keep  up  a 
sense  of  divine  things  in  his  own  mind,  and  in 
that  of  his  family,  with  so  little  leisure,  and  so 
little  reading.  ‘  Oh  !  as  to  that,  sir,’  said  the 
shepherd,  ‘  we  do  not  read  much  except  in  one 
'  book,  to  be  sure  ;  but  with  my  heart  prayer  for 
God’s  blessing  on  the  use  of  that  book,  what  little 
knowledge  is  needful  seems  to  come  of  course, 
as  it  were.  And  my  chief  study  has  been  to 
bring  the  fruits  of  the  Sunday  reading  into  the 
week’s  business,  and  to  keep  up  the  same  sense 
of  God  in  the  heart,  when  the  Bible  is  in  the 
cupboard  as  when  it  is  in  the  hand.  In  short, 
to  apply  what  I  read  in  the  book  to  what  I  meet 
with  in  the  field.’ 

‘  I  don’t  quite  understand  you,’  said  Mr.  John¬ 
son.  ‘  Sir,  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  I  have  but  a 
poor  gift  at  conveying  these  things  to  others, 
though  I  have  much  comfort  from  them  in  my 
own  mind;  but  I  am  sure  that  the  most  igno¬ 
rant  and  hard-working  people,who  are  in  earnest 
about  their  salvation,  may  help  to  keep  up  de¬ 
vout  thoughts  and  good  affections  during  the 
week,  though  they  have  hardly  any  time  to  look 
at  a  book  ;  and  it  will  help  them  to  keep  out 
bad  thoughts  too ;  which  is  no  small  matter. 
But  then  they  must  know  the  Bible  ;  the}’-  must 
have  read  the  word  of  God  diligently ;  that  is  a 
kind  of  stock  in  trade  for  a  Christian  to  set  up 
with ;  and  it  is  this  which  makes  me  so  careful 
in  teaching  it  to  my  children  ;  and  even  in 
storing  their  memories  with  psalms  and  chap¬ 
ters.  This  is  a  great  help  to  a  poor  hard-work¬ 
ing  man,  who  will  scarcely  meet  with  any  thing 
in  .them  but  what  he  may  turn  to  some  good 
account.  If  one  lives  in  the  fear  and  love  of 
God,  almost  every  thing  one  sees  abroad  will 
teach  one  to  adore  his  power  and  goodness,  and 
bring  to  mind  some  text  of  Scripture,  which  shall 
fill  his  heart  with  thankfulness,  and  the  mouth 
with  praise.  When  I  look  upwards  the  Heavens 
declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  shall  I  be  silent 
and  ungratefhl  ?  If  I  look  round  and  see  the 
vallies  standing  thick  with  corn,  how  can  I  help 
blessing  that  Power  who  giveth  me  all  things 
richly  to  enjoy  1  I  may  learn  gratitude  from  the 
beasts  of  the  field,  for  the  ox  knoweth  his  owner, 
and  the  ass  his  master's  crib,  and  shall  a  Christian 
liot  know,  sliall  a  Christian  not  consider  what 
great  things  God  has  done  for  him  ?  I,  who  am 
a  shepherd,  endeavour  to  fill  my  soul  with  a  con¬ 
stant  remembrance  of  that  good  shepherd,  who 
feedeth  me  in  green  pastures,  and  maketh  me  to 
lie  down  beside  the  still  waters,  and  whose  rod 
and  staff  comfort  me.  A  religion,  sir,  which 
has  its  seat  in  the  heart,  and  its  fruits  in  the 
life,  takes  up  little  time  in  the  study.  And  yet 


in  another  sense,  true  religion,  which  from  sound 
principles  brings  forth  right  practice,  fills  up  the 
whole  time,  and  life  too  as  one  may  say.’ 

‘  You  are  happy,’  said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  in  this 
retired  life,  by  which  you  escape  the  corruptions 
of  the  world.’  ‘  Sir,’  replied  the  shepherd,  ‘  I  do 
not  escape  the  corruptions  of  my  own  evil  na 
ture.  Even  there,  on  that  w;ld  solitary  hill,  I 
can  find  out  that  my  heart  is  prone  to  evil 
thoughts.  I  suppose,  sir,  that  different  states 
have  different  temptations.  You  great  folks 
that  live  in  the  world,  perhaps,  are  ei  posed  to 
some,  of  which  such  a  poor  man  as  I  am,  knows 
nothing.  But  to  one  who  leads  a  lonely  life  like 
me,  evil  thoughts  are  a  chief  besetting  sin  ;  and 
I  can  no  more  withstand  these  without  the  grace 
of  God,  than  a  rich  gentleman  can  withstand 
the  snares  of  evil  company,  without  the  same 
grace.  And  I  find  that  I  stand  in  need  of  God’s 
help  continually,  and  if  he  should  give  me  up  to 
my  own  evil  heart  I  should  be  lost.’ 

Mr.  Johnson  approved  of  the  shepherd’s  sin¬ 
cerity,  for  he  had  always  observed,  that  where 
there  was  no  humility,  and  no  watchfulness 
against  sin,  there  was  no  religion,  and  he  said 
that  the  man  who  did  not  feel  himself  to  be  a 
sinner,  in  his  opinion  could  not  be  a  Christian. 

Just  as  they  were  in  this  part  of  their  dis¬ 
course,  Mr.  Jenkins,  the  clergyman,  came  in. 
After  the  usual  salutations,  he  said,  ‘  Well  shep¬ 
herd,  I  wish  you  joy  ;  I  know  you  will  be  sorry 
to  gain  any  advantage  by  the  death  of  a  neigh¬ 
bour  ;  but  old  Wilson,  my  clerk,  was  so  infirm, 
and  I  trust  so  well  prepared,  that  there  is  no 
reason  to  be  sorry  for  his  death.  I  have  been  to 
pray  by  him,  but  he  died  while  I  staid.  I  have 
always  intended  you  should  succeed  to  his  place; 
’tis  no  great  matter  of  profit,  but  every  little  is 
something.’ 

‘  No  great  matter,  sir  1’  cried  the  shepherd  ; 

‘  indeed  it  is  a  great  thing  to  me  ;  it  will  more 
than  pay  my  rent.  Blessed  be  God  for  all  his 
goodness !’ — Mary  said  nothing,  but  lifted  up  her 
eyes  full  of  tears  in  silent  gratitude. 

‘  I  am  glad  of  this  little  circumstance,’  said 
Mr.  Jenkins,  ‘not  only  for  your  sake,  but  for  the 
sake  of  the  office  itself.  •  I  so  heartily  reverence 
every  religious  institution,  that  I  would  never 
have  even  the  amen  added  to  the  excellent  pray¬ 
ers  of  our  church,  by  vain  or  profane  lips,  and  if 
it  depended  on  me,  there  should  be  no  such  thing 
in  the  land  as  an  idle,  drunken,  or  .irreligious 
parish  clerk.  Sorry  I  am  to  say  that  this  mat¬ 
ter  is  not  alwa3's  sufficiently  attended  to,  and 
that  I  know  some  of  a  very  indifferent  cha¬ 
racter. 

Mr.  Johnson  now  inquired  of  the  clergyman 
whether  there  were  many  children  in  the  parish. 

‘  More  than  you  would  expect,’  replied  lie,  ‘  from 
the  seeming  smallness  of  it ;  but  there  are  some 
little  hamlets  which  you  do  not  see.’ — ‘  I  think,’ 
returned  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  I  recollect  that  in  the 
conversation  I  had  with  the  shepherd  on  the  hill 
yonder,  he  told  me  you  had  no  Sunday  school.’ 

‘  I  am  sorry  to  say  we  have  none,’  said  the  mi¬ 
nister.  ‘  I  do  what  I  can  to  remedy  this  misfor¬ 
tune  by  public  catechising  ;  but  having  two  or 
three  churches  to  serve,  I  cannot  give  so  much 
time  as  I  wish  to  private  instruction  ;  and  having 
a  largo  family  of  my  own,  and  no  assistance  from 


200 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


others,  I  have  never  been  able  to  establish  a 
school.’ 

‘  There  is  an  excellent  institution  in  London,’ 
said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  called  the  Sunday-school 
Society,  which  kindly  gives  books  and  other 
helps,  on  the  application  of  such  pious  clergy¬ 
men  as  stand  in  need  of  their  aid,  and  which  I- 
am  sure  would  have  assisted  you,  but  I  think 
we  shall  be  able  to  do  something  ourselves. 

‘  Shepherd,’  continued  he,  ‘  if  I  were  a  king,  and 
had  it  in  my  power  to  make  you  a  rich  and  a 
great  man,  with  a  word  speaking,  I  would  not  do 
it.  Those  who  are  raised,  by  some  sudden  stroke, 
much  above  the  station  in  which  Divine  Pro¬ 
vidence  had  placed  them,  seldom  turn  out  very 
good,  or  very  happy.  I  have  never  had  any 
great  things  in  my  power,  but  as  far  as  I  have 
been  able,  I  have  been  always  glad  to  assist  the 
worthy,  I  have,  however,  never  attempted  or 
desired  to  set  any  poor  man  much  above  his  na¬ 
tural  condition,  but  it  is  a  pleasure  to  me  to 
lend  him  such  assistance  as  may  make  that  con¬ 
dition  more  easy  to  himself,  and  put  him  in  a 
way  which  shall  call  him  to  the  performance  of 
more  duties  than  perhaps  he  could  have  per¬ 
formed  without  my  help,  and  of  performing 
them  in  a  better  manner  to  others,  and  with 
more  comfort  to  himself. — What  rent  do  you 
pay  for  this  cottage  ?’ 

‘  Fifty  shillings  a  year,  sir,’ 

‘  It  is  in  a  sad  tattered  condition  ;  is  there  not 
a  better  to  be  had  in  the  village  V 

‘  That  in  which  the  poor  clerk  lived,’  said  the 
clergyman,  ‘  is  not  only  more  tight  and  whole, 
but  has  two  decent  chambers,  and  a  very  large 
light  kitchen.’ — ‘  That  will  be  very  convenient,’ 
replied  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘pray  what  is  the  rent?’ 
— '  I  think,’  said  the  shepherd,  ‘  poor  neighbour 
Wilson  gave  somewhat  about  four  pounds  a 
year,  or  it  might  be  guineas.’ — ‘  Very  well,’ 
said  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  and  what  will  the  clerk’s 
place  be  worth,  think  you  ?’  About  three  pounds, 
was  the  answer. 

‘  Now,’  continued  Mr.  Johnson,  ‘  my  plan  is 
that  the  shepherd  should  take  that  house  im¬ 
mediately  ;  for  as  the  poor  man  is  dead,  there 
will  be  no  need  of  waiting  till  quarter-day,  if 
I  make  up  the  difference.’  ‘  True,  sir,’  said 
Mr.  Jenkins,  ‘  and  I  am  sure  my  wife’s  father, 
whom  I  expect  to-morrow,  will  willingly  assist 
a  little  towards  buying  some  of  the  clerk’s  old 
goods.  And  the  sooner  they  remove  the  better, 
for  poor  Mary  caught  that  bad  rheumatism  by 
sleeping  under  a  leaky  thatch.’  The  shepherd 
was  too  much  moved  to  speak,  and  Mary  could 
hardly  sob  out,  ‘  Oh,  sir  !  you  are  too  good ;  in¬ 
deed  this  house  will  do  very  well.’  ‘  It  may  do 
very  well  for  you  and  your  children,  Mary,’ 
said  Mr.  Johnson  gravely,  ‘  but  it  will  not  do  for 
a  school ;  the  kitchen  is  neither  large  nor  light 
enough.  Shepherd,’  continued  he,  ‘  with  your 
good  minister’s  leave,  and  kind  assistance,  I 
propose  to  set  up  in  this  parish  a  Sunday  School, 
and  to  make  you  the  master.  It  will  not  at  all 
interfere  with  your  weekly  calling,  and  it  is 
the  only  lawful  way  in  which  you  could  turn 
the  Sabbath  into  a  day  of  some  little  profit  to 


your  family,  by  doing,  as  I  hope,  a  great  dea.. 
of  good  to  the  souls  of  others.  The  rest  of  the 
week  you  will  work  as  usual.  The  difference 
of  rent  between  this  house  and  the  clerk’s  I 
shall  pay  myself,  for  to  put  you  in  a  better 
house  at  your  own  expense  would  be  no  great 
act  of  kindness. — As  for  honest  Mary,  who  is 
not  fit  for  hard  labour,  or  any  other  out-of-door, 
work,  I  propose  to  endow  a  small  weekly  school, 
of  which  she  shall  be  the  mistress,  and  employ 
her  notable  turn  to  good  account,  by  teaching 
ten  or  a  dozen  girls  to  knit,  sew,  spin,  card,  or  any 
other  useful  way  of  getting  their  bread ;  for  all 
this  I  shall  only  pay  her  the  usual  price,  for 
I  am  not  going  to  make  you  rich,  but  useful.’. 

‘  Not  rich,  sir  ?’  cried  the  shepherd  ;  ‘  How 
can  I  ever  be  thankful  enough  for  such  bless¬ 
ings  ?  And  will  my  poor  Mary  have  a  dry  thatch 
over  her  head  ?  and  shall  I  be  able  to  send  for 
the  doctor  when  I  am  like  to  lose  her  ?  Indeed 
my  cup  runs  over  with  blessings,  I  hope  God 
will  give  me  humility.’ — Here  he  and  Mary 
looked  at  each  other  and  burst  into  tears.  The 
gentleman  saw  their  distress,  and  kindly  walk¬ 
ed  out  upon  the  little  green  before  the  door, 
that  these  honest  people  might  give  vent  to 
their  feelings.  As  soon  as  they  were  alone 
they  crept  into  one  corner  of  the  room,  where 
they  thought  they  could  not  be  seen,  and  fell  on 
their  knees,  devoutly  blessing  and  praising  God 
for  his  mercies.  Never  were  more  hearty 
prayers  presented,  than  this  grateful  couple 
offered  up  for  their  benefactors.  The  warmth 
of  their  gratitude  could  only  be  equalled  by  the 
earnestness  with  which  they  besought  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  God  on  the  work  in  which  they  were 
going  to  engage. 

The  two  gentlemen  now  left  this  happy  fa¬ 
mily,  and  walked  to  the  parsonage,  where  the 
evening  was  spent  in  a  manner  very  edifying  to 
Mr.  Johnson,  who  the  next  day  took  all  proper 
measures  for  putting  the  shepherd  in  imme¬ 
diate  possession  of  his  now  comfortable  habita¬ 
tion.  Mr.  Jenkins’s  father-in-law,  the  worthy 
gentleman  who  gave  the  shepherd’s  wife  the 
blankets,  in  the  first  part  of  this  history,  arrived 
at  the  parsonage  before  Mr.  Johnson  left  it,  and 
assisted  in  fitting  up  the  clerk’s  cottage. 

Mr.  Johnson  took  his  leave,  promising  to  call 
on  the  worthy  minister  and  his  new  clerk  once 
a  year,  in  his  summer’s  journey  over  the  plain, 
as  long  as  it  should  please  God  to  spare  his  life. 
He  had  every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
objects  of  his  bounty.  The  shepherd’s  zeal  and 
piety  made  him  a  blessing  to  the  rising  genera¬ 
tion.  The  old  resorted  to  his  school  for  the 
benefit  of  hearing  the  young  instructed ;  and 
the  clergyman  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  that 
he  was  rewarded  for  the  protection  he  gave  the 
school  by  the  great  increase  in  his  congrega¬ 
tion.  The  shepherd  not  only  exhorted  both  pa¬ 
rents  and  children  to  the  indispensable  duty  o 
a  regular  attendance  at  church,  but  by  his  pious 
counsels  he  drew  them  thither,  and  b)^  his  plain 
and  prudent  instructions  enabled  them  to  un¬ 
derstand,  and  of  course  to  delight  in  the  public 
worship  of  God. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.' 


301 


THE  TWO  SHOEMAKERS. 


Jack  Brown  and  James  Stock,  were  two  lads 
apprenticed  at  nearly  the  same  time,  to  Mr. 
Williams,  a  shoemaker,  in  a  small  town  in  Ox¬ 
fordshire  :  they  were  pretty  near  the  same  age, 
but  of  very  different  characters  and  dispositions. 

Brown  was  eldest  son  to  a  farmer  in  good  cir¬ 
cumstances,  who  gave  the  usual  apprentice  fee 
with  him.  Being  a  wild  giddy  boy,  whom  his 
father  could  not  well  manage  or  instruct  in  far¬ 
ming,  he  thought  it  better  to  send  him  out  to 
learn  a  trade  at  a  distance,  than  to  let  him  idle 
about  at  home  ;  for  Jack  always  preferred  bird’s- 
nesting  and  marbles  to  any  other  employment ; 
he  would  trifle  away  the  day,  when  his  father 
thought  he  was  at  school,  with  any  boys  he 
could  meet  with,  who  were  as  idle  as  himself; 
and  he  could  never  be  prevailed  upon  to  do,  or 
to  learn  any  thing,  while  a  game  at  taw  could 
be  had  for  love  or  money.  All  this  time  his 
little  brothers,  much  younger  than  himself,  were 
beginning  to  follow  the  plough,  or  to  carry  the 
corn  to  the  mill  as  soon  as  they  were  able  to 
mount  a  cart-horse. 

Jack,  however,  who  was  a  lively  boy,  and  did 
not  naturally  want  either  sense  or  good-nature, 
might  have  turned  out  well  enough,  if  he  had 
not  had  the  misfortune  to  be  his  mother’s  fa¬ 
vourite.  She  concealed  and  forgave  all  his  faults. 
To  be  sure  he  was  a  little  wild,  she  would  say, 
but  he  would  not  make  the  worse  man  for  that, 
for  Jack  had  a  good  spirit  of  his  own,  and  she 
would  not  have  it  broke,  and  so  make  a  mope  of 
the  boy.  The  farmer,  for  a  quiet  life,  as  it  is 
called,  gave  up  all  these  points  to  his  wife,  and, 
with  them,  gave  up  the  future  virtue  and  hap¬ 
piness  of  his  child.  He  was  a  laborious  and  in¬ 
dustrious  man,  but  had  no  religion ;  he  thought 
only  of  the  gains  and  advantages  of  the  present 
day,  and  never  took  the  future  into  the  account. 
His  wife  managed  him  entirely,  and  as  she  was 
really  notable,  he  did  not  trouble  his  head  about 
any  thing  farther.  If  she  had  been  careless  in 
her  dairy,  he  would  have  stormed  and  sworn ; 
but  as  she  only  ruined  one  child  by  indulgence, 
and  almost  broke  the  hearts  of  the  rest  by  un¬ 
kindness,  he  gave  himself  little  concern  about 
the  matter.  The  cheese,  certainly  was  good, 
and  that  indeed  is  a  great  point;  but  she  was 
neglectful  of  her  children,  and  a  tyrant  to  her 
servants.  Her  husband’s  substance,  indeed, 
was  not  wasted,  but  his  happiness  was  not  con¬ 
sulted.  His  house,  it  is  true,  was  not  dirty, 
but  it  was  the  abode  of  fury,  ill-temper,  and  cove¬ 
tousness.  And  the  farmer,  though  he  did  not 
care  for  liquor,  was  too  often  driven  to  the  public- 
house  in  the  evening,  because  his  own  was 
neither  quiet  nor  comfortable.  The  mother  was 
always  scolding,  and  the  children  were  always 
crying. 

Jack,  however,  notwithstanding  his  idleness, 
picked  up  a  little  reading  and  writing,  but  never 
would  learn  to  cast  an  account-  that  was  too 
much  labour.  His  mother  was  desirous  he 
should  continue  at  school,  not  so  much  for  the 
sake  of  his  learning,  which  she  had  not  sense 
VoL.  I. 


enough  to  value,  but  to  save  her  darling  from 
the  fatigue  of  labour :  for  if  he  had  not  gone  to 
school,  she  knew  he  must  have  gone  to  work, 
and  she  thought  the  former  was  the  least  tire¬ 
some  of  the  two.  Indeed  this  foolish  woman 
had  sueh  an  opinion  of  his  genius,  that  she  used 
from  a  child,  to  think  he  was  too  wise  for  any 
thing  but  a  parson,  and  hoped  she  should  live 
to  see  him  one.  She  did  not  wish  to  see  her  son  a 
minister,  because  she  loved  either  learning  or 
piety,  but  because  she  thought  it  would  make 
Jack  a  gentleman,  and  set  him  above  his  brothers. 

Farmer  Brown  still  hoped,  that  though  Jack 
was  likely  to  make  but  an  idle  and  ignorant 
farmer,  yet  he  might  make  no  bad  tradesman, 
when  he  should  be  removed  from  the  indul¬ 
gences  of  a  father’s  house,  and  from  a  silly 
mother,  whose  fondness  kept  him  back  in  every 
thing.  This  woman  was  enraged  when  she 
found  that  so  fine  a  scholar,  as  she  took  Jack 
to  be,  was  to  be  put  apprentice  to  a  shoemaker. 
The  farmer,  however,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  would  have  his  own  way.  But  being  a 
worldly  man,  and  too  apt  to  mind  only  what  is 
falsely  called  the  main  chance  ;  instead  of  being 
careful  to  look  out  for  a  sober,  prudent,  and  re¬ 
ligious  master  for  his  son,  he  left  all  that  to  ac¬ 
cident,  as  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  little  or  no 
consequence.  This  is  a  very  common  fault ; 
and  fathers  who  are  guilty  of  it,  are  in  a  great 
measure  answerable  for  the  future  sins  and 
errors  of  their  children,  when  they  come  out 
into  the  world,  and  set  up  for  themselves.  If  a 
man  gives  his  son  a  good  education,  a  good  ex¬ 
ample,  and  a  good  master,  it  is  indeed  possible 
that  the  son  may  not  turn  out  well,  but  it  does 
not  often  happen ;  and  when  it  does,  the  father 
has  no  hlame  resting  on  him ;  and  it  is  a  great 
point  towards  a  man’s  comfort  to  have  his  con¬ 
science  quiet  in  that  respect,  however  God  may 
think  fit  to  overrule  events.  '  > 

The  farmer,  however,  took  care  to  desire  his 
friends  to  inquire  for  a  shoemaker  who  had 
good  business,  and  was  a  good  workman ;  and 
the  mother  did  not  forget  to  put  in  her  word, 
and  desired  that  it  might  be  one  who  was  not 
too  strict ;  for  Jack  had  been  brought  up  tender¬ 
ly,  was  a  meek  boy,  and  could  not  bear  to  be 
contradicted  in  any  thing.  And  this  is  the 
common  notion  of  meekness  among  people  who 
do  not  take  up  their  notions  on  rational  and 
Christian  grounds. 

Mr.  Williams  was  recommended  to  the  far 
mer  as  being  the  best  shoemaker  in  the  town  in 
which  he  lived,  and  far  from  a  strict  master , 
and,  without  farther  inquiries,  to  Mr.  Williams 
he  went. 

James  Stock,  who  was  the  son  of  an  honest 
labourer  in  the  next  village,  was  bound  out  by 
the  parish  in  consideration  of  his  fatlior  having 
so  numerous  a  family,  that  ho  was  not  able  to 
put  him  out  himself.  James  was  in  every  thing 
the  very  reverse  of  his  new  companion.  He  was 
a  modest,  industrious,  pious  youth  ;  and  though 
so  poor,  and  the  child  of  a  labourer,  was  a  much 


202 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


better  scholar  than  Jack,  who  was  a  wealthy 
farmer’s  son. — His  father  had,  it  is  true,  been 
able  to  give  him  but  very  little  schooling,  for  he 
was  obliged  to  be  put  to  work  when  quite  a  child. 
When  very  young  he  used  to  run  of  errands  for 
Mr.  Thomas,  the  curate  of  the  parish ;  a  very 
kind-hearted  young  gentleman,  who  boarded 
next  door  to  his  father’s  cottage.  He  used  also 
to  rub  down  and  saddle  his  horse,  and  do  any 
other  little  job  for  him,  in  the  most  civil  oblig¬ 
ing  manner.  All  this  so  recommended  him  to 
the  clergyman,  that  he  would  often  send  for  him 
of  an  evening,  after  he  had  done  his  day’s  work 
in  the  field,  and  condescended  to  teach  him  him¬ 
self  to  write  and  cast  accounts,  as  well  as  to  in¬ 
struct  him  in  the  principles  of  his  religion.  It 
was  not  merely  out  of  kindness  for  the  little 
good-natured  services  James  did  him,  that  he 
showed  him  this  favour,  but  also  for  his  readi¬ 
ness  in  the  catechism,  and  his  devout  behaviour 
at  church. 

The  first  thing  that  drew  the  minister’s  at¬ 
tention  to  this  boy,  was  the  following  ;  he  had 
frequently  given  him  half-pence  and  pence  for 
holding  his  horse  and  carrying  him  to  water 
before  he  was  big  enough  to  be  further  useful 
to  him.  On  Christmas  day  he  was  surprised  to 
see  James  at  church,  reading  out  of  a  handsome 
new  prayer-book  ;  he  wondered  how  he  came 
by  it,  for  he  knew  there  was  nobody  in  the  pa¬ 
rish  likely  to  have  given  it  to  him,  for  at  that 
time  there  were  no  Sunday  schools;  and  the  fa¬ 
ther  could  not  afford  it  he  was  sure. 

‘  Well  James,’  said  he,  as  he  saw  him  when 
they  came  out,  ‘you  made  a  good  figure  at 
church  to-day  :  it  made  you  look  like  a  man  and 
a  Christian,  not  only  to  have  so  handsome  a 
book,  but  to  be  so  ready  in  all  parts  of  the  ser¬ 
vice.  How  came  you  by  that  book  ?’  James 
owned  modestly,  that  he  had  been  a  whole  year 
saving  up  the  money  by  single  half-pence,  all 
of  which  had  been  of  the  minister’s  own  giving, 
and  that  in  all  that  time  he  had  not  spent  a  sin¬ 
gle  farthing  on  his  own  diversions. — ‘  My  dear 
boy,’  said  the  good  Mr.  Thomas,  ‘  I  am  much 
mistaken  if  thou  dost  not  turn  out  welt  in  the 
world,  for  two  reasons  : — first,  from  thy  saving 
turn  and  self-denying  temper ;  and  next,  be¬ 
cause  thou  didst  devote  the  first  eighteen-pence 
thou  wast  ever  worth  in  the  world  to  so  good  a 
purpose.’ 

James  bowed  and  blushed,  and  from  that  time 
Mr.  Thomas  began  to  take  more  notice  of  him, 
and  to  instruct  him  as  I  said  above.  As  James 
soon  grew  able  to  do  him  more  considerable 
service,  he  would  now  and  then  give  him  a  six¬ 
pence.  This  he  constantly  saved  till  it  became 
a  little  sum,  with  which  he  bought  shoes  and 
stockings ;  well  knowing  that  his  poor  father, 
with  a  large  family  and  low  wages,  could  not 
buy  them  for  him.  As  to  what  little  money 
he  earned  himself  by  his  daily  labour  in  the 
field,  he  constantly  carried  it  to  his  mother  every 
Saturday  night,  to  buy  bread  for  the  family, 
which  was  a  pretty  help  to  them. 

As  James  was  not  overstout  in  his  make,  his 
father  thankfully  accepted  the  offer  of  the  pa¬ 
rish  officers  to  bind  out  his  son  to  a  trade.  This 
good  man,  however,  bad  not,  like  farmer  Brown, 
llie  liberty  of  choosing  a  master  for  his  son ;  or 


he  would  carefully  have  inquired  if  he  was  a 
proper  man  to  have  the  care  of  youth ;  but  Wil-, 
liams  the  shoemaker  was  already  fixed  on,  by 
those  who  were  to  put  the  boy  out,  who  told  him 
if  he  wanted  a  master  it  must  be  him  or  none; 
for  the  overseers  had  a  better  opinion  of  Wil¬ 
liams  than  he  deserved,  and  thought  it  would 
be  the  making  of  the  boy  to  go  to  him.  The 
father  knew  that  beggars  must  not  be  choosers, 
so  he  fitted  out  James  for  his  new  place,  having 
indeed  little  to  give  him  besides  his  blessing. 

The  worthy  Mr.  Thomas,  however,  kindly 
gave  him  an  old  coat  and  waistcoat,  which  his 
mother,  who  was  a  neat  and  notable  woman, 
contrived  to  make  up  for  him  herself  without  a 
farthing  expense,  and  when  it  was  turned  and 
made  fit  for  his  sise,  it  made  him  a  verv  hand- 
some  suit  for  Sundays,  and  lasted  him  a  couple 
of  years. 

And  here  let  me  stop  to  remark  what  a  pity 
it  is,  that  poor  women  so  seldom  are  able  or  wil¬ 
ling  to  do  these  sort  of  little  handy  jobs  them¬ 
selves  ;  and  that  they  do  not  oftener  bring  up 
their  daughters  to  be  more  useful  in  family 
work.  They  are  great  losers  by  it  every  way  , 
not  only  as  they  are  disqualifying  their  girls 
from  making  good  wives  hereafter,  but  they  are 
losers  in  point  of  present  advantage  ;  for  gentry 
could  much  oftener  afford  to  give  a  poor  boy  a 
jacket  or  a  waistcoat,  if  it  was  not  for  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  making  it,  which  adds  very  much  to 
the  cost.  To  my  certain  knowledge,  many  poor 
women  would  often  get  an  old  coat,  or  a  bit  of 
coarse  new  cloth  given  to  them  to  fit  out  a  boy, 
if  the  mothers  or  sisters  were  known  to  be  able 
to  cut  out  to  advantage,  and  to  make  it  up  de¬ 
cently  themselves.  But  half  a  crown  for  the 
making  a  bit  of  kersey,  which  costs  but  a  few 
shillings,  is  more  than  many  very  charitable 
gentry  can  afford  to  give — so  they  often  give 
nothing  at  all,  when  they  see  the  mothers  so 
little  able  to  turn  it  to  advantage.  It  is  hoped 
they  will  take  this  hint  kindly,  as  it  is  meant 
for  their  good. 

But  to  return  to  our  two  young  shoe-makers 
They  were  both  now  settled  at  Mr.  Williams’s 
who,  as  he  was  known  to  be  a  good  workman 
had  plenty  of  business — He  had  sometimes  two 
or  three  journeymen,  but  no  apprentices  but 
Jack  and  James. 

Jack,  who,  with  all  his  faults,  was  a  keen, 
smart  boy,  took  to  learn  the  trade  quick  enough, 
but  the  difficulty  was  to  make  him  stick  two 
hours  together  to  his  work.  At  every  noise  he 
heard  in  the  street  down  went  the  work — the 
last  one  way,  Che  upper  leather  another;  the 
sole  dropped  on  the  ground,  and  the  thread 
dragged  after  him,  all  the  way  up  the  street.  If 
a  blind  fiddler,  a  ballad  singer,  a  mountebank, 
a  dancing  bear,  or  a  drum  were  heard  at  a  dis¬ 
tance — out  ran  Jack — nothing  could  stop  him, 
and  not  a  stich  more  could  he  be  prevailed  on  to 
do  that  day.  Every  duty,  every  promise  was 
forgotten  for  the  present  pleasure — he  could  not 
resist  the  smallest  temptation — he  never  stopped 
for  a  moment  to  consider  whether  a  thing  was 
right  or  wrong,  but  whether  he  liked  or  disliked 
it.  And  as  his  ill-judging  mother  took  care  to 
send  him  privately  a  good  supply  of  pocket, 
money,  that  deadly  bane  to  all  youthful  virtue 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


203 


fae  had  generally  a  few  pence  ready  to  spend, 
and  to  indulge  in  the  present  diversion  whatever 
it  was.  And  what  was  still  worse  even  than 
spending  his  money,  he  spent  his  time  too,  or 
rather  his  master’s  time.  Of  this  he  was  con¬ 
tinually  reminded  by  James,  to  whom  he  always 
answered,  ‘  what  have  you  to  complain  about  ? 
It  is  nothing  to  you  or  any  one  else  ;  I  spend 
nobody’s  money  but  my  own.  ‘  That  may  be,’ 
replied  the  other,  ‘  but  you  cannot  say  it  is  your 
own  time  that  you  spend.’  He  insisted  upon  it 
that  it  was;  but  James  fetched  down  their  in¬ 
dentures,  and  there  showed  him  that  he  had  so¬ 
lemnly  bound  himself  by  that  instrument,  not  to 
waste  his  master’s  property.  ‘  Now,’  quoth 
James,  ‘  thy  own  time  is  a  very  valuable  part  of 
thy  master’s  property.’  To  this  he  replied, 
‘  every  one’s  time  was  his  own,  and  he  should 
not  sit  moping  all  day  over  his  last — for  his  part, 
he  thanked  God,  he  was  no  parish  ’prentice.’ 

James  did  not  resent  this  piece  of  foolish  im¬ 
pertinence,  as  some  silly  lads  would  have  done  ; 
nor  fly  out  into  a  violent  passion  :  for  even  at 
this  early  age,  he  had  begun  to  learn  of  Him 
who  was  meek  and  lowly  of  heart  ;  and  therefore 
when  he  was  reviled,  he  reviled  not  again.  On 
the  contrary  he  was  so  very  kind  and  gentle, 
that  even  Jack,  vain  and  idle  as  he  was,  could 
not  Iielp  loving  him,  though  he  took  care  never 
to  follow  his  advice. 

Jack’s  fondness  for  his  boyish  and  silly  diver¬ 
sions  in  the  street,  soon  produced  the  effects 
which  might  naturally  be  expected;  and  the 
same  idleness  which  led  him  to  fly  out  into  the 
town  at  the  sound  ®f  a  fiddle  or  the  sight  of  a 
puppet-show,  soon  led  him  to  those  places  to 
which  all  these  fiddles  and  shows  naturally  lead  ; 
I  mean  the  alehouse.  The  acquaintance  picked 
up  in  the  street  was  carried  on  at  the  Gray- 
hound  ;  and  the  idle  pastimes  of  the  boy  soon 
led  to  the  destructive  vices  of  the  man. 

As  he  was  not  an  ill-tempered  youth,  nor  na¬ 
turally  much  given  to  drink,  a  sober  and  prudent 
master,  who  had  been  steady  in  his  manage¬ 
ment  and  regular  in  his  own  conduct,  who  would 
have  recommended  good  advice  by  a  good  ex¬ 
ample,  might  have  made  something  of  Jack. 
But  I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  Mr.  Williams,  though 
a  good  workman,  and  not  a  very  hard  or  severe 
master,  was  neither  a  sober  nor  a  steady  man — 
so  far  from  it  that  he  spent  much  more  time  at 
the  Grayhound  than  at  home.  There  was  no 
order  either  in  his  shop  or  family.  He  left  the 
chief  care  of  his  business  to  his  two  young  ap¬ 
prentices  ;  and  being  but  a  worldly  man,  he  was 
at  first  disposed  to  show  favour  to  Jack,  much 
more  than  to  James,  because  he  had  more  mo¬ 
ney,  and  his  father  was  better  in  the  world  than 
the  father  of  poor  James. 

At  first,  therefore,  he  was  disposed  to  consider 
James  as  a  sort  of  drudge  ;  who  was  to  do  all 
the  menial  .work  of  the  family,  and  he  did  not 
care  how  little  he  taught  him  of  his  trade.  With 
Mrs.  Williams  the  matter  was  still  worse;  she 
constantly  called  him  away  from  the  business  of 
his  trade  to  wash  the  house,  nurse  the  child,  turn 
the  spit,  or  run  of  errands.  And  here  I  must  re- 
mark,  tliat  though  parish  apprentices  are  bound 
in  duty  to  be  submissive  to  both  master  and 
mistress,  and  always  to  make  themselves  as  use¬ 


ful  as  they  can  in  a  family,  and  to  be  civil  and 
humble ;  yet  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  the  duty  of 
masters  always  to  remember,  that  if  they  are 
paid  for  instructing  them  in  their  trade,  they 
ought  conscientiously  to  instruct  them  in  it,  and 
not  to  employ  them  the  greater  part  of  their 
time  in  such  household  or  other  drudgery,  as  to 
deprive  them  of  the  opportunity  of  acquiring 
their  trade.  This  practice  is  not  the  less  unjust 
because  it  is  common. 

Mr.  Williams  soon  found  out  that  his  favourite 
Jack  would  be  of  little  use  to  him  in  the  shop  ; 
for  though  he  worked  well  enough,  he  did  not 
care  how  little  he  did.  Nor  could  he  be  of  the  least 
use  to  his  master  in  keeping  an  account,  or 
writing  out  a  bill  upon  occasion,  for,  as  he  never 
could  be  made  to  learn  to  cypher,  he  did  not 
know  addition  from  multiplication. 

One  day  one  of  the  customers  called  at  the 
shop  in  a  great  hurry,  and  desired  his  bill  might 
be  made  out  that  minute.  Mr.  Williams,  having 
taken  a  cup  too  much,  made  several  attempts  to 
put  down  a  clear  account,  but  the  more  he  tried, 
the  less  he  found  himself  able  to  do  it.  James, 
who  was  sitting  at  his  last,  rose  up,  and  with 
great  modesty,  asked  his  master  if  he  would 
please  to  give  him  leave  to  make  out  the  bill, 
saying,  that  though  but  a  poor  scholar,  he  would 
do  his  best,  rather  than  keep  the  gentleman  wait¬ 
ing.  Williams  gladly  accepted  his  offer,  and 
confused  as  his  head  was  with  liquor,  he  yet 
was  able  to  observe  with  what  neatness,  despatch, 
and  exactness,  the  account  was  drawn  out.  From 
that  time  he  no  longer  considered  James  as  a 
drudge,  but  as  one  fitted  for  the  high  depart¬ 
ments  of  the  trade,  and  he  was  now  regularly 
employed  to  manage  the  accounts,  with  which 
all  the  customers  were  so  well  pleased,  that  it 
contributed  greatly  to  raise  him  in  his  master’s 
esteem :  for  there  were  now  never  any  of  those 
blunders  or  false  charges  for  which  the  shop 
had  before  been  so  famous. 

James  went  on  in  a  regular  course  of  in¬ 
dustry,  and  soon  became  the  best  workman  Mr. 
Williams  had;  but  there  were  many  things  in 
the  family  which  he  greatly  disapproved.  Some 
of  the  journeymen  used  to  swear,  drink,  and 
sing  very  licentious  songs.  All  these  things 
were  a  great  grief  to  his  sober  mind  ;  he  com¬ 
plained  to  his  master  who  only  laughed  at  him ; 
and,  indeed,  as  Williams  did  the  same  himself^ 
he  put  it  out  of  his  power  to  correct  his  servants, 
if  he  had  been  so  disposed.  James  however, 
used  always  to  reprove  them  with  great  mild¬ 
ness  indeed,  but  with  great  seriousness  also. 
This,  but  still  more  his  own  excellent  example, 
produced  at  length  very  good  effects  on  such  of 
the  men  as  were  not  quite  hardened  in  sin. 

What  grieved  him  most,  was  the  manner  in 
which  the  Sunday  was  spent.  The  master  lay 
in  bed  all  the  morning;  nor  did  the  mother  or 
her  children  ever  go  to  church,  except  there  was 
some  new  finery  to  be  shown,  or  a  christening 
to  be  attended.  The  town’s  people  were  coming 
to  the  shop  all  the  morning,  for  work  which 
should  have  been  sent  home  the  night  before, 
had  not  tlio  master  been  at  the  alehouse.  And 
what  wounded  James  to  the  very  soul  was,  that 
the  master  expected  the  two  apprentices  to  carry 
home  shoes  to  the  country  customers  on  the 


204 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MOREw 


Sunday  morning';  which  he  wickedly  thought 
was  a  saving  of  time,  as  it  prevented  their  hin¬ 
dering  their  work  on  the  Saturday.  These 
shameful  practices  greatly  afflicted  poor  James; 
he  begged  his  master  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  to 
excuse  him,  but  he  only  laughed  at  his  squeamish 
conscience,  as  he  called  it. 

Jack  did  not  dislike  this  part  of  the  business, 
and  generally  after  he  had  delivered  his  parcel, 
wasted  good  part  of  the  day  in  nutting,  playing 
at  fives,  or  dropping  in  at  the  public  house  :  any 
thing  was  better  to  Jack  than  going  to  church. 

James  on  the  other  hand,  when  he  was  com¬ 
pelled,  sorely  against  his  conscience,  to  carry 
home  any  goods  on  a  Sunday  morning,  always 
got  up  as  soon  as  it  was  light,  knelt  down  and 
prayed  heartily  to  God  to  forgive  him  a  sin 
which  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  avoid  ;  he  took 
care  not  to  lose  a  moment  by  the  way,  but  as  he 
was  taking  his  walk  with  the  utmost  speed,  to 
leave  his  shoes  with  the  customers,  he  spent  his 
time  in  endeavouring  to  keep  up  good  thoughts 
in  his  mind,  and  praying  that  the  day  might 
come  when  his  conscience  might  be  delivered 
from  this  grievous  burthen.  He  was  now  par¬ 
ticularly  thankful,  that  Mr.  Thomas  had  for¬ 
merly  taught  him  so  many  psalms  and  chapters, 
which  he  used  to  repeat  in  these  walks  with 
great  devotion. 

He  always  got  home  before  the  rest  of  the 
family  were  up,  dressed  himself  very  clean,  and 
went  twice  to  church  ;  as  he  greatly  disliked  the 
company  and  practices  of  his  master’s  house, 
particularly  on  the  Sabbath-day,  he  preferred 
spending  his  evening  alone,  reading  his  Bible, 
which  I  had  forgot  to  say  the  worthy  clergyman 
had  given  him  when  he  loft  his  native  village. 
Sunday  evening,  which  is  to  some  people  such 
a  burden,  was  to  James  the  highest  holiday.  He 
had  formerly  learnt  a  little  how  to  sing  a  psalm 
of  the  clerk  of  his  own  parish,  and  this  was  now 
become  a  very  delightful  part  of  his  evening  ex¬ 
ercise.  And  as  Will  Simpson,  one  of  the  jour¬ 
neymen,  by  James’s  advice  and  example,  was 
now  beginning  to  bo  of  a  more  serious  way  of 
thinking,  he  often  asked  him  to  sit  an  hour  with 
him,  when  they  read  the  Bible,  and  talked  it 
over  together  in  a  manner  very  pleasant  and 
improving  ;  and  as  Will  was  a  famous  singer,  a 
psalm  or  two  sung  together,  was  a  very  innocent 
pleasure. 

James’s  good  manners  and  civility  to  the  cus¬ 
tomers  drew  much  business  to  the  shop ;  and 
his  skill  as  a  workman  was  so  great,  that  every 
one  desired  that  his  shoes  might  be  made  by 
James.  Williams  grew  so  very  idle  and  negli¬ 
gent,  that  he  now  totally  neglected  his  affairs, 
and  to  hard  drinking  added  deep  gaming.  All 
James’s  care,  both  of  the  shop  and  the  accounts, 
could  not  keep  things  in  any  tolerable  order  :  he 
represented  to  his  master  that  they  were  grow¬ 
ing  worse  and  worse,  and  exhorted  him,  if  he 
valued  his  credit  as  a  tradesman,  his  comfort  as 
a  husband  and  father,  his  character  as  a  master, 
and  his  soul  as  a  Christian  to  turn  over  a  new 
leaf.  WiUiarns  swore  a  great  oath,  that  he 
would  not  be  restrained  in  his  pleasures  to  please 
a  canting  parish  ’prentice,  nor  to  humour  a  par¬ 
rel  of  squalling  brats — that  let  people  say  what 
they  would  of  him,  they  should  never  say  he  was  , 


a  hypocrite,  and  as  long  as  they  could  not  calf 
him  that,  he  did  not  care  what  else  they  called 
him. 

In  a  violent  passion  he  immediately  went  to 
the  Grayhound,  where  he  now  spent  not  only 
every  evening,  which  he  had  long  done,  but  good 
part  of  the  day  and  night  also. — His  wife  was 
very  dressy,  extravagant,  and  fond  of  company, 
and  wasted  at  home  as  fast  as  her  husband  spent 
abroad,  so  that  all  the  neighbours  said,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  James,  his  master  must  have  been 
a  bankrupt  long  ago,  but  they  were  sure  he  could 
not  hold  it  much  longer. 

As  Jack  Brown  sung  a  good  song,  and  played 
many  diverting  tricks,  Williams  liked  his  com¬ 
pany  ;  and  often  allowed  him  to  make  one  at 
the  Grayhound,  where  he  would  laugh  heartily 
at  his  stories  ;  so  that  every  one  thought  Jack 
was  much  the  greater  favourite — se  he  was  as  a 
companion  in  frolic,  and  foolery,  and  pleasure, 
as  it  is  called ;  but  he  would  not  trust  him  with 
an  inch  of  leather  or  sixpence  in  money  :  No, 
no — when  business  was  to  be  done,  or  trust  was 
to  be  reposed,  James  was  the  man  :  the  idle  and 
the  drunken  never  trust  one  another,  if  they 
have  common  sense.  They  like  to  laugh,  and 
sing,  and  riot,  and  drink  together,  but  when  they 
want  a  friend,  a  counsellor,  a  helper  in  business 
or  in  trouble,  they  go  farther  afield  ;  and  Wil¬ 
liams,  while  he  would  drink  with  Jack,  would 
trust  James  with  untold  gold ;  and  even  was 
foolishly  tempted  to  neglect  his  business  the 
more  from  knowing  that  he  had  one  at  home  who 
was  taking  care  of  it. 

In  spite  of  all  James’s  care  and  diligence, 
however,  things  were  growing  worse  and  worse ; 
the  more  James  saved,  the  more  his  master  and 
mistress  spent.  One  morning,  just  as  the  shop 
was  opened,  and  James  had  set  every  body  to 
their  respective  work,  and  he  himself  was  set¬ 
tling  the  business  for  the  day,  he  found  that  his 
master  was  not  yet  come  from  the  Grayhound. 
As  this  was  now  become  a  common  case,  he 
only  grieved  but  did  not  wonder  at  it.  While 
he  was  indulging  sad  thoughts  on  what  would 
be  the  end  of  all  this,  in  ran  the  tapster  from  the 
Grayhound  out  of  breath,  and  with  a  look  of, 
terror  and  dismay,  desired  James  would  step 
over  to  the  public  house  with  him  that  momeait, 
for  that  his  master  wanted  him. 

James  went  immediately,  surprised  at  this 
unusual  message.  When  he  got  into  the  kitchen 
of  the  public  house,  which  he  now  entered  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life,  though  it  was  just  op¬ 
posite  to  the  house  in  which  he  lived,  he  was 
shocked  at  the  beastly  disgusting  appearance  of 
every  thing  he  beheld.  There  was  a  table  cover¬ 
ed  with  tankards,  punch-bowls,  broken  glasses, 
pipes,  and  dirty  greasy  packs  of  cards,  and  all 
over  wet  with  liquor  ;  the  floor  was  strewed  with 
broken  earthen  cups,  odd  cards,  and  an  EO  table 
which  had  been  shivered  to  pieces  in  a  quarrel ; 
behind  the  table  stood  a  crowd  of  dirty  fellows, 
with  matted  locks,  hollow  eyes,  and  faces  smear¬ 
ed  with  tobacco  ;  James  made  his  way  after  the 
tapster,  through  this  wretched  looking  crew,  to 
a  settle  which  stood  in  the  chimney  corner.  Not 
a  word  was  uttered,  but  the  silent  horror  seemed 
to  denote  something  more  than  a  mere  coininoa 
drunken  bout. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANiNfAH  MORE. 


205 


I  What  was  the  dismay  of  James,  when  he  saw 
■  his  miserable  master  stretehed  out  on  the  settle, 

P'  in  all  the  agonies  of  death  !  He  had  fallen  into 

11'  a  fit ;  after  having  drunk  hard  best  part  of  the 

i'  night,  and  seemed  to  have  but  a  few  minutes  to 

H  live.  In  his  frightful  countenance,  was  dis- 

J  played  the  dreadful  picture  of  sin  and  death,  for 

ho  struggled  at  once  under  the  guilt  of  intoxica¬ 
nt  tion,  and  the  pangs  of  a  dying  man.  He  reco¬ 
il,  vered  his  senses  for  a  few  moments,  and  called 

i  out  to  ask  if  his  faithful  servant  was  come. — 

3  James  went  up  to  him,  took  him  by  his  cold 

■  hand,  but  was  too  much  moved  to  speak. — ‘  Oh  ! 

James,  James,’  cried  he  in  a  broken  voice,  ‘pray 
for  me,  comfort  me.’  James  spoke  kindly  to 
him,  but  was  too  honest  to  give  him  false  com- 
I  fort,  as  is  too  often  done  by  mistaken  friends  in 
these  dreadful  moments. 

I  ‘  James,’  said  he,  ‘  I  have  been  a  bad  master 
I  to  you — ^you  would  have  saved  me,  soul  and  body, 

but  I  would  not  let  you — I  have  ruined  my  wife, 
my  children,  and  my  own  soul.  Take  warning, 

'  oh,  take  warning  by  my  miserable  end,’  said  he 
to  his  stupified  companions  :  but  none  were  able 
to  attend  to  him  but  James,  who  bid  him  lift  up 
;  his  heart  to  God,  and  prayed  heartily  for  him 
himself.  ‘  Oh  !’  said  the  dying  man,  ‘  it  is  too 
late,  too  late  for  me — but  you  have  still  time,’ 
said  he  to  the  half-drunken  terrified  crew  around 
him.  ‘  Where  is  Jack  T  Jack  Brown  came 
forward,  but  was  too  much  frightened  to  speak, 
i  *  O  wretched  boy  !’  said  he,  ‘  I  fear  I  shall  have 
the  ruin  of  thy  soul,  as  well  as  my  own  to  answer 
for.  Stop  short ! — Take  warning — now  in  the 
I  days  of  thy  youth.  O  James,  James,  thou  dost 
not  pray  for  me.  Death  is  dreadful  to  the  wick- 
I  ed — O  the  sting  of  death  to  a  guilty  conscience !’ 

i  Here  he  lifted  up  his  ghastly  eyes  in  speechless 
;  horror,  grasped  hard  at  the  hand  of  James  ;  gave 
a  deep  hollow  groan,  and  closed  his  eyes,  never 
to  open  them  but  in  an  awful  eternity. 

This  was  death  in  all  its  horrors  !  the  gay 
companions  of  his  sinful  pleasures,  could  not 
stand  the  sight ;  all  slunk  away  like  guilty 
thieves  from  their  late  favourite  friend — no  one 
was  left  to  assist  him,  but  his  two  apprentices. 
Brown  was  not  so  hardened  but  that  he  shed 
many  tears  for  his  unhappy  master ;  and  even 
made  some  hasty  resolutions  of  amendment, 
which  were  too  soon  forgotten. 

While  Brown  stepped  home  to  call  the  work¬ 
men  to  come  and  assist  in  removing  their  poor 
master,  James  staid  alone  with  the  corpse,  and 
employed  those  awful  moments  in  indulging  the 
'  most  serious  thoughts,  and  praying  heartily  to 
God,  that  so  terrible  a  lesson  might  not  be  thrown 
■  away  upon  him  ;  but  that  he  might  be  enabled 
to  live  in  a  constant  state  of  preparation  for 
death. — The  resolutions  he  made  at  this  moment, 
as  they  were  not  made  in  his  own  strength,  but 
III  an  humble  reliance  on  God’s  gracious  help, 
were  of  use  to  him  as  long  as  he  lived  ;  and  if 
ever  he  was  for  a  moment  tempted  to  say,  or  do 
a  wrong  thing,  the  remembranee  of  his  poor 
dying  master’s  last  agonies,  and  the  dreadful 
words  he  uttered,  always  operated  as  an  instant 
check  upon  him. 

When  Williams  was  buried,  and  his  affairs 
came  to  be  inquired  into,  they  were  found  to  be 
Jn  a  sad  condition.  His  wife,  indeed,  was  the 


less  to  be  pitied,  as  she  had  contributed  her  full 

share  to  the  common  ruin.  James,  however, 

did  pity  her,  and  by  his  skill  in  accounts,  his  ;j 

known  honesty,  and  the  trust  the  creditors  put  ■; 

in  his  word,  things  came  to  be  settled  rather 

better  than  Mrs.  Williams  expected. 

Both  Brown  and  James  were  now  within  a 
month  or  two  of  being  out  of  their  time.  The 
creditors,  as  was  said  before,  employed  James  ;■ 

to  settle  his  late  master’s  accounts,  which  he  did 
in  a  manner  so  creditable  to  his  abilities,  and 
his  honesty,  that  they  proposed  to  him  to  take 
the  shop  himself.  He  assured  them  it  was  ut¬ 
terly  out  of  his  power  for  want  of  money.  As 
the  creditors  had  not  the  least  fear  of  being  re¬ 
paid,  if  it  should  please  God  to  spare  his  life, 
they  generously  agreed  among  themselves  to 
advance  him  a  small  sum  of  money  without  any 
security  but  his  bond ;  for  this  he  was  to  pay  a 
very  reasonable  interest,  and  to  return  the  whole 
in  a  given  number  of  years.  James  shed  tears 
of  gratitude  at  this  testimony  to  his  character, 
and  could  hardly  be  prevailed  on  to  accept  their 
kindness,  so  great  was  his  dread  of  being  in 
debt. 

He  took  the  remainder  of  the  lease  from  his 
mistress  ;  and  in  settling  affairs  with  her,  took 
care  to  make  every  thing  as  advantageous  to  her  ' 

as  possible.  He  never  once  allowed  himself  to 
think  how  unkind  she  had  been  to  him  ;  he  only 
saw  in  her  the  needy  widow  of  his  deceased  ' 

master,  and  the  distressed  mother  of  an  infant 
family  ;  and  was  heartily  sorry  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  contribute  to  their  support ;  it  was  not 
only  James’s  duty,  but  his  delight,  to  return  good 
for  evil — for  he  was  a  Christian. 

James  Stock  was  now,  by  the  blessing  of  God 
on  his  own  earnest  endeavours,  master  of  a  con¬ 
siderable  shop,  and  was  respected  by  the  whole 
town  for  his  prudence,  honesty,  and  piety.  How 
he  behaved  in  his  new  station,  and  also  what 
befel  his  comrade  Brown,  must  be  the  subject 
of  another  book ;  and  I  hope  my  readers  will 
look  forward  with  some  impatience  for  some  ^ 

further  account  of  this  worthy  young  man.  In  ' ; 

the  meantime,  other  apprentices  will  do  well  to  ii 

follow  so  praiseworthy  an  example,  and  to  re-  '  ; 

member,  that  the  respectable  master  of  a  largo  J 

shop,  and  of  a  profitable  business,  was  raised  to  :  i 

that  creditable  situation,  without  money,  friends,  ; 

or  connexions,  from  the  low  beginning  of  a  parish  ■ 

apprentice,  by  sobriety,  industry,  the  fear  of 
God,  and,  an  obedience  to  the  divine  principles  ; 

of  the  Christian  religion. 


PART  II. 

77<e  Apprentice  turned  Master.  i  ' 

The  first  part  of  this  history  left  off  with  the  i 

dreadful  sudden  death  of  Williams  the  idle  shoo- 
maker,  who  died  in  a  drunken  fit  at  the  Gray-  < 

hound.  It  also  showed  how  James  Stock,  his  , 

faithful  apprentice,  by  his  honest  and  upright  [ 

behaviour,  so  gained  the  love  and  respect  of  his  ^ 

late  master’s  creditors,  that  they  set  him  up  in  j' 

business,  though  he  was  not  worth  a  shilling  ot 
his  own — such  is  the  power  of  a  good  character !  !’ 


206 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


And  when  we  last  parted  from  him  he  had  just 
got  possession  of  his  master’s  shop. 

This  sudden  prosperity  was  a  time  of  trial 
for  James ;  who,  as  he  was  now  become  a  cre¬ 
ditable  tradesman,  I  shall  hereafter  think  proper 
to  call  Mr.  James  Stock.  I  say,  this  sudden 
rise  in  life  was  a  time  of  trial ;  for  we  hardly 
know  what  we  are  ourselves  till  we  become  our 
own  masters.  There  is  indeed  always  a  rea¬ 
sonable  hope  that  a  good  servant  will  not  make 
a  bad  master,  and  that  a  faithful  apprentice  will 
prove  an  honest  tradesman.  But  the  heart  of 
man  is  deceitful ;  and  some  folks  who  seem  to 
behave  very  well  while  they  are  under  subjec¬ 
tion,  no  sooner  get  a  little  power  than  their 
hdads  are  turned,  and  they  grow  prouder  than 
those  who  are  gentlemen  born.  They  forget  at 
once  that  they  were  lately  poor  and  dependant 
themselves,  so  that  one  would  think  that  with 
their  poverty  they  had  lost  their  memory  too. 
I  have  known  some  who  had  suffered  most 
hardships  in  their  early  days,  become  the  most 
hard  and  oppressive  in  their  turn  :  so  that  they 
seem  to  forget  that  fine  considerate  reason  which 
God  gives  to  the  children  of  Israel  why  they 
should  be  merciful  to  their  servants,  remember¬ 
ing,  said  he,  that  thou  thyself  was  a  bond-man. 

Young  Mr.  Stock  did  not  so  forget  himself. 
He  had  indeed  the  only  sure  guard  from  falling 
into  this  error.  It  was  not  from  any  uneasiness  in 
his  natural  disposition:  for  that  only  just  serves 
to  make  folks  good-natured  when  they  are 
pleased,  and  patient  when  they  have  nothing 
to  vex  them. — James  went  upon  higher  ground. 
He  brought  his  religion  into  all  his  actions ; 
he  did  not  give  way  to  abhsive  language,  be¬ 
cause  he  knew  it  was  a  sin.  He  did  not  use 
his  apprentices  ill,  because  he  knew  he  had  him¬ 
self  a  Master  in  heaven. 

He  knew  he  owed  his  present  happy  situation 
to  the  kindness  of  the  creditors.  But  did  he 
grow  easy  and  careless  because  he  knew  he  had 
such  friends?  No  indeed.  He  worked  with 
double  diligence  in  order  to  get  out  of  debt,  and 
to  let  these  friends  see  he  did  not  abuse  their 
kindness.  Such  behaviour  as  this  is  the  great¬ 
est  encouragement  in  the  world  to  rich  people 
to  lend  a  little  money.  It  creates  friends,  and 
it  keeps  them. 

His  shoes  and  boots  were  made  in  the  best 
manner  ;  this  got  him  business  ;  he  set  out  with 
a  rule  to  tell  no  lies,  and  deceive  no  customers ; 
this  secured  his  business.  He  had  two  reasons 
for  not  promising  to  send  home  goods  when  he 
knew  he  should  not  be  able  to  keep  his  word. 
The  first,  because  he  knew  a  lie  was  a  sin,  the 
next,  because  it  was  a  folly.  There  is  no  credit 
sooner  worn  out  than  that  which  is  gained  by 
false  pretences.  After  a  little  while  no  one  is 
deceived  by  them.  Falsehood  is  so  soon  detect¬ 
ed,  that  I  believe  most  tradesmen  are  the  poorer 
for  it  in  the  long  rung.  Deceit  is  the  worst 
part  of  a  shopkeeper’s  stock  in  trade. 

James  was  now  at  the  head  of  a  family. — 
This  is  a  serious  situation,  (said  he  to  himself, 
one  fine  summer’s  evening,  as  he  stood  leaning 
over  the  half-door  of  his  shop  to  enjoy  a  little 
fresh  air)  I  am  now’  master  of  a  family.  My 
cares  arc  doubled,  and  so  are  my  duties.  I  see 
the  higher  one  gets  in  life  the  more  one  has  to 


answer  for.  Let  me  now  call  to  mind  the  sor¬ 
row  I  used  to  feel  when  I  was  made  to  carry 
work  home  on  a  Sunday  by  an  ungodly  master  : 
and  let  me  now  keep  the  resolution  I  then  form¬ 
ed. 

So  what  his  heart  found  right  to  do,  he  re¬ 
solved  to  do  quickly ;  and  he  set  out  at  first  as 
he  meant  to  go  on.  The  Sunday  was  ituly  a 
day  of  rest  at  Mr.  Stock’s.  He  would  not  allow 
a  pair  of  shoes  to  be  given  out  on  that  day  to 
oblige  the  best  customer  he  had.  And  what  did 
he  lose  by  it?  Why  nothing.  For  when  the  peo 
pie  were  once  used  to  it,  they  liked  Saturday 
night  just  as  well.  But  had  it  been  otherwise 
he  would  have  given  up  his  gains  to  his  con 
science. 

Showing  how  Mr.  Stock  behaved  to  his  appren . 
tices. 

When  he  got  up  in  the  world  so  far  as  to  have 
apprentices,  he  thought  himself  as  accountable 
for  their  behaviour  as  if  they  had  been  his  chil¬ 
dren.  He  was  very  kind  to  them,  and  had  a 
cheerful  merry  way  of  talking  to  them,  so  that 
the  lads  who  had  seen  too  much  of  swearing,  re¬ 
probate  masters,  were  fond  of  him.  They  were 
never  afraid  of  speaking  to  him ;  they  told  him 
all  their  little  troubles,  and  considered  their  mas¬ 
ter  as  their  best  friend,  for  they  said  they  would 
do  any  thing  for  a  good  word  and  a  kind  look. 
As  he  did  not  swear  at  them  when  they  had 
been  guilty  of  a  fault,  they  did  not  lie  to  him  to 
conceal  it,  and  thereby  make  one  fault  two. 
But  though  he  was  very  kind,  he  was  very 
watchful  also,  for  he  did  not  think  neglect  any 
part  of  kindness.  He  brought  them  to  adopt  one 
very  pretty  method,  which  was,  on  a  Sunday 
evening  to  divert  themselves  with  writing  out 
half  a  dozen  texts  of  Scripture  in  a  neat  copy¬ 
book  with  gilt  covers.  You  have  the  same  at 
any  of  the  stationers ;  they  do  not  cost  above 
fourpence,  and  will  last  nearly  a  year. 

When  the  boys  carried  him  their  books,  he 
justly  commended  him  whose  texts  were  writ¬ 
ten  in  the  fairest  hand.  ‘  And  now  my  boys,’ 
said  he,  ‘  let  us  see  which  of  you  will  learn  your 
texts  best  in  the  course  of  the  week  ;  he  who 
does  this  shall  choose  for  next  Sunday.’  Thus 
the  boys  soon  got  many  psalms  and  chapters  by 
heart,  almost  without  knowing  how  they  came 
by  them.  He  taught  them  how  to  make  a  prac¬ 
tical  use  of  what  they  learnt :  ‘for,’  said  he,  ‘  it 
will  answer  little  purposes  to  learn  texts  if  we 
do  not  try  to  live  up  to  them.’  One  of  the  boys 
being  apt  to  play  in  his  absence,  and  to  run 
back  again  to  his  work  when  he  heard  his 
master’s  step,  he  brought  him  to  a  sense  of  his 
fault  by  the  last  Sunday’s  text,  which  happened 
to  be  the  sixth  of  Ephesians.  He  showed  him 
what  was  meant  by  being  obedient  to  his  master 
in  singleness  of  heart  as  unto  Christ,  and  ex¬ 
plained  to  him  with  so  much  kindness  what  it 
was,  not  to  work  with  eye-service  as  men  pleasers, 
but  doing  the  will  of  God  from  the  heart,  that 
the  lad  said  he  should  never  forget  it,  and  it  did 
more  towards  curing  him  of  idleness  than  the 
soundest  horse-whipping  would  have  done. 

How  Mr.  Stock  got  out  of  debt. 

Stock’s  behaviour  was  very  regular,  and  he 
was  much  beloved  for  his  kind  and  peaceable 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


temper.  He  had  also  a  good  reputation  for  skill 
in  his  trade,  and  his  industry  was  talked  of 
through  the  whole  town,  so  that  he  had  soon 
more  work  than  he  could  possibly  do.  He  paid 
all  his  dealers  to  the  very  day,  and  took  care  to 
carry  his  interest  money  to  the  creditors  the 
moment  it  became  due.  In  two  or  three  years 
he  was  able  to  begin  to  pay  off  a  small  part  of 
the  principal.  His  reason  for  being  so  eager  to 
pay  money  as  soon  as  it  became  due,  was  this  : 
— He  had  observed  tradesmen,  and  especially 
his  old  master,  put  off  the  day  of  payment  as 
long  as  they  could,  even  though  they  had  the 
means  of  paying  in  their  power.  This  deceived 
them  ;  for  having  money  in  their  pockets  they 
forgot  it  belonged  to  the  creditor,  and  not  to 
themselves,  and  so  got  to  fancy  they  were  rich 
when  they  were  really  poor.  This  false  notion 
led  them  to  indulge  in  idle  expenses,  whereas, 
if  they  had  paid  regularly,  they  would  have  had 
this  one  temptation  the  less  :  a  young  trades¬ 
man,  when  he  is  going  to  spend  money,  should 
at  least  ask  himself,  ‘  Whether  this  money  is 
his  own  or  his  creditors  V  This  little  question 
might  help  to  prevent  many  a  bankruptcy. 

A  true  Christian  alwriws  goes  heartily  to  work 
to  find  out  what  is  his  besetting  sin  ;  and  when 
he  has  found  it  (which  he  easily  may  if  he  looks 
sharp)  against  this  sin  he  watches  narrowly. 
Now  I  know  it  is  the  fashion  among  some  folks, 
(and  a  bad  fashion  it  is,)  to  fancy  that  good 
people  have  no  sin  ;  but  this  only  shows  their 
ignorance.  It  is  not  true.  That  good  man,  St. 
Paul,  knew  better.*  And  when  men  do  not 
own  their  sins,  it  is  not  because  their  is  no  sin 
in  their  hearts,  but  because  they  are  not  anxi¬ 
ous  to  search  for  it,  nor  humble  to  confess  it, 
nor  penitent  to  mourn  over  it.  But  this  was 
not  the  case  with  James  Stock.  ‘  Examine 
yourselves  truly,’  said  he,  ‘  is  no  bad  part  of 
the  catechism.’  He  began  to  be  afraid  that  his 
desire  of  living  creditably,  and  without  being  a 
burden  to  any  one,  might,  under  the  mask  of 
honesty  and  independence,  lead  him  into  pride 
and  covetousness.  He  feared  that  the  bias  of 
his  heart  lay  that  way.  So  instead  of  being 
proud  of  his  sobriety;  instead  of  bragging  that 
he  never  spent  his  money  idly,  nor  went  to  the 
alehouse ;  instead  of  boasting  how  hard  he  work¬ 
ed  and  how  he  denied  himself,  he  strove  in  secret 
that  even  these  good  qualities  might  not  grow 
out  of  a  wrong  root.  The  following  event  was 
of  use  to  him  in  the  way  of  indulging  any  dis¬ 
position  to  covetousness. 

One  evening  as  he  was  standing  at  the  door 
of  his  shop  a  poor  dirty  boy,  without  stockings 
and  shoes,  came  up  and  asked  him  for  a  bit  of 
broken  victuals,  for  he  had  eaten  nothing  all 
day.  In  spite  of  his  dirt  and  rags  he  was  a 
very  pretty,  lively,  civil  spoken  boy,  and  Mr. 
Stock  could  not  help  thinking  he  knew  some¬ 
thing  of  his  face.  He  fetched  him  out  a  good 
piece  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  while  the  boy  was 
devouring  it,  asked  him  if  he  had  no  parents, 
and  why  he  went  about  in  that  vagabond  man¬ 
ner  ?  ‘Daddy  has  been  dead  some  years,’  said 
the  boy  ;  ‘  he  died  in  a  fit  over  at  the  Grayhound. 
Mammy  says  lie  used  to  live  at  this  shop,  and 

*  I3ee  Romans,  vii. 


20Ti 

then  we  did  not  want  for  clothes  nor  victuals 
neither.’  Stock  was  melted  almost  to  tears  on 
finding  that  this  dirty  beggar-boy  was  Tommy 
Williams,  the  son  of  his  old  master.  He  blessed 
God  on  comparing  his  own  happy  condition 
with  that  of  this  poor  destitute  child,  but  he  was 
not  prouder  at  the  comparison ;  and  while  he 
was  thankful  for  his  own  prosperity,  he  pitied 
the  helpless  boy.  ‘  Where  have  you  been  living 
of  late  ?’  said  he  to  him,  ‘  for  I  understand  you 
all  went  home  to  your  mother’s  friends.’ — ‘  So 
we  did,  sir,’  said  the  boy,  ‘  but  they  are  grown 
tired  of  maintaining  us,  because  they  said  that 
mammy  spent  all  the  money  which  should  have 
gone  to  buy  victuals  for  us,  on  snuff  and  drams. 
And  so  they  have  sent  us  back  to  this  place, 
which  is  daddy’s  parish.’ 

‘  And  where  do  you  live  here  ?’  said  Mr.  Stock. 
‘  O  sir,  we  are  all  put  into  the  parish  poor- 
house.’ — ‘  And  does  your  mother  do  any  thing 
to  help  to  maintain  you  ?’ — ‘  No,  sir,  for  mammy 
says  she  was  not  brought  up  to  work  like  poor 
folks,  and  she  would  rather  starve  than  spin  or 
knit ;  so  she  lies  a-bed  all  the  morning,  and  sends 
us  about  to  pick  up  what  we  can,  a  bit  of  vic¬ 
tuals  or  a  few  half-pence.’ — ‘  And  have  you  any 
money  in  your  pocket  now  ?’ — ‘  Yes,  sir,  I 
have  got  three  half-pence  which  I  have  begged 
to-day.’ — ‘  Then,  as  you  were  so  very  hungry, 
how  came  you  not  to  buy  a  roll  at  that  baker’s 
over  the  way  ?’ — ‘  Because,  sir,  I  was  going  to 
lay  it  out  in  tea  for  mammy,  for  I  never  lay  out 
a  farthing  for  myself.  Indeed  mammy  says 
she  loill  have  her  tea  twice  a-day  if  we  beg  or 
starve  for  it.’ — ‘  Can  you  read  my  boy  ?’  said 
Mr.  Stock  : — ‘  A  little,  sir,  and  say  my  prayers 
too.’ — ‘  And  can  you  say  your  catechism  ?’ — ‘  I 
have  almost  forgotten  it  all,  sir,  though  I  re¬ 
member  something  about  honouring  my  father 
and  7nother,  and  that  makes  me  still  carry  the 
halfpence  home  to  mammy  instead  of  buying 
cakes.’ — ‘  Who  taught  you  these  good  things  ?’ 
— ‘One  Jemmy  Stock,  sir,  who  was  a  parish 
’prentice  to  my  daddy.  He  taught  me  one 
question  out  of  the  catechism  every  night,  and 
always  made  me  say  my  prayers  to  him  before 
I  went  to  bed.  He  told  me  I  should  go  to  the 
wicked  place  if  I  did  not  fear  God,  so  I  am  still 
afraid  to  tell  lies  like  the  other  boys.  Poor 
Jemmy  gave  me  a  piece  of  ginger  bread  every 
time  I  learnt  well ;  but  I  have  no  friend  now ; 
Jemmy  was  very  good  to  me,  though  mammy 
did  nothing  but  beat  him.’ 

Mr.  Stock  was  too  much  moved  to  carry  on 
the  discourse  ;  he  did  not  make  himself  known 
to  the  boy,  but  took  him  over  to  the  baker’s 
shop ;  as  they  walked  along  he  could  not  help 
repeating  aloud  a  verse  or  two  of  that  beautiful 
hymn  so  deservedly  the  favourite  of  all  children 

‘  Not  more  than  others  I  deserve, 

Yet  God  hath  given  me  more; 

For  I  have  food  while  others  starve,' 

Or  beg  from  door  to  door.’ 

The  little  boy  looked  up  in  his  face,  saying, 
‘Why,  sir,  that’s  the  very  hymn  which  Jemmy 
Stock  gave  me  a  penny  for  learning.’  Stock 
made  no  answer,  but  put  a  couple  of  threepenny 
loaves  into  his  hand  to  carry  home,  and  told 
him  to  call  on  him  again  at  such  a  time  in  th& 
following  week. 


208  THE  WORKS  OF 

How  Mr.  Stock  contrived  to  be  charitable  without 
any  expense. 

Stock  had  abundant  subject  for  meditation 
that  night.  He  was  puzzled  what  to  do  with 
the  boy.  While  he  was  carrying  on  his  trade 
upon  borrowed  money,  he  did  not  think  it  right 
to  give  any  part  of  that  money  to  assist  the 
idle,  or  even  to  help  the  distressed.  ‘  I  must  be 
lust ,’  said  he,  ‘  before  I  am  generous.’  Still  he 
could  not  bear  to  see  this  fine  boy  given  up  to  a 
certain  ruin.  He  did  not  think  it  safe  to  take 
nira  mto  his  shop  in  his  present  ignorant  un- 
orincipled  state.  At  last  he  hit  upon  this 
thought ;  I  work  for  myself  twelve  hours  in  the 
day.  Why  shall  I  not  work  one  hour  or  two 
for  this  boy  in  the  evening  ?  It  will  be  but  for 
a  year,  and  I  shall  then  have  more  right  to  do 
what  I  please.  My  money  will  then  be  my 
own,  I  shall  have  paid  my  debts. 

So  he  began  to  put  his  resolution  in  practice 
that  very  night,  sticking  to  his  old  notion  of 
not  putting  olF  till  to-morrow  what  should  be 
done  to-day  ;  and  it  was  thought  he  owed  much 
of  his  success  in  life,  as  well  as  his  growth  in 
goodness,  to  this  little  saying  :  ‘  I  am  young  and 
healthy,’  said  he,  ‘  one  hour’s  work  more  will  do 
me  no  harm ;  I  will  set  aside  all  I  get  by  these 
over-hours,  and  put  the  boy  to  school.  I  have 
not  only  no  right  to  punish  this  child  for  the 
sins  of  his  father,  but  I  consider  that  though 
God  hated  those  sins,  he  has  made  them  to  be 
instrumental  to  my  advancement.’ 

Tommy  Williams  called  at  the  time  appointed. 
In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Stock’s  maid  had  made 
him  a  neat  little  suit  of  clothes  out  of  an  old 
coat  of  her  master’s.  She  had  also  knit  him  a 
pair  of  stockings,  and  Mr.  Stock  made  him  sit 
down  in  the  shop,  while  he  fitted  him  with  a 
pair  of  new  shoes.  The  maid  having  washed 
and  dressed  him,  Mr.  Stock  took  him  by  the 
hand,  and  walked  along  with  him  to  the  parish 
poor-house  to  find  his  mother.  They  found  her 
dressed  in  ragged  filthy  finery,  standing  at  the 
door,  v/here  she  passed  most  of  her  time,  quar¬ 
relling  with  half  a  dozen  women  as  idle  and  dirty 
as  herself.  When  she  saw  Tommy  so  neat  and 
well-dressed,  she  fell  a  crying  for  joy.  She 
said  ‘  it  put  her  in  mind  of  old  times,  for  Tommy 
always  used  to  be  dressed  like  a  gentleman.’ — ‘  So 
much  the  worse,’  said  Mr.  Stock ;  ‘  if  you  had 
not  begun  by  making  him  look  like  a  gentleman, 
you  needed  not  have  ended  by  making  him  look 
like  a  beggar.’  ‘  Oh  Jem  !’  said  she,  (for  though 
it  was  four  years  since  she  had  seen  him,  she 
soon  recollected  him)  ‘  fine  times  for  you  !  set  a 
beggar  on  horseback — you  know  the  proverb. 
I  shall  beat  Tommy  well  for  finding  you  out 
and  exposing  me  to  you.’ 

Instead  of  entering  into  any  dispute  with  this 
bad  woman,  or  praising  himself  at  her  expense  ; 
instead  of  putting  her  in  mind  of  her  past  ill 
behaviour  to  him,  or  reproaching  her  with  the 
bad  use  she  had  made  of  her  prosperity,  he 
mildly  said  to  lier, — ‘  Mrs.  Williams  I  am  sorry 
for  your  misfortunes  ;  I  am  come  to  relieve  you 
of  part  of  your  burden.  I  will  take  Tommy  off 
your  hands.  I  will  give  him  a  year’s  board  and 
schooling,  and  by  that  time  I  shall  see  what  he 
is  fit  for.  I  will  promise  nothing,  but  if  the 


HANNAH  MORE. 

boy  turns  out  well,  I  will  never  forsake  him 
I  shall  make  but  one  bargain  with  you,  which 
is,  that  he  must  not  come  to  this  place  to  hear 
all  this  railing  and  swearing,  nor  shall  he  keep, 
company  with  these  pilfering  idle  children. 
You  are  welcome  to  go  and  see  him  when  you 
please,  but  here  he  must  not  come.’ 

The  foolish  woman  burst  out  a  crying,  say¬ 
ing,  ‘  she  should  lose  her  poor  dear  Tommy  for 
ever.  Mr.  Stock  might  give  her  the  money  he 
intended  to  pay  at  the  school,  for  nobody  could 
do  so  well  by  him  as  his  own  mother.’  The 
truth  was,  she  wanted  to  get  these  new  clothes, 
into  her  clutches,  which  would  all  have  been 
pawned  at  the  dram-shop  before  the  week  was 
out.  This  Mr.  Stock  well  knew.  From  crying 
she  fell  to  scolding  and  swearing.  She  told  him 
he  was  an  unnatural  wretch,  that  wanted  to 
make  a  child  despise  his  own  mother  because 
she  was  poor.  She  even  went  so  far  as  to  say 
she  would  not  part  from  him  ;  she  said  she  hated 
your  godly  people,  they  had  no  bowels  of  com¬ 
passion,  but  tried  to  set  men,  women,  and  chil¬ 
dren  against  their  own  flesh  and  blood. 

Mr.  Stock  now  almost  lost  his  patience,  and 
for  one  moment  a  thought  came  across  him,  to 
strip  the  boy,  carry  back  the  clothes,  and  leave 
him  to  his  unnatural  mother.  ‘  Why,’  said  he, 
‘  should  I  work  over-hours,  and  wear  out  my 
strength  for  this  wicked  woman  ?’  But  soon  he 
checked  this  thought,  by  reflecting  on  the  pa¬ 
tience  and  long-suffering  of  God  with  rebellious 
sinners.  This  cured  his  anger  in  a  moment, 
and  he  mildly  reasoned  with  her  on  the  folly 
and  blindness  in  opposing  the  good  of  her  child. 

One  of  the  neighbours  who  stood  by  said, 
‘  What  a  fine  thing  it  was  for  the  boy  !  but  some 
people  were  born  to  be  lucky.  She  wished  Mr. 
Stock  would  take  a  fancy  to  her  child,  he  should 
have  him  soon  enough.’  Mrs.  Williams  now 
began  to  be  frightened  lest  Mr.  Slock  should 
take  the  woman  at  her  word,  and  sullenly  con¬ 
sented  to  let  the  boy  go,  from  envy  and  malice, 
not  from  prudence  and  gratitude  ;  and  Tommy 
was  sent  to  school  that  very  night,  his  mother 
crying  and  roaring  instead  of  thanking  God  for 
such  a  blessing. 

And  here  I  cannot  forbear  telling  a  very  good- 
natured  thing  of  VVill  Simpson,  one  of  the  work¬ 
men.  By  the  by  it  was  that  very  young  fellow 
who  was  reformed  by  Stock’s  good  example, 
when  he  was  an  apprentice,  and  who  used  to 
sing  psalms  with  him  on  a  Sunday  evening, 
when  they  got  out  of  the  way  of  Williams’s 
junketing.  Will  coming  home  early  one  even¬ 
ing  was  surprised  to  find  his  master  at  work  by 
himself,  long  after  the  usual  time.  He  begged 
so  heartily  to  know  the  reason,  that  Slock  owned 
the  truth.  Will  was  so  struck  with  this  piece 
of  kindness,  that  he  snatched  up  a  last,  crying 
out,  ‘  Well,  master,  you  shall  not  work  by  your¬ 
self  however  ;  we  will  go  snacks  in  maintaining 
Tommy  :  it  shall  never  bo  said  that  Will  Simp¬ 
son  was  idling  about  when  his  master  was  work¬ 
ing  for  charity.’  This  made  the  hour  pass 
cheerfully,  and  doubled  the  profits. 

In  a  year  or  two  Mr.  Stock,  by  God’s  bless¬ 
ing  on  his  labours,  became  quite  clear  of  the 
world.  He  now  paid  off  his  creditors,  but  he 
never  forgot  his  obligation  to  them,  and  found 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


203 


many  opportunities  of  showing-  kindness  to 
them,  and  to  their  children  after  them.  He  now 
cast  about  for  a  proper  wife,  and  as  he  was 
thought  a  prosperous  man,  and  was  very  well 
looking  besides,  most  of  the  smart  girls  of  the 
place,  with  their  tawdry  finery,  used  to  be  often 
parading  before  the  shop,  and  would  even  go  to 
church  in  order  to  put  themselves  in  his  way. 
But  Mr.  Stock  when  he  went  to  church,  had 
other  things  in  his  head  ;  and  if  ever  he  thought 
about  these  gay  damsels  at  all,  it  was  with  con¬ 
cern  in  seeing  them  so  improperly  tricked  out, 
so  that  the  very  means  they  took  to  please  him 
made  him  dislike  them. 

There  was  one  Betsy  West,  a  young  woman 
of  excellent  character,  and  very  modest  appear¬ 
ance.  He  had  seldom  seen  her  out,  as  she  was 
employed  night  and  day  in  waiting  on  an  aged, 
widowed  mother,  who  was  both  lame  and  blind. 
This  good  girl  was  indeed  almost  literally  eyes 
and  feet  to  her  helpless  parent,  and  Mr.  Stock 
used  to  see  her,  through  the  little  casement  win¬ 
dow,  lifting  her  up,  and  feeding  with  a  tender¬ 
ness  which  greatly  raised  his  esteem  for  her. 
He  used  to  tell  Will  Simpson,  as  they  sat  at 
work,  that  such  a  dutiful  daughter  could  hardly 
help  to  make  a  faithful  wife.  He  had  not,  how¬ 
ever,  the  heart  to  try  to  draw  her  off  from  her 
care  of  her  sick  mother.  The  poor  woman  de¬ 
clined  very  fast.  Betsy  was  much  employed  in 
reading  or  praying  by  her,  while  she  was  awake, 
and  passed  a  good  part  of  the  night  while  she 
slept,  in  doing  some  fine  works  to  sell,  in  order 
to  supply  her  sick  mother  with  little  delicacies 
which  their  poor  pittance  could  not  afford,  while 
she  herself  lived  on  a  crust. 

Mr.  Stock  knew  that  Betsy  would  have  little 
or  nothing  after  her  mother’s  death,  as  she  had 
only  a  life  income.  On  the  other  hand,  Mr. 
Thompson,  the  tanner,  had  offered  him  two  hun¬ 
dred  pounds  with  his  daughter  Nancy ;  but  he 
was  almost  sorry  that  he  had  not  in  this  case  an 
•opportunity  of  resisting  his  natural  bias,  which 
rather  lay  on  the  side  of  loving  money  :  ‘  For,’ 
said  he,  ‘  putting  principle  and  putting  affection 
out  of  tl.'3  question,  I  shall  do  a  more  prudent 
thing  by  marrying  Betsy  West,  who  will  con¬ 
form  to  her  station,  and  is  a  religious,  humble, 
industrious  girl,  without  a  shilling,  than  by 
having  an  idle  dressy  lass,  who  will  neglect  my 
family  and  fill  my  house  with  company,  though 
she  should  have  twice  the  fortune  which  Nancy 
Thompson  would  bring.’ 

At  length  poor  old  Mrs.  West  was  released 
from  all  her  sufferings.  At  a  proper  time  Mr. 
Stock  proposed  marriage  to  Betsy,  and  was  ac¬ 
cepted.  All  the  disappointed  girls  in  the  town 
wondered  what  any  body  could  like  in  such  a 
dowdy  as  that.  Had  the  man  no  eyes  ?  They 
thought  Mr.  Stock  had  had  more  taste.  Oh ! 
how  did  it  provoke  all  the  vain  idle  things  to 
find,  that  staying  at  home,  dressing  plainly, 
serving  God,  and  nursing  ablind  mother,  should 
do  that  for  Betsy  West,  which  all  their  con¬ 
trivances,  flaunting,  and  dancing,  could  not  do 
for  them. 

He  was  not  disappointed  in  his  hope  of  meet¬ 
ing  with  a  good  wife  in  Betsy,  as  indeed  those 
who  marry  on  right  grounds  seldom  are.  But 
if  religious  persons  will,  for  the  sake  of  money. 
Von.  I.  0 


choose  partners  for  life  who  have  no  religion,  do 
not  let  them  complain  that  they  are  unhappy  ; 
they  might  have  known  that  beforehand 

Tommy  Williams  was  now  taken  home  to 
Stock’s  house  and  bound  apprentice.  He  was 
always  kind  and  attentive  to  his  mother  ;  and 
every  penny  which  Will  Simpson-or  his  master, 
gave  him  for  learning  a  chapter,  he  would  save 
to  buy  a  bit  of  tea  and  sugar  for  her.  When  the 
other  boys  laughed  at  him  for  being  so  foolish 
as  to  deny  himself  cakes  and  apples  to  give  his 
money  to  her  who  was  so  bad  a  woman,  he 
would  answer,  ‘  It  may  be  so,  but  she  is  my 
mother  for  all  that.’ 

Mr.  Stock  was  much  moved  at  the  change  in 
this  boy,  who  turned  out  a  very  good  youth.  He 
resolved,  as  God  should  prosper  him,  that  he 
would  try  to  snatch  other  helpless  creatures  from 
sin  and  ruin.  ‘  For,’  said  he,  ‘  it  is  owing  to 
God’s  blessing  on  the  instructions  of  my  good 
minister  when  I  was  a  child,  that  I  have  been 
saved  from  the  broad  way  of  destruction.’ — He" 
still  gave  God  the  glory  of  every  thing  he  did 
aright :  and  when  Will  Simpson  one  day  said  to 
him,  ‘  Master,  I  wish  I  were  half  as  good  as  you 
are.’  ‘  Hold,  William,’  answered  he  gravely,  ‘  I 
once  read  in  a  book,  that  the  devil  is  willing 
enough  we  should  appear  to  do  good  actions,  if 
he  can  but  make  us  proud  of  them.’ 

But  we  must  not  forget  our  other  old  acquaint¬ 
ance,  Mr.  Stock’s  fellow  ’prentice.  So  next 
month  you  may  expect  a  full  account  of  the 
many  tricks  and  frolics  of  idle  Jack  Brown. 


PART  III. 

Some  account  of  the  frolics  of  idle  Jack  Brown. 

You  shall  now  hear  what  befel  idle  Jack 
Brown,  who,  being  a  farmer’s  son,  had  many 
advantages  to  begin  life  with.  But  he  who 
wants  prudence  may  be  said  to  want  every 
thing,  because  he  turns  all’his  advantages  to  nc 
account. 

Jack  Brown  was  just  out  of  his  time  when 
hismaster  Williams  died  in  that  terrible  drunken 
fit  at  the  Grayhound.  You  know  already  how 
Stock  succeeded  to  his  master’s  business,  and 
prospered  in  it.  Jack  wished  very  much  to  en¬ 
ter  into  partnership  with  him.  His  father  and 
mother  too  were  desirous  of  it,  and  offered  to 
advance  a  hundred  pounds  with  him.  Here  is 
a  fresh  proof  of  the  power  of  character  !  The  old 
farmer,  with  all  his  covetousness,  was  eager  to 
get  his  son  into  partnership  with  Stock,  though 
the  latter  was  not  worth  a  shilling ;  and  even 
Jack’s  mother,  with  all  her  pride,  was  eager  for 
it,  for  they  had  both  sense  enough  to  see  it 
would  bo  the  making  of  Jack.  The  father  knew 
that  Stock  would  look  to  the  main  chance  ;  and 
the  mother  that  he  would  take  the  labouring  oar, 
and  so  her  darling  would  have  little  to  do.  The 
ruling  passion  operated  in  both.  One  parent 
wished  to  secure  to  the  son  a  life  of  pleasure, 
the  other  a  profitable  trade.  Both  were  equally 
indifferent  to  whatever  related  to  his  eternal 
good. 

Stock,  however,  young  as  ho  was,  was  too  old 
a  bird  to  be  caught  with  chaff.  His  wisdom 


210 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


was  an  overmatch  for  their  cunning’.  He  had 
a  kindness  for  Brown,  but  would  on  no  account 
enter  into  business  with  him. — ‘  One  of  these 
three  things,’  said  he,  ‘  I  am  sure  will  happen 
if  I  do;  he  will  either  hurt  my  principles,  my 
character,  or  my  trade ;  perhaps  all.’  And  here 
by-the-by,  let  me  drop  a  hint  to  other  young 
men  who  are  about  to  enter  into  partnership. 
Let  them  not  do  that  in  haste  which  they  may 
repent  at  leisure.  Next  to  marriage  it  is  a  tie 
the  hardest  to  break  ;  and  next  to  that  it  is  an 
engagement  which  ought  to  be  entered  into  with 
the  most  caution.  Many  things  go  to  the  making 
such  a  connexion  suitable,  safe,  and  pleasant. — 
There  is  many  a  rich  merchant  need  not  be 
above  taking  a  hint  in  this  respect,  from  James 
Stock  the  shoemaker. 

Brown  was  still  unwilling  to  part  from  him  ; 
indeed  he  was  too  idle  to  look  out  for  business, 
so  he  offered  Stock  to  work  with  him  as  a  jour- 
neyman,  but  this  he  also  mildly  refused.  It  hurt 
his  good-nature  to  do  so ;  but  he  reflected  that  a 
young  man  who  has  his  way  to  make  in  the 
world  must  not  only  be  good-natured,  he  must 
be  prudent  also.  ‘  I  am  resolved,’  said  he,  ‘  to 
employ  none  but  the  most  sober,  regular  young 
men  I  can  get.  Evil  communications  corrupt 
good  manners,  and  I  should  be  answerable  for 
all  the  disorders  of  my  house,  if  I  knowingly 
took  a  wild  drinking  young  fellow  into  it.  That 
which  might  be  kindness  to  one,  would  be  in¬ 
justice  to  many,  and  therefore  a  sin  in  myself.’ 

Brown’s  mother  was  in  a  great  rage  when 
she  heard  that  her  son  had  stooped  so  low  as  to 

make  this  offer _ She  valued  herself  on  being 

proud,  for  she  thought  pride  was  a  grand  thing. 
Poor  woman  !  She  did  not  know  that  it  is  the 
meanest  thing  in  the  world.  It  was  her  igno¬ 
rance  which  made  her  proud,  as  is  apt  to  be  the 
case. — ‘  You  mean-spirited  rascal,’  said  she  to 
Jack,  ‘  I  had  rather  follow  you  to  your  grave,  as 
well  as  I  love  you,  than  see  you  disgrace  your 
family  by  working  under  Jem  Stock,  the  parish 
apprentice.’  She  forgot  already  what  pains  she 
had  taken  about  the  partnership,  but  pride  and 
passion  have  bad  memories. 

It  is  hard  to  say  which  was  now  uppermost 
in  her  mind,  her  desire  to  be  revenged  on  Stock, 
or  to  see  her  son  make  a  figure.  She  raised 
every  shilling  she  could  get  from  her  husband, 
and  all  she  could  crib  from  the  dairy  to  set  up 
Jack  in  a  showy  way.  So  the  very  next  market 
day  she  came  herself,  and  took  for  him  the  new 
white  house,  with  the  two  little  sash  windows 
painted  blue,  and  blue  [losts  before  the  door.  It 
is  that  house  which  has  the  old  cross  just  before 
it,  as  you  turn  down  between  the  church  and 
the  Grayhound.  Its  being  so  near  the  church 
to  be  sure  was  no  recommendation  to  Jack,  but 
its  being  so  near  the  Grayhound  was,  and  so 
taking  one  thing  with  the  other  it  was  to  be 
sure  no  bad  situation  ;  but  what  weighed  most 
with  the  mother  was,  that  it  was  a  much  more 
showy  shop  than  Stock’s  ;  and  the  house,  though 
not  half  so  convenient,  was  far  more  smart. 

In  order  to  draw  custom,  his  foolish  mother 
advised  him  to  undersell  his  neighbours  just  at 
first;  to  buy  ordinary  but  showy  goods,  and  to 
employ  cheap  workmen.  In  short  she  charged 
him  to  leavo  no  stone  unturned  to  ruin  his  old 


comrade  Stock.  Indeed  she  always  thought 
with  double  satisfaction  of  Jack’s  prosperity, 
because  she  always  joined  to  it  the  hope  that 
his  success  would  be  the  ruin  of  Stock,  for  she 
owned  it  would  be  the  joy  of  her  heart  to  bring 
that  proud  upstart  to  a  morsel  of  bread.  She 
did  not  understand,  for  her  part,  why  such  beg¬ 
gars  must  become  tradesmen  ;  it  was  making  a. 
velvet  purse  of  a  sow’s  ear. 

Stock,  however,  set  out  on  quite  another  set 
of  principles.  He  did  not  allow  himself  to  square 
his  own  behaviour  to  others  by  theirs  to  him. 
He  seldom  asked  himself  what  he  should  like  to 
to  do :  but  he  had  a  mighty  way  of  saying,  I 
wonder  now  what  is  my  duty  to  do  ? — And  when 
he  was  once  clear  in  that  matter  he  generally 
did  it,  always  begging  God’s  blessing  and  direc¬ 
tion.  So  instead  of  setting  Brown  at  defiance  ; 
instead  of  all  that  vulgar  selfishness,  of  catch 
he  that  catch  can — and  two  of  a  trade  can  never 
agree — he  resolved  to  be  friendly  towards  him. 
Instead  of  joining  in  the  laugh  against  Brown 
for  making  his  house  so  fine,  he  was  sorry  for 
him,  because  he  feared  ho  would  never  be  able 
to  pay  such  a  rent.  He  very  kindly  called  upon 
him,  told  him  there  was  business  enough  for 
them  both,  and  gave  him  many  useful  hints  for 
his  going  on.  He  warned  him  to  go  oftener  to 
church  and  seldomer  to  the  Grayhound :  put 
him  in  mind  how  following  the  one  and  forsak¬ 
ing  the  other  had  been  the  ruin  of  their  poor 
master,  and  added  the  following 

ADVICE  TO  YOUNG  TRADES.MEN. 

Buy  the  best  ffoods ;  cut  the,  work  out  yourself  ^ 
let  the  eye  of  the  master  be  every  where ;  employ 
the  soberest  men ;  avoid  all  the  low  deceits  of 
trade  ;  never  lower  the  credit  of  another  to  raise 
your  own  ;  make  short  payments  ;  keep  exact  ac¬ 
counts  ;  avoid  idle  company,  and  be  very  strict 
to  your  word. 

For  a  short  time  things  went  on  swimmingly. 
Brown  was  merry  and  civil.  The  shop  was 
well  situated  for  gossip ;  and  every  one  who 
had  something  to  say,  and  nothing  to  do  was 
welcome.  Every  idle  story  was  first  spread,  and 
every  idle  song  first  sung,  in  Brown’s  shop. 
Every  customer  who  came  to  be  measured  was 
promised  that  his  shoes  should  be  done  first. 
But  the  misfortune  was,  if  twenty  came  in  a  day 
the  same  promise  was  made  to  all ;  so  that  nine¬ 
teen  were  disappointed,  and  of  course  affronted. 
He  never  said  no  to  any  one.  It  is  indeed  a 
word  which  it  requires  some  honesty  to  pro¬ 
nounce.  By  all  these  false  promises  he  was 
thought  the  most  obliging  fellow  that  ever  made 
a  shoe.  And  as  he  set  out  on  the  principle  of 
underselling,  people  took  a  mighty  fancy  to  the 
cheap  shop.  And  it  was  agreed  among  all  the 
young  and  giddy,  that  he  would  beat  Stock  hol¬ 
low,  and  that  the  old  shop  would  soon  be  knock¬ 
ed  up. 

All  is  not  gold  that  glistens. 

After  a  few  months,  however,  folks  began  to 
be  not  quite  so  fond  of  the  cheap  shop;  one 
found  out  that  the  leather  was  bad,  another  that 
the  work  was  slight.  Those  who  liked  substan¬ 
tial  goods  went  all  of  them  to  Stock’s,  for  they 
said  Brown’s  heel  taps  did  not  last  a  week;  his 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


21i 


new  boots  let  in  water ;  and  they  believed  he 
made  his  soles  of  brown  paper.  Besides,  it  was 
thought  by  most,  that  this  promising  all,  and 
keeping  his  word  with  none,  hurt  his  business 
as  much  as  any  thing.  Indeed,  I  question,  put¬ 
ting  religion  out  of  the  question,  if  lying  ever 
answers,  even  in  a  political  view. 

Brown  had  what  is  commonly  called  good 
heart ;  that  is,  he  had  a  thoughtless  good  nature, 
and  a  sort  of  feeling  for  the  moment  which  made 
him  very  sorry  when  others  were  in  trouble. 
But  he  was  not  apt  to  put  himself  to  any  incon- 
'■'enience,  nor  go  a  step  out  of  his  way,  nor  give 
up  any  pleasure  to  serve  the  best  friend  he  had. 
He  loved  fun;  and  those  who  do  should  always 
see  that  it  be  harmless,  and  that  they  do  not  give 
up  more  for  it  than  it  is  worth.  I  am  not  going 
to  say  a  word  against  innocent  merriment.  1 
like  it  myself.  But  what  the  proverb  says  of 
gold,  may  be  said  of  mirth ;  it  may  be  bought 
too  dear.  If  a  young  man  finds  that  what  he 
fancies  is  a  good  joke  may  possibly  offend  God, 
hurt  his  neighbour,  afflict  his  parent,  or  make  a 
modest  girl  blusli,  let  him  then  be  assured  it  is 
not  fun,  but  wickedness,  and  he  had  better  let  it 
alone. 

Jack  Brown  then,  as  good  a  heart  as  he  had, 
did  not  know  what  it  was  to  deny  himself  any 
thing.  He  was  so  good-natured  indeed,  that  he 
never  in  his  life  refused  to  make  one  of  a 
oily  set ;  but  he  was  not  good-natured  enough 
o  consider  that  those  men  whom  he  kept  up  all 
night  roaring  and  laughing,  had  wives  and  chil¬ 
dren  at  home,  who  had  little  to  eat,  and  less  to 
wear,  because  they  were  keeping  up  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  merry  fellows,  and  good  hearts  at  the  pub¬ 
lic  house. 

The  Mountebank. 

One  day  he  saw  his  father’s  plough-boy  come 
galloping  up  to  the  door  in  great  haste.  This 
boy  brought  Brown  word  that  his  mother  was 
dangerously  ill,  and  that  his  father  had  sent  his 
own  best  bay  mare  Smiler,  that  his  son  might 
lose  no  time,  but  set  out  directly  to  see  his  mo¬ 
ther  before  she  died.  Jack  burst  into  tears,  la¬ 
mented  the  danger  of  so  fond  a  mother,  and  all 
the  people  in  the  shop  extolled  his  good  heart. 

He  sent  back  the  boy  directly,  with  a  message 
that  he  would  follow  him  in  half  an  hour,  as 
soon  as  the  mare  had  baited :  for  he  well  knew 
that  his  father  would  not  thank  him  for  any 
haste  he  might  make  if  Smiler  was  hurt. 

Jack  accordingly  set  off,  and  rode  with  such 
speed  to  the  next  town,  that  both  himself  and 
Smiler  had  a  mind  to  another  bait.  They  stop¬ 
ped  at  the  Star :  unluckily  it  was  fair-day,  and 
as  he  was  walking  about  while  Smiler  was  eat¬ 
ing  her  oats,  a  bill  was  put  into  his  hand  setting 
forth,  that  on  the  stage  opposite  the  Globe  a  moun¬ 
tebank  was  showing  away,  and  his  Andrew  per¬ 
forming  the  finest  tricks  that  ever  were  seen. 
He  read — he  stood  still — he  went  on — ‘  It  will 
iiot  hinder  me,’ says  he  ;  ‘  Smiler  must  rest ;  and 
1  shall  see  my  poor  dear  mother  quite  as  soon 
if  I  just  take  a  peep,  as  if  I  sit  moping  at  the 
Star.’ 

The  tricks  were  so  merry  that  the  time  seem¬ 
ed  short,  and  when  they  were  over  he  could  not 
forbear  going  into  the  Globe  and  treating  these 


choice  spirits  with  a  bowl  of  punch.  Just  as 
they  were  taking  the  last  glass  Jack  happened 
to  say  that  ho  was  the  best  fives  player  in  the 
country.  ‘  That  is  lucky,’  said  the  Andrew. 

‘  for  there  is  a  famous  match  now  playing  in  tho 
court,  and  you  may  never  again  have  such  an 
opportunity  to  show  your  skill.’  Brown  declared 
‘  he  could  not  stay,  for  that  he  had  left  his  horse 
at  the  Star,  and  must  set  off  on  urgent  business.’ 
They  now  all  pretended  to  call  his  skill  in  ques¬ 
tion.  This  roused  his  pnde,  and  he  thought 
another  half  hour  could  break  no  squares.  Smi¬ 
ler  had  now  had  a  good  feed  of  corn,  and  he 
would  only  have  to  push  her  on  a  little  more ; 
so  to  it  he  went. 

He  won  the  first  game.  This  spurred  him 
on ;  and  he  played  till  it  was  so  dark  they  could 
not  see  a  ball.  Another  bowl  was  called  for 
from  the  winner.  Wagers  and  bets  now  drained 
Brown  not  only  of  all  the  money  he  had  won, 
but  of  all  he  had  in  his  pocket,  so  that  he  was 
obliged  to  ask  leave  to  go  to  the  house  where 
his  horse  was,  to  borrow  enough  to  discharge 
his  reckoning  at  the  Globe. 

All  these  losses  brought  his  poor  dear  mother 
to  his  mind,  and  he  marched  off  with  rather  a 
heavy  heart  to  borrow  the  money,  and  to  order 
Smiler  out  of  the  stable.  The  landlord  express¬ 
ed  much  surprise  at  seeing  him,  and  the  ostler 
declared  there  was  no  Smiler  there ;  that  he  had 
been  rode  off  above  two  hours  ago  by  the  merry 
Andrew,  who  said  he  come  by'  order  of  the  owner, 
Mr.  Brown,  to  fetch  him  to  the  Globe,  and  to 
pay  for  his  feed.  It  was  indeed  one  of  the 
neatest  trieks  the  Andrew  ever  performed,  for 
he  made  such  a  clean  conveyance  of  Smiler, 
that  neither  Jack  nor  his  father  ever  heard  of 
her  again. 

It  was  night :  no  one  could  tell  what  road  the 
Andrew  took,  and  it  was  another  hour  or  two 
before  an  advertisement  could  be  drawn  up  for 
apprehending  the  horse-stealer.  Jack  had  some 
doubts  whether  he  should  go  on  or  return  back. 
He  knew  that  though  his  father  might  fear  his 
wife  most,  yet  he  loved  Smiler  best.  At  length 
he  took  that  courage  from  a  glass  of  brandy 
which  he  ought  to  have  taken  from  a  hearty  re¬ 
pentance,  and  he  resolved  to  pursue  his  journey. 
He  was  obliged  to  leave  his  wateh  and  silver 
buckles  in  pawn  for  a  little  old  hack  which  was 
nothing  but  skin  and  bone,  and  would  hardly 
trot  three  miles  an  hour. 

He  knocked  at  his  father’s  door  about  five  in 
the  morning.  The  family  were  all  up. — He 
asked  the  boy  who  opened  the  door  how  his 
mother  was  ?  ‘  She  is  dead,’  said  the  boy  ;  ‘  she 

died  yesterday  afternoon.’  Here  Jack’s  heart 
smote  him,  and  he  cried  aloud,  partly  from  grief, 
but  more  from  the  reproaches  of  his  own  con¬ 
science,  for  ho  found  by  computing  the  hours, 
that  had  he  come  straight  on,  he  should  have 
been  in  time  to  receive  his  mother’s  blesing. 

The  farmer  now  came  from  within,  ‘  I  hear 
Smiler’s  step.  Is  Jack  come  ?’ — ‘  Yes,  fiither,’ 
said  Jack,  in  a  low  voice.  ‘Then,’  cried  the 
farmer,  '  run  every  man  and  boy  of  you  and 
take  care  of  the  mare.  Tom,  do  thou  go  and 
rub  her  down ;  Jem,  run  and  get  her  a  good 
feed  of  corn.  Bo  sure  walk  her  about  that  she 
may  not  catch  cold.’  Young  Brown  came  in. 


212 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


'  Are  you  not  an  undutiful  dog-T  said  the  father; 
‘you  might  have  been  here  twelve  hours  ago. 
Your  mother  could  not  die  in  peace  without  see¬ 
ing  you.  She  said  it  was  cruel  return  for  all 
her  fondness  that  you  could  not  make  a  little 
haste  to  see  her ;  but  it  was  always  so,  for  she 
had  wronged  her  other  children  to  help  you,  and 
this  was  her  reward.’  Brown  sobbed  out  a  few 
words,  but  his  father  replied,  ‘Never  cry  Jack, 
for  the  boy  told  me  that  it  was  out  of  regard  for 
Smiler,  that  you  were  not  hero  as  soon  as  he 
was ;  and  if  ’twas  your  over  care  of  her,  why 
there’s  no  great  harm  done.  You  could  not 
have  saved  your  poor  mother,  and  you  might 
have  hurt  the  mare.’  Here  Jack’s  double  guilt 
flew  into  his  face.  He  knew  that  his  father  was 
very  covetous,  and  had  lived  on  bad  terms  with 
his  wife  ;  and  also  that  his  own  unkindness  to 
her  had  been  forgiven  by  him  out  of  love  to  the 
horse  ;  but  to  break  to  him  how  he  had  lost  that 
horse  through  his  own  folly  and  want  of  feeling, 
was  more  than  Jack  had  courage  to  do.  The 
■old  man,  however,  soon  got  at  the  truth,  and  no 
words  can  describe  his  fury.  Forgetting  that 
his  wife  lay  dead  above  stairs,  he  abused  his  son 
in  a  way  not  fit  to  be  repeated  ;  and  though  his 
covetousness  had  just  before  found  an  excuse 
for  a  favourite  son  neglecting  to  visit  a  dying 
parent,  yet  he  now  vented  his  rage  against  Jack 
as  an  unnatural  brute,  whom  he  would  cut  off 
with  a  shilling,  and  bade  him  never  see  his  face 
again. 

Jack  was  not  allowed  to  attend  his  mother’s 
funeral,  which  was  a  real  grief  to  him ;  nor 
would  his  father  advance  even  the  little  money 
which  was  needful  to  redeem  his  things  at  the 
•Star.  He  had  now  no  fond  mother  to  assist 
■him,  and  he  set  out  on  his  return  home  on  his 
borrowed  hack,  full  of  grief.  He  had  the  added 
mortification  of  knowing,  that  he  had  also  lost 
by  hie  folly  a  little  hoard  of  money  which  his 
mother  had  saved  up  for  him. 

When  Brown  got  b-ack  to  his  own  town  he 
found  that  the  story  of  Smiler  and  the  Andrew 
had  got  thither  before  him,  and  it  was  thought  a 
very  good  joke  at  the  Grayhound.  He  soon  re¬ 
covered  his  spirits  as  far  as  related  to  the  horse, 
but  as  to  his  behaviour  to  his  dying  mother  it 
troubled  him  at  times  to  the  last  day  of  his  life, 
though  he  did  all  he  could  to  forget  it.  He  did 
■not  however  go  on  at  all  better,  nor  did  he  en¬ 
gage  in  one  frolic  the  less  for  what  had  passed 
at  the  Globe  ;  his  good  heart  continually  betray¬ 
ed  him  into  acts  of  levity  and  vanity. 

Jack  began  at  length  to  feel  the  reverse  of 
that  proverb.  Keep  your  shop  and  your  shop  will 
keep  you.  He  had  neglected  his  customers,  and 
they  forsook  him.  Quarter-day  came  round  ; 
there  was  much  to  pay  and  little  to  receive.  He 
owed  two  years’  rent.  He  was  in  arrears  to  his 
men  for  wages.  He  had  a  long  account  with 
his  currier.  It  was  in  vain  to  apply  to  his  father. 
He  had  now  no  mother.  Stock  was  the  only 
true  friend  he  had  in  the  world,  and  had  helped 
him  out  of  many  petty  scrapes,  but  he  knew 
Stock  would  advance  no  money  in  so  hopeless  a 
case  Duns  came  fast  about  him.  He  named  a 
speedy  day  fjr  payment;  but  as  soon  as  they 
■were  out  of  the  house,  and  the  danger  put  off  to 
a  little  distance,  he  forgot  every  promise,  wa.s  as 


merry  as  ever,  and  run  the  same  round  of 
thoughtless  gaiety.  Whenever  he  was  in  trou¬ 
ble  Stock  did  not  shun  him,  because  that  was 
the  moment  to  throw  in  a  little  good  advice.  He 
one  day  asked  him  if  he  always  intended  to  go 
on  in  this  course  ?’  ‘No,  said  he,  ‘  I  am  re¬ 
solved  by  and  by  to  reform,  grow  sober,  and  go 
to  church.  Why  I  am  but  five  and  twenty, 
man,  I  am  stout  and  healthy,  and  likely  to  live 
long ;  I  can  repent,  and  grow  melancholy  and 
good  at  any  time.’ 

‘Oh  Jack!’  said  Stock,  ‘  don’t  cheat  thyself' 
with  that  false  hope.  What  thou  dost  intend  to 
do,  do  quickly.  Did’st  thou  never  read  about 
the  heart  growing  hardened  by  long  indulgence 
in  sin  ?  Some  folk,  who  pretend  to  mean  well, 
show  that  they  mean  nothing  at  all,  by  never 
beginning  to  put  their  good  resolutions  into 
practice ;  which  made  a  wise  man  once  say, 
that  hell  is  paved  with  good  intentions.  We 
cannot  repent  when  we  please.  It  is  the  good¬ 
ness  of  God  which  leadeth  us  to  repentance'  ‘ 

‘  I  am  sure,’  replied  Jack,  ‘  I  am  no  one’s  ene¬ 
my  but  my  own.’  ‘ 

‘  It  is  as  foolish,’  said  Stock,  ‘  to  say  a  bad 
man  is  no  one’s  enemy  but  his  own,  as  that  a 
good  man  is  no  one’s  friend  but  his  own.  There 
is  no  such  neutral  character.  A  bad  man  cor¬ 
rupts  or  offends  all  within  reach  of  his  example, 
just  as  a  good  man  benefits  or  instructs  all  with¬ 
in  the  sphere  of  his  influence.  And  there  is  no 
time  when  we  can  say  that  this  transmitted  good 
and  evil  will  end.  A  wicked  man  may  be  punish¬ 
ed  for  sins  he  never  committed  himself,  if  he 
has  been  the  cause  of  sin  in  others,  as  surely  as 
a  saint  will  be  rewarded  for  more  good  deeds 
that  he  himself  has  done,  even  for  the  virtues 
and  good  actions  of  all  those  who  are  made 
better  by  his  instruction,  his  example,  or  his 
writings.’ 

Michaelmas-day  was  at  hand.  The  landlord 
declared  he  would  be  put  off  no  longer,  but 
would  seize  for  rent  if  it  was  not  paid  him  on 
that  day,  as  well  as  for  a  considerable  sum  due 
to  him  for  leather.  Brown  at  last  began  to  be 
frightened.  He  applied  to  Stock  to  be  bound 
for  him.  This,  Stock  flatly  refused.  Brown 
now  began  to  dread  the  horrors  of  a  jail,  and 
really  seemed  so  very  contrite,  and  made  so  ma¬ 
ny  vows  and  promises  of  amendment,  that  at 
length  Stock  was  prevailed  on,  together  with 
two  or  three  of  Brown’s  other  friends^  to  advance 
each  a  small  sum  of  money  to  quiet  the  landlord. 
Brown  promising  to  make  over  to  them  every 
part  of  his  stock,  and  to  be  guided  in  future  by 
their  advice,  declaring  that  he  would  turn  over 
a  new  leaf,  and  follow  Mr.  Stock’s  example,  as 
well  as  his  direction  in  every  thing. 

Stock’s  good  nature  was  at  length  wrought 
upon,  and  he  raised  the  money.  The  truth  is, 
he  did  not  know  the  worst,  nor  bow  deeply 
Brown  was  involved.  Brown  joyfully  set  out  on 
the  very  quarter-day  to  a  town  at  sorrre  distance, 
to  carry  his  landlord  this  money,  raised  by  the 
imprudent  kindness  of  his  friend.  At  his  de¬ 
parture  Stock  put  him  in  mind  of  the  old  story 
of  Smiler  and  the  Merry  Andrew,  and  he  pro¬ 
mised  of  his  own  head  that  he  would  not  even 
call  at  a  public  house  till  he  had  paid  the 
roonev. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


213 


He  was  as  g’ood  as  his  word.  He  very  tri¬ 
umphantly  passed  by  several.  He  stopped  a 
little  under  the  window  of  one  where  the  sounds 
of  merriment  and  loud  laughter  caught  his  ear. 
At  another  he  heard  the  enticing  notes  of  a  fiddle 
and  the  light  heels  of  the  merry  dancers.  Here 
his  heart  had  well  nigh  failed  him,  but  the  dread 
of  a  jail  on  the  one  hand,  and  what  he  feared 
almost  as  much,  Mr.  Stock’s  anger  on  the  other, 
spurred  him  on ;  and  he  valued  himself  not  a 
little  at  having  got  the  better  of  this  temptation. 
He  felt  quite  happy  when  he  found  he  had 
reached  the  door  of  his  landlord  without  having 
yielded  to  one  idle  inclination. 

He  knocked  at  the  door.  The  maid  who  open¬ 
ed  it  said  her  master  was  not  at  home.  ‘  I  am 
sorry  for  it,’  said  he,  strutting  about ;  and  with 
a  boasting  air  he  took  out  his  money.  ‘  I  want 
to  pay  him  my  rent :  he  needed  not  to  have  been 
afraid  of  me.’  The  servant,  who  knew  her  mas¬ 
ter  was  very  much  afraid  of  him,  desired  him  to 
walk  in,  for  her  master  would  be  at  home  in  half 
an  hour.  ‘  I  will  call  again,’  said  he  ;  ‘  but  no, 
let  him  call  on  me,  and  the  sooner  the  better :  I 
shall  be  at  the  Blue  Posts.’  While  he  had  been 
talking  he  took  care  to  open  his  black  leather 
case,  and  to  display  the  bank  bills  to  the  servant, 
and  then,  in  a  swaggering  way,  he  put  up  his 
money  and  marched  off  to  the  Blue  Posts. 

He  was  by  this  time  quite  proud  of  his  own 
resolution,  and  having  tendered  the  money,  and 
being  clear  in  his  own  mind  that  it  was  the 
landlord’s  own  fault  and  not  his  that  it  was  not 
paid,  he  went  to  refresh  himself  at  the  Blue 
Posts.  In  a  barn  belonging  to  this  public  house 
a  set  of  strollers  were  just  going  to  perform  some 
of  that  sing-song  ribaldry  by  which  our  villages 
are  corrupted,  the  laws  broken,  and  that  money 
drawn  from  the  poor  for  pleasure,  which  is 
wanted  by  their  families  for  bread.  The  name 
of  the  last  new  song  which  made  part  of  the  en¬ 
tertainment,  made  him  think  himself  in  high 
luck,  that  he  should  have  just  that  half  hour  to 
spare.  He  went  into  the  barn,  but  was  too  much 
delighted  with  the  actor,  who  sung  his  favourite 
song,  to  remain  a  quiet  hearer.  He  leaped  out 
of  the  pit,  and  got  behind  the  two  ragged  blan¬ 
kets  which  served  for  a  curtain.  He  sung  so 
much  better  than  the  actors  themselves,  that 
they  praised  and  admired  him  to  a  degree  which 
awakened  all  his  vanity.  He  was  so  intoxicated 
with  their  flattery,  that  he  could  do  no  less  than 
invite  them  all  to  supper,  an  invitation  which 
they  were  too  hungry  not  to  accept. 

Ho  did  not,  however,  quite  forget  his  appoint¬ 
ment  with  his  landlord  ;  but  the  half  hour  was 
long  since  past  by.  ‘And  so,’ says  he,  ‘  as  I 
know  he  is  a  mean  curmudgeon,  who  goes  to 
bed  by  daylight  to  save  candles,  it  will  be  too 
late  to  speak  with  him  to-night ;  besides,  let 
him  call  upon  me  ;  it  is  his  business  and  not 
mine.  I  left  word  where  I  was  to  be  found  ;  the 
money  is  ready,  and  if  I  don’t  pay  him  to-night, 

I  can  do  it  before  breakfast.’ 

By  the  time  these  firm  resolutions  were  made, 
supper  was  ready.  There  never  was  a  more 
jolly  evening.  Ale  and  punch  were  as  plenty 
as  water.  The  actors  saw  what  a  vain  follow 
was  feasting  them  ;  and  as  they  wanted  victuals, 
and  he  wanted  flattery,  the  business  was  soon 


settled.  They  ate,  and  Brown  sung  They 
pretended  to  be  in  raptures.  Singing  promoted 
drinking,  and  every  fresh  glass  produced  a  song 
or  a  story  still  more  merry  than  the  former. 
Before  morning,  the  players,  who  were  engaged 
to  act  in  another  barn  a  dozen  miles  off,  stole 
away  quietly.  Brown  having  dropt  asleep  they 
left  him  to  finish  his  nap  by  himself.  As  to  him 
his  dreams  were  gay  and  pleasant,  and  the 
house  being  quite  still,  he  slept  comfortably  till 
morning. 

As  soon  as  he  had  breakfasted,  the  business 
of  the  night  before  popped  into  his  head.  H& 
set  off  once  more  to  his  landlord’s  in  high  spirits, 
gaily  singing  by  the  way,  scraps  of  all  the  tunes 
he  had  picked  up  the  night  before  from  his  new 
friends.  The  landlord  opened  the  door  himself, 
and  reproached  him  with  no  small  surliness  for 
not  having  kept  his  word  with  him  the  evening 
before,  adding,  that  he  supposed  he  was  come 
now  with  some  more  of  his  shallow  excuses. 
Brown  put  on  all  that  haughtiness  which  is  com¬ 
mon  to  people  who  being  generally  apt  to  be  in 
the  wrong,  happen  to  catch  themselves  doing  a 
right  action ;  he  looked  big,  as  some  sort  of 
people  do  when  they  have  money  to  pay.  ‘  You 
need  not  have  been  so  anxious  about  your  mo¬ 
ney,’  said  he,  ‘  I  was  not  going  to  break  or  run 
away.’  The  landlord  well  knew  this  was  the 
common  language  of  those  who  are  ready  to  do 
both.  Brown  haughtily  added,  ‘  You  shall  see 
I  am'a  man  of  my  word ;  give  me  a  receipt.’ 
The  landlord  had  it  ready  and  gave  it  him. 

Brown  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  his  black 
leathern  case  in  which  the  bills  were ;  he  felt, 
he  searched,  he  examined,  first  one  pocket,  then 
the  other ;  then  both  waistcoat  pockets,  but  no 
leather  case  could  he  find.  He  looked  terrified. 
It  was  indeed  the  face  of  real  terror,  but  the 
landlord  conceived  it  to  be  that  of‘  guilt,  and 
abused  him  heartily  for  putting  his  old  tricks 
upon  him ;  he  swore  he  would  not  be  imposed 
upon  any  longer ;  the  money  or  a  jail — there 
lay  his  choice. 

Brown  protested  for  once  with  great  truth, 
that  he  had  no  intention  to  deceive;  declared 
that  he  had  actually  brought  the  money,  and 
knew  not  what  was  become  of  it ;  but  the  thing 
was  far  too  unlikely  to  gain  credit.  Brown  now 
called  to  mind  that  he  had  fallen  asleep  on  the 
settle  in  the  room  where  they  had  supped.  This 
raised  his  spirits  ;  for  he  had  no  doubt  but  the 
case  had  fallen  out  of  his  pocket ;  he  said  he 
would  step  to  the  public  house  and  search  for  it, 
and  would  be  back  directly.  Not  one  word  of 
this  did  the  landlord  believe,  so  inconvenient  is 
it  to  have  a  bad  character.  He  swore  Brown 
should  not  stir  out  of  his  house  without  a  con¬ 
stable,  and  made  him  wait  while  he  sent  for  one. 
Brown,  guarded  by  the  constable,  went  back  to 
the  Blue  Posts,  the  landlord  charging  the  officer 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  culprit.  The  caution 
was  needless;  Brown  had  not  the  least  design 
of  running  away,  so  firmly  persuaded  was  he 
that  he  should  find  his  leather  case. 

But  who  can  paint  his  dismay,  when  no  tale 
or  tidings  of  the  leather  case  could  bo  had  • 
The  master,  the  mistress,  the  boy,  the  maid  of 
the  public  house  all  protested  they  were  inno- 
cent.  His  suspicions  soon  fell  on  the  strollers 


214 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


with  whom  he  had  passed  the  night ;  and  he  now 
found  out  for  the  first  time,  tliat  a  merry  even¬ 
ing  did  not  always  produce  a  happy  morning.  He 
obtained  a  warrant,  and  proper  oflicers  were  sent 
in  pursuit  of  the  strollers.  No  one,  however, 
believed  he  had  really  lost  any  thing ;  and  as 
he  had  not  a  shilling  left  to  defray  the  expensive 
treat  he  had  given,  the  master  of  the  inn  agreed 
with  the  other  landlord  in  thinking  this  story 
was  a  trick  to  defraud  them  both,  and  Brown 
remained  in  close  custody.  At  length  the 
officers  returned,  who  said  they  had  been  ob¬ 
liged  to  let  the  strollers  go,  as  they  could  not 
fix  the  charge  on  any  one,  and  they  had  offered 
to  swear  before  a  justice  that  they  had  seen  no¬ 
thing  of  the  leasher  case.  It  was  at  length 
agreed  that  as  he  had  passed  the  evening  in  a 
crowded  barn,  he  had  probably  been  robbed 
there,  if  at  all ;  and  among  so  many,  who  could 
pretend  to  guess  at  the  thief? 

Brown  raved  like  a  madman ;  he  cried,  tore 
his  hair,  and  said  he  was  ruined  forever.  The 
abusive  language  of  his  old  landlord,  and  his 
new  creditor  at  the  Blue  Posts,  did  not  lighten 
his  sorrow.  His  landlord  would  be  put  off  no 
longer.  Brown  declared  he  could  neither  find 
bail  nor  raise  another  shilling ;  and  as  soon  as 
the  forms  of  law  were  made  out,  he  was  sent  to 
the  county  jail. 

Here  it  might  have  been  expected  that  hard 
living  and  much  leisure  would  have  brought 
him  to  reflect  a  little  on  his  past  follies.  But 
his  heart  was  not  truly  touched.  The  chief 
thing  which  grieved  him  at  first  was,  his  hav¬ 
ing  abused  the  kindness  of  Stock,  for  to  him  he 
should  appear  guilty  of  a  real  fraud,  where  he 
had  indeed  been  only  vain,  idle,  and  imprudent. 
And  it  is  worth  while  here  to  remark,  that 
vanity,  idleness,  and  imprudence,  often  bring  a 
man  to  utter  ruin  both  of  soul  and  body,  though 
silly  people  do  not  put  them  in  the  catalogue  of 
heavy  sins,  and  those  who  indulge  in  them  arc 
often  reckoned  honest,  merry  fellows,  with  the 
best  hearts  in  the  world. 

I  wish  I  had  room  to  tell  my  readers  what 
befel  Jack  in  his  present  doleful  habitation,  and 
what  became  of  him  afterwards.  I  promise 
them,  however,  that  they  shall  certainly  know 
the  first  of  next  month,  when  I  hope  they  will 
not  forget  to  inquire  for  the  fourth  part  of  the 
Shoemakers,  or  Jack  Brown  in  prison 


PART  IV. 

Jack  Brown  in  Prison. 

Brown  was  no  sooner  lodged  in  his  doleful 
habitation,  and  a  little  recovered  from  his  first 
surprise,  than  he  sat  down  and  wrote  his  friend 
Stock  the  whole  history  of  the  transaction.  Mr. 
Stock,  who  had  long  known  the  exceeding  light¬ 
ness  and  dissipation  of  his  mind,  did  not  so  ut¬ 
terly  disbelieve  the  story  as  all  the  other  credi¬ 
tors  did.  To  speak  the  truth.  Stock  was  tlie 
only  one  among  them  who  had  good  sense 
enough  to  know,  that  a  man  may  be  completely 
ruined,  both  in  what  relates  to  his  property  and 
his  soul,  without  committing  Old  Bailov  crimes. 


He  well  knew  that  idleness,  vanity,  and  the 
love  of  pleasure,  as  it  is  falsely  called,  will  bring 
a  man  to  a  morsel  of  bread,  as  surely  as  those 
things  which  are  reckoned  much  greater  sins 
and  that  they  undermine  his  principles  as  cer’' 
tainly,  though  not  quite  so  fast. 

Stock  was  too  angry  with  what  had  happened 
to  answer  Brown’s  letter,  or  to  seem  to  take  the 
least  notice  of  him.  However,  he  kindly  and 
secretly,  undertook  a  journey  to  the  hard-heart¬ 
ed  old  farmer.  Brown’s  father,  to  intercede  with 
him,  and  to  see  if  he  would  do  any  thing  for  his 
son.  Stock  did  not  pretend  to  excuse  Jack,  or 
even  to  lessen  his  offences ;  for  it  was  a  rule  of 
his  never  to  disguise  truth  or  to  palliate  wicked¬ 
ness.  Sin  was  still  sin  in  his  eyes,  though  it  were 
committed  by  his  best  friend  ;  but  though  he 
would  not  soften  the  sin,  he  felt  tenderly  for  the 
sinner.  He  pleaded  with  the  old  farmer  on  the 
ground,  that  his  son’s  idleness  and  other  vices 
would  gather  fresh  strength  in  a  jail.  He  told 
him,  that  the  loose  and  worthless  company 
which  he  would  there  keep,  would  harden  him 
in  vice,  and  if  he  was  now  wicked,  he  might 
there  become  irreclaimable. 

But  all  his  pleas  were  urged  in  vain.  The  far¬ 
mer  was  not  to  be  moved,  indeed  he  argued  with 
some  justice,  that  he  ought  not  to  make  his  in. 
dustrious  children  beggars  to  save  one  rogue 
from  the  gallows.  Mr.  Stock  allowed  the  force 
of  his  reasoning,  though  he  saw  the  father  was 
less  influenced  by  this  principle  of  justice  than 
by  resentment  on  account  of  the  old  story  of 
Smiler.  People,  indeed,  should  take  care  that 
what  appears  in  their  conduct  to  proceed  from 
justice,  does  not  really  proceed  from  revenge. 
Wiser  men  than  farmer  Brown  often  deceive 
themselves,  and  fancy  they  act  on  better  prin¬ 
ciples  than  they  really  do,  for  want  of  looking 
a  little  more  closely  into  their  own  hearts,  and 
putting  down  every  action  to  its  true  motive. 
When  we  are  praying  against  deceit  we  should 
not  forget  to  take  self-deceit  into  the  account. 

Mr.  Stock  at  length  wrote  to  poor  Jack  ;  not 
to  offer  him  any  help,  that  was  quite  out  of  the 
question,  but  to  exhort  him  to  repent  of  his  evil 
ways ;  to  lay  before  him  the  sins  of  his  past 
life,  and  to  advise  him  to  convert  the  present 
punishment  into  a  benefit,  by  humbling  himself 
before  God.  He  offered  his  interest  to  get  his 
place  of  confinement  exchanged  for  one  of  those 
improved  prisons,  where  solitude  and  labour 
have  been  made  the  happy  instruments  of  bring¬ 
ing  many  to  a  better  way  of  thinking,  and  end¬ 
ed  by  saying,  that  if  he  ever  gave  any  solid  signs 
of  real  amendment  he  would  still  be  his  friend, 
in  spite  of  all  that  was  past. 

If  Mr.  Stock  had  sent  him  a  good  sum  of 
money  to  procure  his  liberty,  or  even  to  make 
merry  with  his  wretched  companions.  Jack 
would  have  thought  him  a  friend  indeed.  But 
to  send  him  nothing  but  dry  advice,  and  a  few 
words  of  empty  comfort,  was,  he  thought,  but  a 
cheap  shabby  way  of  showing  his  kindness 
Unluckily  the  letter  came  just  as  he  was  going 
to  sit  down  to  one  of  those  direful  merry-mak¬ 
ings  which  arc  often  carried  on  with  brutal  riot 
within  the  doleful  walls  of  a  jail  on  the  entrance 
of  a  new  prisoner,  who  is  often  expected  to  give 
a  feast  to  the  rest. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


215 


When  his  companions  were  heated  with  gin  ; 
‘Now,’ said  Jack,  ‘  I’ll  treat  you  with  a  sermon, 
and  a  vwy  pretty  preachment  it  is.’  So  saying, 
he  took  out  Mr.  Stock’s  kind  and  pious  letter, 
and  was  delighted  at  the  bursts  of  laughter  it 
produced.  ‘  What  a  canting  dog  !’  said  one. 
‘  Repentance,  indeed  !’  cried  Tom  Crew  ;  ‘  No, 
no.  Jack,  tell  this  hypocritical  rogue  that  if  we 
have  lost  our  liberty,  it  is  only  for  having  been 
jolly,  hearty  fellows,  and  we  have  more  spirit 
than  to  repent  of  that  I  hope  ;  all  the  harm  we 
have  done  is  living  a  little  too  fast,  like  honest 
bucks  as  we  are. — ‘  Ay,  ay,’  said  jolly  George, 
‘  had  we  been  such  sneaking  miserly  fellows  as 
Stock,  we  need  not  have  come  hither.  But  if 
the  ill  nature  of  the  laws  has  been  so  cruel  as  to 
clap  up  such  fine  hearty  blades,  we  are  no  felons 
iiowever.  We  are  afraid  of  no  Jack  Ketch  ;  and 
I  see  no  cause  to  repent  of  any  sin  that’s  not 
hanging  matter.  As  to  those  who  are  thrust 
into  the  condemned  hole  indeed,  and  have  but  a 
few  hours  to  live,  they  must  see  the  parson,  and 
hear  a  sermon,  and  such  stuff.  But  I  do  not 
know  what  such  stout  young  fellows  as  we  are 
have  to  do  with  repentance.  And  so.  Jack,  let 
us  have  that  rare  new  catch  which  you  learnt 
of  the  strollers  that  merry  night  when  you  lost 
your  pocket-book.’ 

This  thoughtless  youth  soon  gave  a  fresh 
.proof  of  the  power  of  evil  company,  and  of  the 
quick  progress  of  the  heart  of  a  sinner  from  bad 
to  worse.  Brown,  who  always  wanted  principle, 
soon  gre  w  to  want  feeling  also.  He  joined  in 
the  laugh  which  was  raised  against  Stock,  and 
told  many  good  stories,  as  they  were  called,  in 
derision  of  the  piety,  sobriety,  and  self-denial  of 
his  old  friend.  He  lost  every  day  somewhat  of 
those  small  remains  of  shame  and  decency 
which  he  had  brought  with  him  to  the  prison. 
He  even  grew  reconciled  to  this  wretched  way 
of  life,  and  the  want  of  money  seemed  to  him 
the  heaviest  evil  in  the  life  of  a  jail. 

Mr.  Stock  finding  from  the  jailer  that  his 
letter  had  been  treated  with  ridicule,  would  not 
write  to  him  any  more.  He  did  not  come  to 
see  him  nor  send  him  any  assistance,  thinking 
it  right  to  let  him  suffer  that  want  which  his 
vices  had  brought  upon  him.  But  as  he  still 
hoped  that  the  time  would  come  when  he  might 
be  brought  to  a  sense  of  his  evil  courses,  he 
continued  to  have  an  eye  upon  him  by  means 
of  the  jailer,  who  was  an  honest,  kind-hearted 
*  man. 

Brown  spent  one  part  of  his  time  in  thought¬ 
less  riot,  and  the  other  in  gloomy  sadness.  Com¬ 
pany  kept  up  his  spirits  ;  with  his  new  frien4s 
he  contrived  to  drown  thought ;  but  when  he 
was  alone  he  began  to  find  that  a  merry  felloiv, 
when  deprived  of  his  companions  and  his  liquor, 
is  often  a  most  forlorn  wretch.  Then  it  is  that 
-even  a  merry  fellow  says.  Of  laughter,  what  is 
it  ?  and  of  mirth,  it  is  madness. 

As  he  contrived,  however,  to  be  as  little  alone 
as  possible  his  gaiety  was  commonly  uppermost 
till  that  loathsome  distemper,  called  the  jail 
fever,  broke  out  in  the  prison.  Tom  Crew,  the 
ringleader  in  all  their  evil  practices,  was  first 
seized  with  it.  Jack  staid  a  little  while  with 
his  comrade  to  assist  and  divert  bin),  but  of 
.assistance  he  could  give  little,  and  tlio  very 


thought  of  diversion  was  novl  turned  into  horror. 
He  soon  caught  the  distemper,  and  that  in  so 
dreadful  a  degree,  that  his  life  was  in  great 
danger.  Of  those  who  remained  in  health  not 
a  soul  came  near  him,  though  he  shared  his  last 
farthing  with  them.  He  had  just  sense  enough 
left  to  feel  this  cruelty.  Poor  fellow  !  he  did 
not  know  before,  that  the  friendship  of  the 
worldly  is  at  an  end  when  there  is  no  more  drink 
or  diversion  to  be  had.  He  lay  in  the  most  de¬ 
plorable  condition  ;  his  body  tormented  with  a 
dreadful  disease,  and  his  soul  terrified  and 
amazed  at  the  approach  of  death :  that  death 
which  he  thought  at  so  great  a  distance,  and  of 
which  his  comrades  had  so  often  assured  him 
that  a  young  fellow  of  five-and-twenty  was  is  no 
danger.  Poor  Jack  !  I  cannot  help  feeling  for 
him.  Without  a  shilling !  without  ji friend  1  with¬ 
out  one  comfort  respecting  this  wjrld,  and,  what 
is  far  more  terrible,  without  one  hope  respect¬ 
ing  the  next. 

Let  not  the  young  reader  fancy  that  Brown’s 
misery  arose  entirely  from  his  altered  circum¬ 
stances.  It  was  not  merely  his  being  in  want, 
and  sick,  and  in  prison,  which  made  his  condi¬ 
tion  so  desperate.  Many  an  honest  man  un¬ 
justly  accused,  many  a  persecuted  saint,  many 
a  holy  martyr  has  enjoyed  sometimes  more 
peace  and  content  in  a  prison  than  wicked  men 
have  ever  tasted  in  the  height  of  their  pros¬ 
perity.  But  to  any  such  comforts,  to  any  com¬ 
fort  at  all,  poor  Jack  was  an  utter  stranger. 

A  Christian  friend  generally  comes  forward 
at  the  very  time  when  worldly  friends  forsake 
the  wretched.^  The  other  prisoners  would  not 
come  near  Brown,  though  he  had  often  enter¬ 
tained,  and  had  never  offended  them  ;  even  his 
own  father  was  not  moved  with  his  sad  condi¬ 
tion.  When  Mr.  Stock  informed  him  of  it,  be 
answered,  ‘  ’Tis  no  more  than  he  deserves.  As 
he  brews  so  he  must  bake.  He  has  made  his 
own  bed,  and  let  him  lie  in  it.’  The  hard  old 
man  had  ever  at  his  tongue’s  end  some  proverb 
of  hardness,  or  frugality,  which  he  contrived  to 
turn  in  such  a  way  as  to  excuse  himself. 

We  shall  now  see  how  Mr.  Stock  behav¬ 
ed.  He  had  his  favourite  sayings  too ;  but 
they  were  chiefly  on  the  side  of  kindness, 
mercy,  or  some  other  virtue.  ‘  I  must  not,’ 
said  he,  ‘pretend  to  call  myself  a  Christian,  if 
I  do  not  requite  evil  with  good.’  When  he  re¬ 
ceived  the  jailer’s  letter  with  the  account  of 
Brown’s  sad  condition.  Will  Simpson  and  Tom¬ 
my  Williams  began  to  compliment  him  on  his 
own  wisdom  and  prudence,  by  which  he  had 
escaped  Brown’s  misfortunes.  He  only  gravely 
said,  ‘  Blessed  be  God  that  I  am  not  in  the  same 
misery.  It  is  He  who  has  made  us  to  differ. 
But  for  his  grace  I  might  have  been  in  no  bet¬ 
ter  condition. — Now  Brown  is  brought  low  by 
the  hand  of  God,  it  is  my  time  to  go  to  him.’ 

‘  What,  you  !’  said  Will,  ‘  whom  he  cheated  of 
your  money?’ — ‘This  is  not  a  time  to  remem¬ 
ber  injuries,’  said  Mr.  Stock.  ‘  How  can  I  ask 
forgiveness  for  my  own  sins,  if  I  withhold  for¬ 
giveness  from  him  V  So  saying,  he  ordered  hie 
horse,  and  set  off  to  see  poor  Brown  ;  thus  prov¬ 
ing  that  his  was  a  religion  not  of  words  but  of 
deeds. 

Stock’s  heart  nearly  failed  him  as  he  passed 


216 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


through  the  prison.  The  groans  of  the  sick  and 
dying,  and,  what  to  such  a  heart  as  his  was  still 
more  moving,  the  brutal  merriment  of  the 
healthy  in  such  a  place,  pierced  his  very  soul. 
Many  a  silent  prayer  did  he  put  up  as  he  passed 
along,  that  God  would  yet  be  pleased  to  touch 
their  hearts,  and  that  now  (during  this  infec- 
tious  sickness)  might  be  the  accepted  time.  The 
jailer  observed  him  drop  a  tear,  and  asked  the 
cause.  ‘  I  cannot  forget,  said  he,  ‘  that  the  most 
dissolute  of  these  men  is  still  my  fellow  creature. 
The  same  God  made  them  ;  the  same  Saviour 
died  for  them  ;  how  then  can  I  hate  the  worst 
of  them  ?  With  my  advantages  they  might  have 
been  much  better  than  I  am  ;  without  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  God  on  my  good  minister’s  instructions, 
I  might  have  been  worse  than  the  worst  of  these. 
I  have  no  cause  for  pride,  much  for  thankful¬ 
ness  ;  ‘  Let  us  not  be  high-minded,  but  fear.' 

It  would  have  moved  a  heart  of  stone  to  have 
seen  poor  miserable  Jack  Brown  lying  on  his 
wretched  bed,  his  face  so  changed  by  pain,  po¬ 
verty,  dirt,  and  sorrow,  that  he  could  hardly  be 
known  for  that  merry  soul  of  a  jack-boot,  as  he 
used  to  be  proud  to  hear  himself  called.  His 
groans  were  so  piteous  that  it  made  Mr.  Stock’s 
heart  ache.  He  kindly  took  him  by  the  hand, 
though  he  knew  the  distemper  was  catching. — 
‘  How  dost  do.  Jack  ?’  said  he,  ‘  dost  know  me  ?’ 
Bi'own  shook  his  head  and  said,  faintly,  ‘  Know 
you  ?  ay,  that  I  do.  I  am  sure  I  have  but  one 
friend  in  the  w'orld  who  would  come  to  see  me 
in  this  woeful  condition.  O  James  !  what  have 
I  brought  myself  to?  What  will  become  of  my 
poor  soul  ?  I  dare  not  look  back,  for  that  is  all 
sin  ;  nor  forward,  for  that  is  all  misery  and  woe.’ 

Mr.  Stock  spake  kindly  to  him,  but  did  not 
attempt  to  cheer  him  with  false  comfort,  as  is 
too  often  done.  ‘  I  am  asham’d  to  see  you  in 
this  dirty  place,’  says  Brown.  ‘As  to  the  plaCe, 
Jack,’  replied  the  other,  ‘  if  it  has  helped  to 
bring  you  to  a  sense  of  your  past  offences,  it 
will  be  no  bad  place  for  you.  I  am  heartily  sorry 
for  your  distress  and  your  sickness  ;  but  if  it 
should  please  God  by  them  to  open  3mur  eyes, 
and  to  show  you  that  sin  is  a  greater  evil  than 
the  prison  to  which  it  has  brought  you,  all  may 
yet  be  well.  I  had  rather  see  you  in  this  hum¬ 
ble  penitent  state,  lying  on  this  dirty  bed,  in  this 
dismal  prison,  than  roaring  and  rioting  at  the 
Grayhound,  the  king  of  the  company,  with 
handsome  clothes  on  your  back,  and  plenty  of 
money  in  your  pocket.’ 

Brown  wept  bitterly,  and  squeezed  his  hand, 
but  was  too  weak  to  say  much.  Mr.  Stock  then 
desired  the  jailor  to  let  him  have  such  things  as 
were  needful,  and  he  would  pay  for  them.  He 
would  not  leave  the  poor  fellow  till  he  had  given 
him,  with  his  own  hands,  some  broth  which  the 
jailor  had  got  ready  for  him,  and  some  medi¬ 
cines  wliich  the  doctor  had  sent.  All  this  kind¬ 
ness  cut  Brown  to  the  heart.  He  was  just  able 
to  sob  out,  ‘  My  unnatural  father  leaves  me  to 
perish,  and  my  injured  friend  is  more  than  a 
father  to  me.’  Stock  told  him  that  one  proof  ho 
must  give  of  his  repentance,  was,  that  ho  must 
forgive  his  father,  whoso  provocation  had  been 
very  great.  Ho  then  said  he  would  leave  him 
for  the  present  to  take  some  rest,  and  desired 
him  to  lift  up  his  heart  to  God  for  mercy.  ‘  Dear 


James,’  replied  Brown,  ‘do  you  pray  for  me 
God  perhaps  may  hear  you,  but  he  gill  never 
hear  the  prayer  of  Such  a  sinner  as  I  have  been.’ 
‘Take  care  how  you  think  so,’  said  Stock.,  ‘To 
believe  that  God  cannot  forgive  you  would  be 
still  a  greater  sin  than  any  you  have  yet  com¬ 
mitted  against  him.’  He  then  explained  to  him 
in  a  few  words,  as  well  as  he  was  able,  the  na¬ 
ture  of  repentance  and  forgiveness  through  a 
Saviour,  and  warned  him  earnestly  against  un¬ 
belief  and  hardness  of  heart. 

Poor  Jack  grew  much  refreshed  in  body  with 
the  comfortable  things  he  had  taken;  and  a  little 
cheered  with  Stoek’s  kindness  in  coming  so  far 
to  see  and  to  forgive  such  a  forlorn  outcast,  sick 
of  an  infectious  distemper,  and  locked  within 
the  walls  of  a  prison. 

Surely,  said  he  to  himself,  there  must  be  some 
mighty  power  in  a  religion  which  can  lead  men 
to  do  such  things  !  things  so  much  against  the 
grain  as  to  forgive  such  an  injury,  and  to  risk 
catching  such  a  distemper ;  but  he  was  so  weak 
he  could  not  express  this  in  words.  He  tried  to 
pray  but  he  could  not ;  at  length,  overpowered 
with  weariness,  he  fell  asleep. 

When  Mr.  Stock  came  back,  he  was  surprised 
to  find  him  so  much  better  in  body ;  but  his 
agonies  of  mind  were  dreadful,  and  he  had  now 
got  strength  to  express  part  of  the  horrors  which 
he  felt.  ‘  James,’  said  he  (looking  wildly)  ‘  it 
is  all  over  with  me.  I  am  a  lost  creature.  Even 
your  prayers  cannot  save  me.’ — ‘  Dear  Jack,’ 
replied  Mr.  Stock, ‘I  am  no  minister;  it  does 
not  become  me  to  talk  much  to  thee  :  but  I  know 
I  may  venture  to  say  whatever  is  in  the  Bible. 
As  ignorant  as  I  am  I  shall  be  safe  enough 
while  I  stick  to  that.’  ‘  Ay,’  said  the  sick  man, 
‘you  used  to  be  ready  enough  to  read  to  me,  and 
I  would  not  listen,  or  if  I  did  it  was  only  to 
make  fun  of  what  I  heard,  and  now  you  will  not 
so  much  as  read  a  bit  of  a  chapter  to  me.’ 

This  was  the  very  point  to  which  Stock  long¬ 
ed  to  bring  him.  So  he  took  a  little  Bible  out 
of  his  pocket,  which  he  always  carried  with  him 
on  a  journey,  and  read  slowly,  verse  by  verse, 
the  fifty-fifth  chapter  of  Isaiah.  When  he  came 
to  the  sixth  and  seventh  verses,  poor  Jack  cried 
so  much  that  Stock  was  forced  to  stop.  Tho 
words  were.  Let  the  wicked  man  forsake  his  way, 
and  the  unrighteous  man  his  thoughts,  and  let 
him  return  unto  the  Lord.  Here  Brown  stopped 
him,  saying,  ‘  Oh  it  is  too  late,  too  late  for  me.’, 
— ‘  Let  me  finish  the  verse,’  said  Stock,  ‘  and  you 
will  see  your  error ;  you  will  see  that  it  is  never 
too  late.’  So  he  road  on — Let  him  return  unto 
the  Lord,  and  he  will  have  mercy  upon  him,  and 
to  our  God,  and  he  will  abundantly  pardon.  Here 
Brown  started  up,  snatched  the  book  out  of  his 
hand,  and  cried  out,  ‘  Is  that  really  there  ?  No, 
no  ;  that’s  of  your  own  putting  in,  in  order  to 
comfort  me  ;  let  me  look  at  the  words  m3’self.’ 
— ‘  No,  indeed,’  said  Stock,  ‘  I  would  not  for  tho 
world  give  you  unfounded  comfort,  or  put  off 
any  notion  of  my  own  for  a  Scripture  doctrine.’ 
— ‘  But  is  it  possible,’  cried  the  sick  man,  ‘  that 
God  may  really  pardon  me  ?  Do’st  think  he  can  1 
Do’st  think  he  will  ?’  ‘  I  dare  not  give  thee  false 
hopes,  or  indeed  any  hopes  of  my  own.  But 
these  are  God’s  own  words,  and  the  only  diffi¬ 
culty  is  to  know  when  we  are  really  brought 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


217 


into  such  a  state  as  that  the  words  may  be  ap¬ 
plied  to  us.  For  a  text  may  be  full  of  comfort, 
and  yet  may  not  belonj^  to  us.’ 

Mr.  Stock  was  afraid  of  saying  more.  He 
would  not  venture  out  of  his  depth ;  nor  indeed 
was  poor  Brown  able  to  bea?  more  discourse 
just  now.  So  he  made  him  a  present  of  the  Bi¬ 
ble,  folding  down  such  places  as  he  thought 
might  be  best  suited  to  his  state,  and  took  his 
leave,  being  obliged  to  return  home  that  night. 
He  left  a  little  money  with  the  jailor,  to  add  a 
few  comforts  to  the  allowance  of  the  prison,  and 
promised  to  return  in  a  short  time. 

When  he  got  home,  he  described  the  suffer¬ 
ings  and  misery  of  Brown  in  a  very  moving 
manner  ;  but  Tommy  Williams,  instead  of  be¬ 
ing  properly  affected  by  it,  only  said,  ‘  Indeed, 
master,  I  am  not  very  sorry ;  he  is  rightly 
served.’ — ‘  How,  Tommy,’  said  Mr.  Stock  (ra¬ 
ther  sternly)  ‘  not  sorry  to  see  a  fellow  creature 
brought  to  the  lowest  state  of  misery  ;  one  too 
whom  you  have  known  so  prosperous  V  ‘  No, 
master,  I  can’t  say  I  am  ;  for  Mr.  Brown  used 
to  make  fun  of  you,  and  laugh  at  you  for  being 
so  godly,  and  reading  your  Bible.’ 

‘  Let  me  say  a  few  words  to  you  Tommy,’ 
said  Mr.  Stock.  ‘  In  the  first  place  you  should 
never  watch  for  the  time  of  a  man’s  being 
brought  low  by  trouble  to  tell  of  his  faults. 
Next,  you  should  never  rejoice  at  his  trouble, 
but  pity  him,  and  pray  for  him.  Lastly,  as  to 
his  ridiculing  me  for  my  religion,  if  I  cannot 
stand  an  idle  jest,  I  am  not  worthy  the  name  of 
a  Christian. — He  that  is  ashamed  of  me  and  my 
word — do’st  remember  what  follows  Tommy  V 
— ‘Yes,  master,  it  was  last  Sunday’s  text — of 
him  shall  the  Son  of  Man  be  ashamed  when  he 
shall  judge  the  world.' 

Mr.  Stock  soon  went  back  to  the  prison.  But 
he  did  not  go  alone.  He  took  with  him  Mr. 
Thomas,  the  worthy  minister  who  had  been  the 
guide  and  instructor  of  his  youth,  who  was  so 
kind  as  to  go  at  his  request  and  visit  this  forlorn 
prisoner.  When  they  got  to  Brown’s  door,  they 
found  him  sitting  up  in  his  bed  with  the  Bible 
in  his  hand.  This  was  a  joyful  sight  to  Mr. 
Stock,  who  secretly  thanked  God  for  it.  Brown 
was  reading  aloud ;  they  listened ;  it  was  the 
fifteenth  of  Saint  Luke.  The  circumstances  of 
this  beautiful  parable  of  the  prodigal  son  were 
so  much  like  his  own,  that  the  story  pierced 
him  to  the  soul ;  and  he  stopped  every  minute 
to  compare  his  own  case  with  that  of  the  prodi¬ 
gal.  He  was  just  got  to  the  eighteenth  verse,  I 
will  arise  and  go  to  my  father — at  that  moment 
he  spied  his  two  friends ;  joy  darted  into  his 
eyes.  ‘O  dear  Jem,’  said  he,  ‘it  is  not  too  late, 
I  will  arise,  and  go  to  my  Father,  my  heavenly 
Father,  and  you,  sir,  will  show  mo  the  way, 
won’t  you?’  said  he  to  Mr.  Thomas,  whom  he 
recollected.  ‘  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  in  so 
hopeful  a  disposition,’  said  the  good  minister. 

‘  O,  sir,’  said  Brown,  ‘  what  a  place  is  this  to  re¬ 
ceive  you  in  ?  O,  see  to  what  I  have  brought 
myself!’ 

‘  Your  condition,  as  to  this  world,  is’ indeed 
very  low,’  replied  the  good  divine.  ‘  But  what 
are  mines,  dungeons,  or  gallies,  to  that  eternal 
hopeless  prison  to  which  your  unreponted  sins 
must  soon  have  consigned  you.  Even  in  the 
VoL.  I 


gloomy  prison,  on  this  bed  of  straw,  worn  down 
by  pain,  poverty,  and  want,  forsaken  by  your 
worldly  friends,  an  object  of  scorn  to  those  with  , 
whom  you  used  to  carouse  and  riot ;  yet  here,  I 
say,  brought  thus  low,  if  you  have  at  last  found 
out  your  own  vileness,  and  your  utterly  undone 
state  by  sin,  you  may  still  be  more  an  object  of  fa¬ 
vour  in  the  sight  of  God,  than  when  you  thought 
yourself  prosperous  and  happy  ;  when  the  world 
smiled  upon  you,  and  you  passed  your  days  and 
nights  in  envied  gaiety  and  unchristian  riot.  If 
you  will  but  improve  the  present  awful  visita¬ 
tion  ;  if  you  do  but  heartily  renounce  and  ab¬ 
hor  your  present  evil  courses ;  if  you  even  now 
turn  to  the  Lord  your  Saviour  with  lively  faith, 
deep  repentance,  and  unfeigned  obedience,  I 
shall  still  have  more  hope  of  you  than  of  many 
who  are  going  on  quite  happy,  because  quite  in¬ 
sensible.  The  heavy  laden  sinner,  who  has  dis¬ 
covered  the  iniquity  of  his  own  heart,  and  his 
utter  inability  to  help  himself,  may  be  restored 
to  God’s  favour,  and  become  happy,  though  in  a 
dungeon.  And  be  assured,  that  he  who  from 
deep  and  humble  contrition  dares  not  so  much 
as  lift  up  his  eyes  to  heaven,  when  with  a  hearty 
faith  he  sighs  out.  Lord,  be  ^nerciful  to  me  a  sin. 
ner,  shall  in  no  wise  be  cast  out.  These  are  the 
words  of  him  who  cannot  lie.’ 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  self-abasement, 
the  grief,  the  joy,  the  shame,  the  hope,  and  the 
fear  which  filled  the  mind  of  this  poor  man.  A 
dawn  of  comfort  at  length  shone  on  his  benight¬ 
ed  mind.  His  humility  and  fear  of  falling  back 
into  his  former  sins,  if  he  should  ever  recover, 
Mr.  Thomas  thought  were  strong  symptoms  of  a 
sound  repentance.  He  improved  and  cherished 
every  good  disposition  he  saw  arising  in  his 
heart,  and  particularly  warned  him  against  self- 
deceit,  self-confidence,  and  hypocrisy 

After  Brown  had  deeply  expressed  his  sorrow 
for  his  offences,  Mr.  Thomas  thus  addressed 
him.  ‘  There  are  two  ways  of  being  sorry  for 
sin.  Are  you,  Mr.  Brown,  afraid  of  the  guilt  of 
sin  because  of  the  punishment  annexed  to  it,  or 
are  you  afraid  of  sin  itself?  Do  you  wish  to  be 
delivered  from  the  power  of  sin  ?  Do  you  hate 
sin  because  you  know  it  is  offensive  to  a  pure 
and  holy  God  ?  Or  are  you  only  ashamed  of  it 
because  it  has  brought  you  to  a  prison  and  ex¬ 
posed  you  to  the  contempt  of  the  world  ?  It  is 
not  said  that  the  wages  of  this  or  that  particular 
sin  is  death,  but  of  sin  in  general ;  there  is  no 
exception  made  because  it  is  a  more  creditable 
or  a  favourite  sin,  or  because  it  is  a  little  one. 
There  are,  I  repeat,  two  ways  of  being  sorry 
for  sin.  Cain  was  sorry — My  punishment  is 
greater  than  I  can  bear,  said  he  ;  but  here  you 
see  the  punishment  seemed  to  be  the  cause  of 
concern,  not  the  sin.  David  seems  to  have  had 
a  good  notion  of  godly  sorrow,  when  he  says, 
Wash  me  from  mine  iniquity,  cleanse  me  from 
my  sin.  And  when  Job  repented  in  dust  and 
ashes,  it  is  not  said  ho  excused  himself,  but  ho 
abhorred  himself.  And  the  prophet  Isaiah  called 
himself  undone,  because  ho  was  a  man  of  un- 
clean  lips ;  for,  said  he  “  I  have  seen  the  King, 
the  Lord  of  hosts that  is,  he  could  not  take 
the  proper  measure  of  his  own  iniquity  till  he 
had  considered  the  perfect  holiness  of  God.’ 

One  day,  when  Mr.  'I’homas  and  _Mr.  Stoclc 


218 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


came  to  see  him,  they  found  him  more  than 
commonly  affected.  His  face  was  more  ghastly 
pale  than  usual,  and  his  eyes  were  red  with  cry¬ 
ing.  ‘  Oh,  sir,’  said  he,  ‘  what  a  sight  have  I 
just  seen  1  jolly  George,  as  we  used  to  call  him, 
the  ringleader  of  all  our  mirth,  who  was  at  the 
bottom  of  all  the  fun  and  tricks,  and  wickedness 
that  are  carried  on  within  these  walls,  jolly 
George  is  just  dead  of  the  jail  distemper  !  He 
taken,  and  I  left !  I  would  be  carried  into  his 
room  to  speak  to  him,  to  beg  him  to  take  warn¬ 
ing  by  me,  and  that  I  might  take  warning  by 
liira.  But  what  did  I  see !  what  did  I  hear ! 
not  one  sign  of  repentance  ;  not  one  dawn  of 
hope.  Agony  of  body,  blasphemies  on  his  tongue, 
despair  in  his  scul ;  while  I  am  spared  and  com¬ 
forted  with  hopes  of  mercy  and  acceptance.  Oh, 
if  all  my  old  friends  at  the  Grayhound  could  but 
then  have  seen  jolly  George  !  A  hundred  ser¬ 
mons  about  death,  sir,  don’t  speak  so  home,  and 
cut  so  deep,  as  the  sight  of  one  dying  sinner.’ 

Brown  grew  gradually  better  in  his  health, 
that  is,  the  fever  mended,  but  the  distemper  set¬ 
tled  in  his  limbs,  so  that  he  seemed  likely  to  be 
a  poor,  weakly  cripple  the  rest  of  his  life.  But 
as  he  spent  much  of  his  time  in  prayer,  and  in 
reading  such  parts  of  the  Bible  as  Mr.  Thomas 
directed,  he  improved  every  day  in  knowledge 
and  piety,  and  of  course  grew  more  resigned  to 
pain  and  infirmity. 

Some  months  after  this,  his  hard-hearted  fa¬ 
ther,  who  had  never  been  prevailed  upon  to  see 
him,  or  offer  him  the  least  relief,  was  taken  off 
suddenly  by  a  fit  of  apoplexy ;  and,  after  all  his 
threatenings,  he  died  without  a  will.  He  was 
one  of  those  silly,  superstitious  men,  who  fancy 
they  shall  die  the  sooner  for  having  made  one  ; 
and  who  love  the  world  and  the  things  that  are 
in  the  world  so  dearly,  that  they  dread  to  set 
about  any  business  which  may  put  them  in  mind 
that  they  are  not  always  to  live  in  it.  As,  by 
this  neglect,  his  father  had  not  fulfilled  his  threat 
of  cutting  him  off  with  a  shilling.  Jack,  of  course, 
went  shares  with  his  brothers  in  what  their  fa¬ 
ther  left.  What  fell  to  him  proved  to  be  just 
enough  to  discharge  him  from  prison,  and  to 
pay  all  his  debts,  but  he  had  nothing  left.  His 
joy  at  being  thus  enabled  to  make  restitution 
was  so  great  that  he  thought  little  of  his  own 
wants.  He  did  not  desire  to  conceal  the  most 
trifling  debt,  nor  to  keep  a  shilling  for  himself. 

Mr.  Stock  undertook  to  settle  all  his  aftairs. 
There  did  not  remain  money  enough  after  every 
creditor  was  satisfied,  even  to  pay  for  his  remo¬ 
val  home.  Mr.  Stock  kindly  sent  his  own  cart 
for  him  with  a  bed  in  it,  made  as  comfortable  as 
possible,  for  he  was  too  weak  and  lame  to  be -re¬ 
moved  any  other  way,  and  Mrs.  Stock  gave  the 
driver  particular  charge  to  be  tender  and  careful 
of  him,  and  not  to  drive  hard,  nor  to  leave  the 
cart  a  moment. 

Mr.  Stock  would  fain  have  taken  him  into  his 
own  house,  at  least  for  a  time,  so  convinced  was 
he  of  the  sincere  reformation  both  of  heart  and 
life  ;  but  Brown  would  not  be  prevailed  on  to  be 
further  burthensome  to  this  generous  friend.  He 
insisted  on  being  carried  to  the  parish  work- 
house,  which  he  said  was  a  far  better  place  than 
he  deserved.  In  this  house  Mr.  Stock  furnished 
a  small  room  for  him,  and  sent  him  every  day  a 


morsel  of  meat  from  his  own  dinner.  Tommy 
Williams  begged  that  he  might  always  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  carry  it,  as  some  atonement  for  his 
having  for  a  moment  so  far  forgotten  his  duty, 
as  rather  to  rejoice  than  sympathize  in  Brown’s 
misfortunes.  He  never  thought  of  this  fault 
without  sorrow,  and  often  thanked  his  master  for 
the  wholesome  lesson  he  then  gave  him,  and  he 
was  the  better  for  it  all  his  life. 

Mrs.  Stock  often  carried  poor  Brown  a  dish 
of  tea  or  a  basin  of  good  broth  herself.  He  was 
quite  a  cripple,  and  never  able  to  walk  out  as 
long  as  he  lived.  Mr.  Stock,  Will  Simpson  and 
Tommy  Williams  laid  their  heads  together,  and 
contrived  a  sort  of  barrow  on  which  he  was  often 
carried  to  church  by  some  of  his  poor  neigh¬ 
bours,  of  which  Tommy  was  always  one ;  and 
he  requited  their  kindness,  by  reading  a  good 
book  to  them  whenever  they  would  call  in  ;  and 
he  spent  his  time  in  teaching  their  children  to 
sing  psalms  or  say  the  catechism. 

It  was  no  small  joy  to  him  thus  to  be  enabled 
to  go  to  church.  Whenever  he  was  carried  by 
the  Grayhound,  he  was  much  moved,  and  used 
to  put  up  a  prayer  full  of  repentance  for  the 
past,  and  praise  for  the  present. 


PART  V. 

A  dialogue  between  James  Stock  and  Will  Simp¬ 
son,  the  shoemakers,  as  they  sat  at  work,  on 
the  duty  of  carrying  religion  into  our  common 
business. 

James  Stock,  and  his  journeyman  Will  Simp¬ 
son,  as  I  informed  my  readers  in  the  second  part, 
had  resolved  to  work  together  one  hour  every 
evening,  in  order  to  pay  for  Tommy  Williams’s 
schooling.  This  circumstance  brought  them  to 
be  a  good  deal  together  when  the  rest  of  the  men 
were  gone  home.  Now  it  happened  that  Mr. 
Stock  had  a  pleasant  way  of  endeavouring  to 
turn  all  common  events  to  some  use ;  and  he 
thought  it  right  on  the  present  occasion  to  make 
the  only  return  in  his  power  to  Will  Simpson 
for  his  great  kindness.  For,  said  he,  if  Will 
gives  up  so  much  of  his  time  to  help  to  provide 
for  this  poor  boy,  it  is  the  least  I  can  do  to  try 
to  turn  part  of  that  time  to  the  purpose  of  pro¬ 
moting  Will’s  spiritual  good.  Now  as  the  bent 
of  Stock’s  own  mind  was  religious,  it  was  easy 
to  him  to  lead  their  talk  to  something  profitable. 
He  always  took  especial  care,  however,  that  the 
subject  should  be  introduced  properly,  cheer¬ 
fully,  and  without  constraint.  As  he  well  knew 
that  great  good  may  be  sometimes  done  by  a 
prudent  attention  in  seizing  proper  opportunities, 
so  he  knew  that  the  cause  of  piety  had  been 
sometimes  hurt  by  forcing  serious  subjects 
where  there  was  clearly  no  disposition  to  re¬ 
ceive  them.  I  say  he  had  found  out  that  two 
things  were  necessary  to  the  promoting  of  re¬ 
ligion  among  his  friends;  a  warm  zeal  to  bo 
always  on  the  watch  for  occasions,  and  a  cool 
judgment  to  distinguish  which  was  the  right 
time  and  place  to  make  use  of  them.  To  know 
how  to  do  good  is  a  great  matter,  but  to  know 
when  to  do  it  is  no  small  one. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


219 


Simpson  was  an  honest  good-natured  young 
man ;  he  was  now  become  sober,  and  rather  re¬ 
ligiously  disposed.  But  he  was  ignorant,  he  did 
not  know  much  of  the  grounds  of  religion,  or  of 
the  corruption  of  his  own  nature.  He  was  re¬ 
gular  at  church,  but  was  first  drawn  thither 
rather  by  his  skill  in  psalm-singing  than  by  any 
great  devotion.  He  had  left  off  going  to  the 
Grayhound,  and  often  read  the  Bible,  or  some 
other  good  book  on  the  Sunday  evening.  This 
he  thought  was  quite  enough ;  he  thought  the 
Bible  was  the  prettiest  history  book  in  the  world, 
and  that  religion  was  a  very  good  thing  for  Sun¬ 
days.  But  he  did  not  much  understand  what 
business  people  had  with  it  on  working  days. 
He  had  left  off  drinking  because  it  had  brought 
Williams  to  the  grave,  and  his  wife  to  dirt  and 
rags  ;  but  not  because  he  himself  had  seen  the 
evil  of  sin.  He  now  considered  swearing  and 
Sabbath-breaking  as  scandalous  and  indecent, 
but  he  had  not  found  out  that  both  were  to  be 
left  off  because  they  are  highly  offensive  to  God, 
and  grieve  his  Holy  Spirit.  As  Simpson  was 
Jess  self-conceited  than  most  ignorant  people  are, 
Stock  had  always  a  good  hope  that  when  he 
should  come  to  be  better  acquainted  with  the 
word  of  God,  and  with  the  evil  of  his  own  heart, 
he  would  become  one  day  a  good  Christian.  The 
great  hindrance  to  this  was,  that  he  fancied  him¬ 
self  so  already. 

One  evening  Simpson  had  been  calling  to 
Stock’s  mind  how  disorderly  the  house  and  shop, 
where  they  were  now  sitting  quietly  at  W'ork, 
had  formerly  been  and  he  went  on  thus : 

Will.  How  comfortably  we  live  now,  master, 
to  what  we  used  to  do  in  Williams’s  time  !  I 
used  then  never  to  be  happy  but  when  we  were 
keeping  it  up  all  night,  but  now  I  am  as  merry 
as  the  day  is  long.  I  find  I  am  twice  as  happy 
since  I  am  grown  good  and  sober. 

Stock.  I  am  glad  you  are  happy.  Will,  and  I 
rejoice  that  you  are  sober ;  but  I  would  not  have 
you  take  too  much  pride  in  your  own  goodness, 
for  fear  it  should  become  a  sin,  almost  as  great 
as  some  of  those  you  have  left  off.  Besides,  I 
would  not  have  you  make  quite  so  sure  that  you 
are  good. 

Will.  Not  good,  master  !  why  don’t  you  find 
me  regular  and  orderly  at  work  ? 

Stock.  Very  much  so ;  and  accordingly  I  have 
a  great  respect  for  you. 

Will.  I  pay  every  one  his  own,  seldom  miss 
church,  have  not  been  drunk  since  Williams 
died,  have  handsome  clothes  for  Sundays,  and 
save  a  trifle  every  week. 

Stock.  Very  true,  and  very  laudable  it  is  ;  and 
to  all  this  you  may  add  that  you  very  generously 
work  an  hour,  for  poor  Tommy’s  education, 
-every  evening  without  fee  or  reward. 

Will.  Well,  master,  what  can  a  man  do  more  ? 
If  all  this  is  not  being  good,  I  don’t  know  what  is. 

Slock.  All  these  things  are  very  right  as  far 
as  they  go,  and  you  could  not  well  be  a  Christian 
without  doing  them.  But  I  shall  make  you 
stare,  perhaps,  when  I  tell  you,  you  may  do  all 
these  things,  and  many  more,  and  yet  be  no 
Christian. 

Will.  No  Christian  !  surely,  master,  I  do  hope 
that  after  all  I  have  done,  you  will  not  be  so  un¬ 
kind  as  to  say  I  am  no  Christian. 


Stock.  God  forbid  that  I  should  say  so.  Will. 
I  hope  better  things  of  you.  But  come  now, 
what  do  you  think  it  is  to  be  a  Christian  ? 

Will.  What !  whj^  to  be  christened  when  one 
is  a  child  ;  to  learn  the  catechism  when  one  can 
read ;  to  be  confirmed  when  one  is  a  youth ;  and 
to  go  to  church  v/hen  one  is  a  man. 

Stock.  These  are  all  very  proper  things,  and 
quite  necessary.  They  make  part  of  a  Christi¬ 
an’s  life.  But  for  all  that,  a  man  may  be  exact 
in  them  all,  and  yet  not  be  a  Christian. 

Will.  Not  be  a  Christian  !  ha  !  ha  !  ha  I  you 
are  very  comical,  master. 

Stock.  No,  indeed,  I  am  very  serious.  Will. 
At  this  rate  it  would  be  a  very  easy  thing  to  be 
a  Christian,  and  every  man  who  went  through 
certain  forms  would  be  a  good  man  ;  and  one 
man  who  observed  those  forms  would  be  as  good 
as  another.  Whereas,  if  we  come  to  examine 
ourselves  by  the  word  of  God,  I  am  afraid  there 
are  but  few  comparatively  whom  our  Saviour 
would  allow  to  be  real  Christians.  What  is  your 
notion  of  a  Christian’s  practice  ? 

Will.  Why,  he  must  not  rob,  nor  murder,  nor 
get  drunk.  He  must  avoid  scandalous  things, 
and  do  as  other  decent  orderly  people  do. 

Stock.  It  is  easy  enough  to  be  what  the  world 
calls  a  Christian,  but  not  to  be  what  the  Bible 
calls  so. 

Will.  Why,  master,  we  working  men  are  not 
expected  to  be  saints,  and  martyrs,  and  apostles, 
and  ministers. 

Stock,  We  are  not.  And  yet.  Will,  there  are 
not  two  sorts  of  Christianity  ;  we  are  called  to 
practise  the  same  religion  which  they  practised, 
and  something  of  the  same  spirit  is  expected  in 
us  which  we  reverence  in  them.  It  was  not 
saints  and  martyrs  only  to  whom  our  Saviour 
said  that  they  must  crucify  the  world  with  its 
affections  and  lusts.  We  are  called  to  he  holy 
in  our  measure  and  degree,  as  he  who  hath  call¬ 
ed  us  is  holy.  It  was  not  only  saints  and  mar¬ 
tyrs  who  were  told  that  they  must  be  like  minded 
with  Christ.  That  they  must  do  all  to  the  glory 
of  God.  That  they  must  renounce  the  spirit  of 
the  world,  and  deny  themselves.  It  was  not  to 
apostles  only  that  Christ  said.  They  must  have 
their  conversation  in  heaven.  It  was  not  to  a 
few  holy  men,  set  apart  for  the  altar,  that  he 
said.  They  must  set  their  affections  on  things 
above.  That  they  must  not  be  conformed  to  the 
world.  No,  it  was  to  fishermen,  to  publicans,  to 
farmers,  to  day-labourers,  to  poor  tradesmen, 
that  he  spoke  when  he  told  them,  they  must  love 
not  the  world,  nor  the  thingsvf  the  world. —  That 
they  must  renounce  the  hidden  things  of  disho¬ 
nesty,  grow  in  grace,  lay  up  for  themselves  trea¬ 
sures  in  Heaven. 

Will.  All  this  might  be  very  proper  for  them 
to  be  taught,  because  they  had  not  been  bred  up 
Christians,  but  Heathens  or  Jews  :  and  Christy 
wanted  to  make  them  his  followers,  that  is, 
Christians.  But  thank  God  we  do  not  want  to 
bo  taught  all  this,  for  we  are  Christians,  born  in 
a  Christian  country,  of  Christian  parents. 

Stock.  I  suppose  then  you  fancy  that  Christi¬ 
anity  comes  to  people  in  a  Christian  country  b}’’ 
nature  ? 

Will.  I  think  it  comes  by  a  good  education 
or  a  good  example.  When  a  fellow  who  has 


220 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


got  any  sense,  sees  a  man  cut  off  in  his  prime 
by  drinking,  like  Williams,  I  think  he  will  begin 
to  leave  it  off.  When  he  sees  another  man  re¬ 
spected,  like  you,  master,  for  honesty  and  so¬ 
briety,  and  going  to  church,  why  he  will  grow 
honest,  and  sober,  and  go  to  church  :  that  is,  he 
will  see  it  his  advantage  to  be  a  Christian. 

Stock.  Will,  what  you  say  is  the  truth,  but 
’tis  not  the  whole  truth.  You  are  right  as  far 
as  you  go,  but  you  do  not  go  far  enough.  The 
worldly  advantages  of  piety,  are,  as  you  suppose, 
in  general  great.  Credit,  prosperity,  and  health, 
almost  naturally  attend  on  a  religious  life,  both 
because  a  religious  life  supposes  a  sober  and  in¬ 
dustrious  life,  and  because  a  man  who  lives  in 
a  course  of  duty  puts  himself  in  the  way  of 
God’s  blessing.  But  a  true  Christian  has  a 
still  higher  aim  in  view,  and  will  follow  religion 
even  under  circumstances,  when  it  may  hurt 
his  credit  and  ruin  his  prosperity,  if  it  should 
ever  happen  to  be  the  will  of  God  that  he  should 
be  brought  into  such  a  trying  state. 

Will.  Well,  master,  to  speak  the  truth,  if  I 
go  to  church  on  Sundays,  and  follow  my  work 
in  the  week,  I  must  say  I  think  that  is  being 
good. 

Stock.  I  agree  with  you,  that  he  who  does 
both,  gives  the  best  outward  signs  that  he  is 
good,  as  you  call  it.  But  our  going  to  church, 
and  even  reading  the  Bible,  are  no  proofs  that 
we  are  as  good  as  we  need  be,  but  rather  that 
we  do  both  these  in  order  to  make  us  better  than 
we  are.  We  do  both  on  Sundays,  as  means,  by 
God’s  blessing,  to  make  us  better  all  the  week. 
We  are  to  bring  the  fruits  of  that  chapter  or  of 
that  sermon  into  our  daily  life,  and  try  to  get 
our  inmost  heart  and  secret  thoughts,  as  well 
as  our  daily  conduct,  amended  by  them. 

Will.  Why  sure,  master,  you  won’t  be  so  un¬ 
reasonable  as  to  want  a  body  to  be  religious  al¬ 
ways  ?  I  can’t  do  that  neither.  I’m  not  such  a 
hypocrite  as  to  pretend  to  it. 

Stock.  Y es,  you  can  be  so  in  every  action  of 
your  life. 

Will.  What,  master,  always  to  be  thinking 
about  religion  ? 

Stock.  No,  far  from  it.  Will ;  much  less  to  be 
always  talking  about  it.  But  you  must  be  al¬ 
ways  under  its  power  and  spirit. 

Will.  But  surely  ’tis  pretty  well  if  I  do  this 
when  I  go  to  church  ;  or  while  I  am  saying  my 
prayers.  Even  you,  master,  as  strict  as  you  are, 
would  not  have  me  always  on  my  knees,  nor 
always  at  church,  I  suppose :  for  then  how 
would  your  work  be  carried  on,  and  how  would 
our  town  be  supplied  with  shoes  ? 

Stock.  Very  true.  Will.  ’Twould  be  no  proof 
of  our  religion  to  let  our  customers  go  barefoot ; 
but  ’twould  be  a  proof  of  our  laziness,  and 
we  should  starve,  as  we  ought  to  do.  The 
business  of  the  world  must  not  only  be  carried 
on,  but  carried  on  with  spirit  and  activity. 
We  have  the  same  authority  for  not  being 
slothful  in  Imsiness,  as  we  have  for  being 
fervent  in  spirit.  Religion  has  put  godliness 
and  laziness,  as  wide  asunder  as  any  two  things 
in  the  world ;  and  what  God  has  separated  let 
no  man  pretend  to  join.  Indeed,  the  spirit  of 
religion  can  have  no  fellowship  with  sloth,  in¬ 
dolence,  and  self-indulgence.  But  still,  a  Chris¬ 


tian  does  not  carry  on  his  common  trade  quite 
like  another  man  neither  ;  for  something  of  the 
spirit  which  he  labours  to  attain  at  church,  he 
carries  with  him  into  his  worldly  concerns. 
While  there  are  some  who  set  up  for  Sunday 
Christians,  who  have  no  notion  that  they  are 
bound  to  be  week-day  Christians  too. 

Will.  Why,  master,  I  do  think,  if  God  Al¬ 
mighty  is  contented  with  one  day  in  seven,  he 
won’t  thank  you  for  throwing  him  the  other  six 
into  the  bargain.  I  thought  he  gave  us  them 
for  our  own  use  ;  and  I  am  sure  nobody  works 
harder  all  the  week  than  you  do. 

Stock.  God,  it  is  true,  sets  apart  one  day  in 
seven  for  actual  rest  from  labour,  and  for  more 
immediate  devotion  to  his  service. — But  show 
me  that  text  wherein  he  says,  thou  shalt  love 
the  Lord  thy  God  on  Sundays — Thou  shalt 
keep  my  commandments  on  the  Sabbath  day — 
To  be  carnally  minded  on  Sundays,  is  death — 
Cease  to  do  evil,  and  learn  to  do  well  one  day  in 
seven — Grow  in  grace  on  the  Lord’s  day — Is 
there  any  such  text  ? 

Will.  No,  to  be  sure  there  is  not ;  for  that 
would  be  encouraging  sin  on  all  the  other  days. 

Stock.  Yes,  just  as  you  do  when  you  make 
religion  a  thing  for  the  church,  and  not  for  the 
world.  There  is  no  one  lawful  calling,  in  pur¬ 
suing  which  we  may  not  serve  God  acceptably. 
You  and  I  may  serve  him  while  we  are  stitch¬ 
ing  this  pair  of  boots.  Farmer  Furrow,  while 
he  is  ploughing  yonder  field.  Betsy  West,  over 
the  way,  whilst  she  is  nursing  her  sick  mother. 
Neighbour  Incle,  in  measuring  out  his  tapes 
and  ribands.  I  say,  all  these  may  serve  God 
just  as  acceptably  in  those  employments  as  at 
church,  I  had  almost  said  more  so. 

Will.  Ay,  indeed  ;  how  can  that  be  ? — Now 
you’re  too  much  on  t’other  side. 

Stock.  Because  a  man’s  trials  in  trade  being 
often  greater,  they  give  him  fresh  means  of 
glorifying  God,  and  proving  the  sincerity  of  re¬ 
ligion.  A  man  who  mixes  in  business,  is  na¬ 
turally  brought  into  continual  temptations  and 
difficulties.  These  will  lead  him,  if  he  be  a  good 
man,  to  look  more  to  God,  than  he  perhaps 
would  otherwise  do. — He  sees  temptations  on 
the  right  hand  and  on  the  left;  he  knows  that 
there  are  snares  all  around  him  ;  this  makes 
him  watchful :  he  feels  that  the  enemy  within  is 
too  ready  to  betray  him  ;  this  makes  him  humble 
himself;  while  a  sense  of  his  own  difficulties 
makes  him  tender  to  the  failings  of  others. 

Will.  Then  you  would  make  one  believe, 
after  all,  that  trade  and  business  must  be  sinful 
in  itself,  since  it  brings  a  man  into  all  these 
snares  and  scrapes. 

Stock.  No,  no.  Will ;  trade  and  business  don’t 
create  evil  passions — they  were  in  the  heart  be  • 
fore — only  now  and  then  they  seem  to  lie  snug 
a  little — our  concerns  with  the  world  bring  them 
out  into  action  a  little  more,  and  thus  show  both 
others  and  ourselves  what  we  really  are.  But 
then,  as  the  world  offers  more  trials  on  the  one 
hand,  so  on  the  other  it  holds  out  more  duties 
If  we  are  called  to  battle  oftener,  we  have  more 
opportunities  of  victory.  Every  temptation  re¬ 
sisted,  is  an  enemy  subdued  ;  and  he  that  ruleth 
his  own  spirit,  is  better  than  he  that  taketh  a  city 

Will.  I  don’t  quite  understand  vou,  master 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


221 


Stock.  I  will  try  to  explain  myself. — There 
is  no  passion  more  called  out  by  the  transac¬ 
tions  of  trade  than  covetousness. — Now,  ’tis  im¬ 
possible  to  withstand  such  a  master  sin  as  that, 
without  carrying  a  good  deal  of  the  spirit  of  re¬ 
ligion  into  one’s  trade. 

Will.  Well,  I  own  I  don’t  yet  see  how  I  am 
to  be  religious  when  I’m  bard  at  w'ork,  or  busy 
settling  an  account.  I  can’t  do  two  things  at 
once ;  ’tis  as  if  I  were  to  pretend  to  make  a 
shoe  and  cut  out  a  boot  at  the  same  moment. 

Slock.  I  tell  you  both  must  subsist  together. 
Nay,  the  one  must  be  the  motive  to  the  other. 
Ood  commands  us  to  be  industrious,  and  if  we 
love  him,  the  desire  of  pleasing  him  should  be 
the  main  spring  of  our  industry. 

Will.  I  don’t  see  how  I  can  always  be  think¬ 
ing  about  pleasing  God. 

Stock.  Suppose,  now,  a  man  had  a  wife  and 
children  whom  he  loved,  and  wished  to  serve; 
would  he  not  be  often  thinking  about  them 
while  he  was  at  work  ?  and  though  he  would 
not  be  always  thinking  nor  always  talking  about 
them,  yet  would  not  the  very  love  he  bore  them 
be  a  constant  spur  to  his  industry  ?  He  would 
•always  be  pursuing  the  same  course  from  the 
same  motive,  though  his  words  and  even  his 
thoughts  must  often  be  taken  up  in  the  common 
transactions  of  life. 

,  Will.  I  say  first  one,  then  the  other  ;  now  for 
labour,  now  for  religion. 

Stock.  I  will  show  that  both  must  go  together. 
I  will  suppose  you  wore  going  to  buy  so  many 
skins  of  our  currier — that  is  quite  a  worldly 
transaction — you  can’t  see  what  a  spirit  of  re¬ 
ligion  has  to  do  with  buying  a  few  calves’  skins. 
Now,  I  tell  you  it  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
it.  Covetousness,  a  desire  to  make  a  good  bar- 
:gain,  may  rise  up  in  your  heart.  Selfishness, 
a  spirit  of  monopoly,  a  wish  to  get  all,  in  order 
to  distress  others ;  these  are  evil  desires,  and 
must  be  subdued.  Some  opportunity  of  unfair 
gain  offers,  in  which  there  may  be  much  sin, 
and  yet  little  scandal.  Here  a  Christian  will 
stop  short ;  he  will  recollect.  That  he  who  maketh 
haste  to  be  rich  shall  hardly  be  innocent.  Per¬ 
haps  the  sin  may  be  on  the  side  of  your  dealer 
— he  may  want  to  overreach  you — this  is  pro¬ 
voking — you  are  tempted  to  violent  anger,  per¬ 
haps  to  swear ; — here  is  a  fresh  demand  on  you 
for  a  spirit  of  patience  and  moderation,  as  there 
was  before  for  a  spirit  of  justice  and  self-denial. 
If,  by  God’s  grace,  you  get  the  victory  over 
these  temptations,  you  are  the  better  man  for 
having  been  called  out  to  them ;  always  pro¬ 
vided,  that  the  temptations  be  not  of  your  own 
seeking.  If  you  give  wayj  and  sink  under 
these  temptations,  don’t  go  and  say  trade  and 
business  have  made  you  covetous,  passionate, 
and  profane.  No,  no  ;  depend  upon  it,  you  were 
so  before ;  you  would  have  had  all  these  evil 
seeds  lurking  in  your  heart,  if  you  had  been 
loitering  about  at  home  and  doing  nothing,  with 
the  additional  sin  of  idleness  into  the  bargain. 
When  you  are  busy,  the  devil  often  tempts  you  ; 
when  you  are  idle,  you  tempt  the  devil.  If 
business  and'the  world  call  these  evil  tempers 
into  action,  business  and  the  world  call  that  re¬ 
ligion  into  action  too  which  teaches  us  to  resist 
them.  And  in  this  vou  see  the  week-day  fruit 


of  the  Sunday’s  piety.  ’Tis  trade  and  business 
in  the  week  which  call  us  to  put  our  Sunday 
readings,  praying,  and  church-going  into  prac¬ 
tice. 

Will.  Well,  master,  you  have  a  comical  way, 
somehow,  of  corning  over  one.  I  never  should 
have  thought  there  would  have  been  any  reli¬ 
gion  wanted  in  buying  and  selling  a  few  calves’ 
skins.  But  I  begin  to  see  there  is  a  good  deal 
in  what  you  say.  And,  whenever  I  am  doing  a 
common  action,  I  will  try  to  remember  that  it 
must  be  done  after  a  godly  sort. 

Slock.  I  hear  the  clock  strike  nine — let  us 
leave  off  our  work.  I  will  only  observe  farther, 
that  one  good  end  of  our  bringing  religion  into 
our  business  is,  to  put  us  in  mind  not  to  under¬ 
take  more  business  than  we  can  carry  on  con¬ 
sistently  with  our  religion.  I  shall  never  com¬ 
mend  that  man’s  diligence,  though  it  is  often 
commended  by  the  world,  who  is  not  diligent 
about  the  salvation  of  his  soul.  We  are  as  much 
forbidden  to  be  overcharged  with  the  cares  of 
life,  as  with  its  pleasures.  I  only  wish  to  prove 
to  you,  that  a  discreet  Christian  may  be  wise 
for  both  wmrlds ;  that  he  may  employ  his  hands 
without  entangling  his  soul,  and  labour  for  the 
meat  that  perisheth,  without  neglecting  that 
which  endureth  unto  eternal  life  ;  that  he  may 
be  prudent  for  time  whilst  he  is  wise  for  eter¬ 
nity. 


PART  VI. 

Dialogue  the  second.  On  the  duty  of  carrying 
Religion  into  our  amusements. 

The  next  evening  Will  Simpson  being  got 
first  to  his  work,  Mr.  Stock  found  him  singing 
very  cheerfully  over  his  last.  His  master’s 
entrance  did  not  prevent  his  finishing  his  song, 
which  concluded  with  these  words  : 

‘  Since  life  is  no  more  than  a  passage  at  best, 

Let  us  strew  the  way  over  with  flowers.’ 

When  Will  had  concluded  his  song,  he  turned 
to  Mr.  Stock,  and  said,  ‘  I  thank  you,  master,  for 
first  putting  it  into  my  head  how  wicked  it  is  to 
sing  profane  and  indecent  songs.  I  never  sing 
any  n<jw  which  have  any  wicked  words  in  them.’ 

Stock.  I  am  gla(^  to  hear  it.  So  far  you  do 
well.  But  there  are  other  things  as  bad  as 
wicked  words,  nay  worse  perhaps,  though  they 
do  not  so  much  shock  the  ear  of  decency. 

Will.  What  is  that,  master  ?  What  can  be  so 
bad  as  wicked  words  ? 

Stock.  Wicked  thoughts.  Will.  Which  thoughts, 
when  they  are  covered  over  with  smooth  words, 
and  dressed  out  in  pleasing  rhymes,  so  as  not  to 
shock  modest  young  people  by  the  sound,  do 
more  harm  to  their  principles,  than  those  songs 
of  which  the  words  are  so  gross  and  disgusting, 
that  no  person  of  common  decency  can  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  listen  to  them. 

Will.  Well,  master,  I  am  sure  that  was  a 
very  pretty  song  I  was  singing  when  you  came 
in,  and  a  song  which  very  sciber  good  people 
sing. 

Stock.  Do  they  ?  Then  I  Will  be  bold  to  say 


222 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  sinking  such  songs  is  no  part  of  their  good¬ 
ness.  I  heard  indeed  but  two  lines  of  it,  but 
they  were  so  heathenish  that  I  desire  to  hear  no 
more. 

Will.  Now  you  are  really  too  hard.  What 
harm  could  there  be  in  it  ?  there  was  not  one 
indecent  word. 

Stock.  I  own,  indeed,  that  indecent  words  are 
particularly  offensive.  But,  as  I  said  before, 
though  immodest  expressions  offend  the  ear 
more,  they  do  not  corrupt  the  heart,  perhaps, 
much  more  than  songs  of  which  the  words  are 
decent,  and  the  principle  vicious.  In  the  latter 
case,  because  there  is  nothing  that  shocks  his 
ear,  a  man  listens  till  the  sentiment  has  so  cor¬ 
rupted  his  heart,  that  his  ears  grow  hardened 
too,  and  by  long  custom  he  loses  all  sense  of  the 
danger  of  profane  diversions  ;  and  1  must  say  I 
have  often  heard  young  women  of  character 
sing  songs  in  company,  which  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  read  by  myself.  But  come,  as  we 
work,  let  us  talk  over  this  business  a  little  ;  and 
first  let  us  stick  to  this  sober  song  of  yours,  that 
■you  boast  so  much  about.  (repeats.) 

‘  Since  life  is  no  more  than  a  passage  at  best, 

Let  us  strew  the  way  over  with  flow'ers. 

Now  what  do  you  learn  by  this  ? 

Will.  Why,  master,  I  don’t  pretend  to  learn 
much  by  it.  But  ’tis  a  pretty  tune  and  pretty 
"words. 

Stock.  But  what  do  these  pretty  words  mean  ? 

Will.  That  we  must  make  ourselves  merry 
because  life  is  short. 

Stock.  Will !  Of  what  religion  are  you  ? 

W~ill.  You  are  always  asking  one  such  odd 
questions,  master  ;  why  a  Christian  to  be  sure. 

Stock.  If  I  often  ask  you,  or  others  this  ques¬ 
tion,  it  is  only  because  I  like  to  know  what 
grounds  I  am  to  go  upon  when  I  am  talking 
with  you  or  them.  I  conceive  that  there  are  in 
this  country  two  sorts  of  people,  Christians  and 
no  Christians.  Now,  if  people  profess  to  be  of 
this  first  description,  I  expect  one  kind  of  no¬ 
tions,  opinions,  and  behaviour  from  them ;  if 
they  say  they  are  of  the  latter,  then  I  look  for 
another  set  of  notions  and  actions  from  them. 
I  compel  no  man  to  think  with  me.  I  take 
every  man  at  his  word.  I  only  expect  him  to 
think  and  believe  according  to  the  character  he 
takes  upon  himself,  and  to  act  on  the  principles 
ofthat  character  which  he  professes  to  maintain. 

Will.  That’s  fair  enough  ;  I  can’t  say  but  it 
is,  to  take  a  man  at  his  own  word,  and  on  his 
own  grounds. 

Stock.  Well  then.  Of  whom  does  the  Scrip¬ 
ture  speak  when  it  says,  Let  us  eat  and  drink 
for  to-JHorrow  we  die  1 

Will.  Why  of  heathens  to  be  sure,  not  of 
Chri-tians. 

Stock.  And  of  wliom  when  it  says,  Let  us 
crown  ourselves  with  rosebuds  before  they  are 
withered  1 

Will.  O  that  is  Solomon’s  worldly  fool. 

Stock.  You  disapprove  of  both  then. 

Will.  To  be  sure  I  do.  I  should  not  be  a 
Christian  if  I  did  not. 

Stock.  -A.nd  yet,  thougli  a  Christian,  you  are 
admiring  the  very  same  thought  in  the  song  you 
were  singing.  How  do  you  reconcile  this  ? 


Will.  O  there  is  no  comparison  between  them. 
These  several  texts  are  designed  to  describe 
loose  wicked  heathens.  Now  I  learn  texts  as 
part  of  my  religion.  But  religion  you  know  has 
nothing  to  do  with  a  song.  I  sing  a  song  for 
my  pleasure. 

Stock.  In  our  last  night’s  talk.  Will,  I  endea¬ 
voured  to  prove  to  you  that  religion  was  to  be 
brought  into  our  business.  I  wish  now  to  let 
you  see  that  it  is  to  be  brought  into  our  pleasure 
also.  And  that  he  who  is  really  a  Christian, 
must  be  a  Christian  in  his  very  diversions. 

Will.  Now  you  are  too  strict  again,  master, 
as  you  last  night  declared,  that  in  our  business 
you  would  not  have  us  always  praying,  so  I 
hope  that  in  our  pleasure  you  would  not  have 
us  always  psalm-singing.  I  hope  you  would 
not  have  ail  one’s  singing  to  be  about  good 
things. 

Stock.  Not  so.  Will ;  but  I  would  not  have  any 
part  either  of  our  business  or  our  pleasure  to  be 
about  evil  things.  It  is  one  thing  to  be  singing 
about  religion,  it  is  another  thing  to  be  singing 
against  it.  Saint  Peter,  I  fancy,  would  not  much 
have  approved  your  favourite  song.  He,  at  least 
seemed  to  have  another  view  of  the  matter,  when 
he  said,  The  end,  of  all  things  is  at  hand.  Now 
this  text  teaches  much  the  same  awful  truth 
with  the  first  line  of  your  song.  But  let  us  see 
to  what  different  purposes  the  apostle  and  the 
poet  turn  the  very  same  thought.  Your  song 
says,  because  life  is  so  short,  let  us  make  it 
merry.  Let  us  divert  ourselves  so  much  on  the 
road,  that  we  may  forget  the  end.  Now  what 
says  the  apostle.  Because  the  end  of  all  things  is 
at  hand,  be  ye  therefore  sober  and  watch  unto 
prayer. 

Will.  Why  master,  I  like  to  be  sober  too,  and 
have  left  off  drinking.  But  still  I  never  thought 
that  we  were  obliged  to  carry  texts  out  of  the 
Bible  to  try  tbe  soundness  of  a  song  ;  and  to 
enable  us  t#  judge  if  we  might  be  both  merty 
and  wise  in  singing  it. 

Stock.  Providence  has  not  so  stinted  our  en¬ 
joyments,  Will,  but  he  has  left  us  many  subjects 
of  harmless  merriment:  but,  for  my  own  part, 
I  am  never  certain  that  any  one  is  quite  harm¬ 
less  till  I  have  tried  it  by  this  rule  that  you 
seem  to  think  so  strict.  There  is  another  fa¬ 
vourite  catch  which  I  heard  you  and  some  of 
the  workmen  humming  yesterday. 

Will.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  there  is  not  a 
word  of  harm  in  that  ;  pray  listen  now.  (sings.) 

‘  Wliicli  is  the  best  day  to  drink— Sunday,  Monday, 

Tuesday,  Wednesday,  Thursday,  Friday,  Saturday?’ 

Stock.  Now,  Will,  do  you  really  find  your 
unwillingness  to  drink  is  so  great  that  you 
stand  in  need  of  all  these  incentives  to  provoke 
you  to  it  ?  Do  you  not  find  temptation  strong 
enough  without  exciting  your  inclinations,  and 
whetting  your  appetites  in  this  manner  ?  Can 
any  thing  be  more  unchristian  than  to  persuade 
youth  by  pleasant  words,  set  to  the  most  allur¬ 
ing  music,  that  the  pleasures  of  drinking  are  so 
great,  that  every  day  in  the  week,  naming  them 
all  successively,  by  way  of  fixing  and  enlarging 
the  idea,  is  equally  fit,  equally  proper,  and 
equally  delightful,  for  what  ? — for  the  low  and 
sensual  purpose  of  getting  drunk.  Tell  me, 
Will,  are  you  so  very  averse  to  pleasure  ?  Are 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


223 


you  naturally  so  cold  and  dead  to  all  passion 
and  temptation,  that  you  really  find  it  necesaary 
to  infiame  your  imagination,  and  disorder  your 
senses,  in  order  to  excite  a  quicker  relish  for 
the  pleasures  of  sin  ?  ' 

Will.  All  this  is  true  enough,  indeed ;  but  I 
never  saw  it  in  this  light  before. 

Stock.  As  1  passed  by  the  Grayhound  last 
night,  in  my  way  to  tny  evening’s  walk  in  the 
fields,  I  caught  this  one  verse  of  a  song  which 
the  club  were  singing  : 

•  Bring  the  flask,  the  music  bring, 

Joy  shall  quickly  find  us  ; 

Drink  and  dance,  and  laugh  and  sing, 

And  cast  dull  care  behind  us.’ 

When  I  got  into  the  fields,  I  could  not  forbear 
comparing  this  song  with  the  second  lesson  last 
Sunday  evening  at  church ;  these  were  the 
words  :  Take  heed  lest  at  amj  time  your  heart 
he  overcharged  with  drunkenness,  and  so  that 
day  come  upon  you  unawares,  for  as  a  snare 
shall  it  come  upon  all  thern  that  are  on  the  face 
of  the  earth. 

Will.  Why,  to  be  sure,  if  the  second  lesson 
was  right,  the  song  must  be  wrong. 

Stock.  I  ran  over  in  my  mind  also  a  compari¬ 
son  between  such  songs  as  that  which  begins 
with 

‘  Drink  and  drive  care  away.’ 

with  those  injunctions  of  holy  writ.  Watch  and 
fray  therefore,  that  you  enter  not  into  temptation  ; 
a»d  again.  Watch  and  pray  that  you  may  escape 
all  these  things.  I  say  I  compared  this  with  the 
song  I  allude  to,  . 

Drink  and  drive  care  away. 

Drink  and  be  merry  ; 

You  ’ll  ne’er  go  the  faster 
To  the  Stygian  ferry.’ 

I  compared  this  with  that  awful  admonition 
of  Scripture  how  to  pass  the  time.  Not  in  riot¬ 
ing  and  drunkenness,  not  in  chambering  and 
wantonness,  but  put  ye  on  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ, 
and  make  not  provision  for  the  flesh  to  fulfil  the 
lusts  thereof. 

Will.  I  am  afraid  then,  master,  you  would 
not  much  approve  of  what  I  used  to  think  a  very 
pretty  song,  which  begins  with, 

‘  A  plague  on  those  musty  old  lubbers, 

Who  teach  us  to  fast  and  to  think.’ 

Stock.  Will,  what  would  you  think  of  any  one 
who  should  sit  down  and  write  a  book  or  a  song 
to  abuse  the  clergy  ? 

Will.  Why  I  should  think  he-  was  a  very 
wicked  fellow,  and  I  hope  no  one  would  look 
into  such  a  book,  or  sing  such  a  song. 

Stock.  And  yet  it  must  certainly  bo  the  cler¬ 
gy,  who  are  scoffed  at  in  that  verse,  it  being 
their  professed  business  to  teach  us  to  think  and 
be  serious. 


Will.  Ay,  master,  and  now  you  have  opened 
my  eyes,  I  think  I  can  make  some  of  those 
comparisons  myself  between  the  spirit  of  the  Bi- 
ble,  and  the  spirit  of  these  songs. 

‘  Bring  the  flask,  the  goblet  bring,’ 

won’t  stand  very  well  in  company  with  the 
threat  of  the  prophet :  Wo  unto  them  that  rise 
up  early,  that  they  may  mingle  strong  drink. 

Stock.  Ay,  Will ;  and  these  thoughtless  peo¬ 
ple  who  live  up  to  their  singing,  seem  to  be  the 
very  people  described  in  another  place  as  glory¬ 
ing  in  their  intemperance,  and  acting  what  their 
songs  describe  : — They  look  at  the  wine,  and  say 
it  is  red,  it  moveth  itself  aright  in  the  cup. 

Will.  I  do  hope  I  shall  for  the  future  not  only 
become  more  careful  what  songs  I  sing  myself, 
but  also  not  to  keep  company  with  those  who 
sing  nothing  else  but  what  in  my  sober  judg¬ 
ment,  I  now  see  to  be  wrong. 

Stock,  As  we  shall  have  no  body  in  the  world 
to  come,  it  is  a  pity  not  only  to  make  our  plea¬ 
sures  here  consist  entirely  in  the  delights  of 
animal  life,  but  to  make  our  very  songs  consist 
in  extolling  and  exalting  those  delights  which 
are  unworthy  of  the  man  as  well  as  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian.  If,  through  temptation  or  weakness,  we 
fall  into  errors,  let  us  not  establish  and  confirm 
them  by  picking  up  all  the  songs  and  scraps  of 
verses  which  excuse,  justify,  and  commend  sin. 
That  time  is  short,  is  a  reason  given  by  these 
song  mongers  why  we  should  give  into  greater 
indulgences.  That  time  is  short,  is  a  reason 
given  by  the  apostle  why  we  should  enjoy  our 
dearest  comforts  as  if  we  enjoyed  them  not. 

Now,  Will,  I  hope  you  will  see  the  impor¬ 
tance  of  so  managing,  that  our  diversions  (for 
diversions  of  some  kind  we  all  require,)  may  be 
as  carefully  chosen  as  our  other  employments. 
For  to  make  them  such  as  effectually  drive  out 
of  our  minds  all  that  the  Bible  and  the  minister 
have  been  putting  into  them,  seems  to  me  as 
imprudent  as  it  is  unchristian.  But  this  is  not 
all.  Such  sentiments  as  these  songs  contain,  set 
off  by  the  prettiest  music,  heightened  by  liquor 
and  all  the  noise  and  spirit  of  what  is  called  jo¬ 
vial  company,  all  this,  I  say,  not  only  puts  every 
thing  that  is  right  out  of  the  mind,  but  puts 
every  thing  that  is  wrong  into  it.  Such  songs, 
therefore,  as  tend  to  promote  levity,  thought¬ 
lessness,  loose  imaginations,  false  views  of  life, 
forgetfulness  of  death,  contempt  of  whatever  is 
serious,  and  neglect  of  whatever  is  sober,  whe¬ 
ther  they  be  love  songs,  or  drinking  songs,  will 
not,  cannot  be  sung  by  any  man  or  any  woman 
who  makes  a  serious  profession  of  Christianity.* 

*  It  is  with  regret  I  have  lately  observed,  that  the  fa¬ 
shionable  author  and  singer  of  songs  more  loose,  pro¬ 
fane,  and  corrupt,  than  any  of  those  here  noticed,  not 
only  received  a  prize  as  the  reward  of  his  important  ser¬ 
vices,  but  received  also  the  public  acknowledgments  of 
an  illustrious  society  for  having  contributed  to  the  hap¬ 
piness  of  their  country 


324 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  TOM  WHITE,  THE  POST  BOY. 


IN  TWO 

PART  I. 

Tom  White  was  one  of  the  best  drivers  of  a 
post-chaise  on  the  Bath  road.  Tom  was  the  son 
of  an  honest  labourer  at  a  little  village  in  Wilt¬ 
shire  :  he  was  an  active  industrious  boy,  and  as 
soon  as  he  was  old  enough  he  left  his  father, 
who  was  burdened  with  a  numerous  family,  and 
went  to  live  with  farmer  Hodges,  a  sober  worthy 
man  in  the  same  village.  -  He  drove  the  wagon 
all  the  week ;  and  on  Sundays,  though  he  was 
now  grown  up,  the  farmer  required  him  to  attend 
the  Sunday  school,  carried  on  under  the  inspec¬ 
tion  of  Dr.  Shepherd,  the  worthy  vicar,  and  al¬ 
ways  made  him  read  his  Bible  in  the  evening 
after  he  had  served  his  cattle ;  and  would  have 
turned  him  out  of  his  service  if  he  had  ever  gone 
to  the  ale-house  for  his  own  pleasure. 

Tom  by  carrying  some  wagon  loads  of  fagots 
to  the  Bear  inn,  at  Devizes,  made  many  ac¬ 
quaintances  in  the  stable-yard.  He  soon  learnt 
to  compare  his  own  carter’s  frock,  and  shoes 
thick  set  withnails,with  the  smart  red  jacket,  and 
tight  boots  of  the  post-boys,  and  grew  ashamed 
of  his  own  homely  dress ;  he  was  resolved  to 
drive  a  chaise,  to  get  money,  and  to  see  the 
world.  Foolish  fellow  !  he  never  considered 
that,  though  it  is  true,  a  wagoner  works  hard 
all  day,  yet  he  gets  a  quiet  evening  at  home,  and 
undisturbed  rest  at  night.  However,  as  there 
must  be  chaise-boys  as  well  as  plough-boys,  there 
was  no  great  harm  in  the  change.  The  evil 
company  to  which  it  exposed  him,  was  the  chief 
mischief.  He  left  farmer  Hodges,  though  not 
without  sorrow  at  quitting  so  kind  a  master,  and 
got  himself  hired  at  the  Black  Bear. 

Notwithstanding  the  temptations  to  which  he 
was  now  exposed,  Tom’s  good  education  stood 
by  him  for  some  time.  At  first  he  was  frighten¬ 
ed  to  hear  the  oaths  and  wicked  words  which 
are  too  often  uttered  in  a  stable-yard.  However, 
though  he  thought  it  very  wrong,  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  reprove  it,  and  the  next  step  to  being 
easy  at  seeing  others  sin  is  to  sin  ourselves.  By 
degrees  he  began  to  think  it  manly,  and  a  mark 
of  spirit  in  others  to  swear ;  though  the  force  of 
good  habits  was  so  strong,  that  at  first  when  he 
ventured  to  swear  himself  it  was  with  fear,  and 
in  a  low  voice.  But  he  was  soon  laughed  out  of 
his  sheepishness,  as  they  called  it ;  and  though 
he  never  became  so  profane  and  blasphemous  as 
some  of  his  companions  (for  he  never  swore  in 
cool  blood,  or  in  mirth,  as  so  many  do)  yet  he 
would  too  often  use  a  dreadful  bad  word  when 
he  was  in  a  passion  with  his  horses.  And  here 
I  cannot  but  drop  a  hint  on  the  deep  folly  as 
well  as  wickedness,  of  being  in  a  great  rage 
with  poor  beasts,  who,  not  having  the  gift  of 
reason,  cannot  be  moved  like  human  creatures, 
with  all  the  wicked  words  that  are  said  to  them  ; 
though  these  dumb  creatures,  unhappily,  having 
the  gift  of  feeling,  suffer  as  much  as  human 
creatures  can  do,  at  the  cruel  and  unnecessary 
beatings  given  them.  Tom  had  been  bred  up 
to  think  that  drunkenness  was  a  great  sin,  for 


PANTS.  , 

he  never  saw  farmer  Hodges  drunk  in  his  life, 
and  where  a  farmer  is  sober  himself  his  men  are 
less  likely  to  drink,  or  if  they  do  the  master  can 
reprove  them  with  the  better  grace. 

Tom  was  not  naturally  fond  of  drink,  yet  for 
the  sake  of  being  thought  merry  company,  and 
a  hearty  fellow,  he  often  drank  more  than  he 
ought.  As  he  had  been  used  to  go  to  church 
twice  on  a  Sunday,  while  he  lived  with  the  farm¬ 
er  (who  seldom  used  his  horses  on  that  day,  ex¬ 
cept  to  carry  his  wife  to  church  behind  him) 
Tom  felt  a  little  uneasy  when  he  was  sent  the 
very  first  Sunday  a  long  journey  with  a  great 
family ;  for  I  cannot  conceal  the  truth,  that  too 
many  gentlefolks  will  travel,  when  there  is  no 
necessity  for  it,  on  a  Sunday,  and  when  Monday 
would  answer  the  end  just  as  well.  This  is  a 
great  grief  to  all  good  and  sober  people,  both 
rich  and  poor  ;  and  it  is  still  more  inexcusable 
in  the  great,  who  have  every  day  at  their  com¬ 
mand.  However,  he  kept  his  thoughts  to  him¬ 
self,  though  he  could  not  now  and  then  help 
thinking  how  quietly  things  were  going  on  at 
the  farmer’s,  whose  wagoner  on  a  Sunday  led 
as  easy  life  as  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman.  But 
he  soon  lost  all  thoughts  of  this  kind,  and  in 
time  did  not  know  a  Sunday  from  a  Monday. 
Tom  went  on  prosperously,  as  it  is  called,  for 
three  or  four  years,  got  plenty  of  money,  but 
saved  not  a  shilling.  As  soon  as  his  horses  were 
once  in  the  stable,  whoever  would  might  see 
them  fed  for  Tom.  He  had  other  fish  to  fry. — 
Fives,  cards,  cudgel-playing,  laying  wagers,  and 
keeping  loose  company,  each  of  which  he  at 
first  disliked,  and  each  of  which  he  soon  learned 
to  practise,  ran  away  with  all  his  money,  and 
all  his  spare  time  ;  and  though  he  was  generally 
in  the  way  as  soon  as  the  horses  were  ready 
(because  if  there  was  no  driving  there  was  no 
pay)  yet  he  did  not  care  whether  the  carriage 
was  clean  or  dirty,  if  the  horses  looked  well  or 
ill,  if  the  harness  was  whole,  or  the  horses  were 
shod.  The  certainty  that  the  gains  of  to-morrow 
would  make  up  Ibr  the  extravagance  of  to-day, 
made  him  quite  thoughtless  and  happy  ;  for  he 
was  young,  active,  and  healthy,  and  never  fore¬ 
saw  that  a  rainy  day  might  come,  when  he  would 
want  what  he  now  squandered. 

One  day  being  a  little  flustered  with  liquor  as 
he  was  driving  his  return  chaise  through  Brenk 
ford,  he  saw  just  before  him  another  empty  car 
riage,  driven  by  one  of  his  acquaintance  :  he 
whipped  up  his  horses,  resolving  to  outstrip  the 
other,  and  swearing  dreadfully  that  he  would 
be  at  the  Red  Lion  first — for  a  pint — ‘  Done,’ 
cried  the  other — a  wager.  Both  cut  and  spurred 
the  poor  beasts  with  the  usual  fury,  as  if  their 
credit  had  been  really  at  stake,  or  their  lives  had 
depended  on  this  foolish  contest.  Tom’s  chaise 
had  now  got  up  to  that  of  his  rival,  and  they 
drove  along  side  of  each  other  with  great  fury 
and  many  imprecations.  But  in  a  narrow  part 
Tom’s  chaise  being  in  the  middle,  with  his  an¬ 
tagonist  on  one  side,  and  a  cart  driving  against 
him  on  the  other,  the  horses  reared,  the  carriages 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


225 


got  entangled  ;  Tom  roared  out  a  great  oath  to 
the  other  to  stop,  which  he  either  could  not,  or 
would  not  do,  but  returned  an  horrid  impreca¬ 
tion  that  he  would  win  the  wager  if  he  was 
alive. — Tom’s  horses  took  fright,  and  he  him¬ 
self  was  thrown  to  the  ground  with  great  vio¬ 
lence. — As  soon  as  he  could  be  got  from  under 
the  wheels,  he  was  taken  up  senseless,  his  leg 
was  broken  in  two  places,  and  his  body  much 
bruised.  Some  people  whom  the  noise  had 
brought  together,  put  him  in  the  post-chaise  in 
which  the  wagoner  kindly  assisted,  but  the  other 
driver  seemed  careless  and  indifferent,  and  drove 
off,  observing  with  a  brutal  coolness,  I  am  sorry 
T  have  lost  my  pint;  I  should  have  beat  him 
hollow,  had  it  not  been  for  this  little  accident. 
Some  gentlemen  who  came  out  of  the  inn,  after 
reprimanding  this  savage,  inquired  who  he  was, 
wrote  to  inform  his  master,  and  got  him  dis¬ 
charged  :  resolving  that  neither  they  nor  any  of 
their  friends  would  ever  employ  him,  and  he 
was  long  out  of  place,  and  nobody  ever  cared  to 
be  driven  by  him. 

Tom  was  taken  to  one  of  those  excellent  hos¬ 
pitals  with  which  London  abounds.  His  agonies 
were  dreadful,  his  leg  was  set,  and  a  high  fever 
came  on.  As  soon  as  he  was  left  alone  to  reflect 
on  his  condition,  his  first  thought  was  that  he 
should  die,  and  his  horror  was  inconceivable. 
Alas  !  said  he,  what  will  become  of  my  poor 
soul  ?  I  am  cut  off  in  the  very  commission  of 
three  great  sins  : — I  was  drunk,  I  was  in  a  hor¬ 
rible  passion,  and  I  had  oaths  and  blasphemies 
in  my  mouth.  He  tried  to  pray,  but  he  could 
not ;  his  mind  was  all  distraction,  and  he  thought 
he  was  so  very  wicked  that  God  would  not  for¬ 
give  him ;  because,  says  he,  I  have  sinned 
against  light  and  knowledge  ;  I  have  had  a  sober 
education,  and  good,  examples ;  I  was  bred  in 
tlie  fear  of  God,  and  the  knowledge  of  Christ, 
and  I  deserve  nothing  but  punishment.  At 
length  he  grew  light-headed,  and  there  was  little 
hope  of  his  life.  Whenever  became  to  his  senses 
for  a  few  minutes,  he  cried  out,  O!  that  my  old 
companions  could  now  see  me,  surely  they  would 
take  warning  by  my  sad  fate,  and  repent  before 
it  is  too  late. 

By  the  blessing  of  God  on  the  skill  of  the  sur¬ 
geon,  and  the  care  of  the  nurses,  he  however, 
grew  better  in  a  few  days.  And  here  let  me 
stop  to  remark,  what  a  mercy  it  is  that  we  live 
in  a  Christian  country,  where  the  poor,  when 
sick,  or  lame,  or  wounded,  are  taken  as  much 
care  of  as  any  gentry  ;  nay,  in  some  respects 
more,  because  in  hospitals  and  infirmaries  there 
are  more  doctors  and  surgeons  to  attend,  than 
most  private  gentlefolks  can  afford  to  have  at 
their  own  houses,  whereas  there  never  was  an 
hospital  in  the  whole  heathen  world.  Blessed  be 
God  for  this,  among  the  thousand  other  excellent 
fruits  of  the  Christian  religion  !  A  religion 
wliich,  like  its  Divine  founder,  while  its  grand 
object  is  the  salvation  of  men’s  souls,  teaches  us 
also  to  relievo  their  bodily  wants.  It  directs  us 
never  to  forget  that  He  who  forgave  sins,  healed 
diseases,  and  while  ho  preached  the  Gospel,  fed 
the  multitude. 

It  was  eight  weeks  before  Tom  could  be  taken 
out  of  bod.  This  was  a  happy  affliction  ;  for  by 
tlte  grace  of  God,  this  long  sickness  and  solitude 
Vot.  I.  P 


gave  him  time  to  reflect  on  his  past  life.  He 
began  seriously  to  hate  those  darling  sins  which 
had  brought  him  to  the  brink  of  ruin.  He  could 
now  pray  heartily ;  he  confessed  and  lamented 
his  iniquities,  with  many  tears,  and  began  to 
hope  that  the  mercies  of  God,  through  the  merits 
of  a  Redeemer,  might  yet  be  extended  to  him  on 
his  sincere  repentance.  He  resolved  never  more 
to  return  to  the  same  evil  courses,  but  he  did 
not  trust  in  his  own  strength,  but  prayed  that 
God  would  give  him  grace  for  the  future,  as  well 
as  pardon  for  the  past.  He  remembered,  and 
he  was  humbled  at  the  thought,  that  he  used  to 
have  short  fits  of  repentance,  and  to  form  reso¬ 
lutions  of  amendment,  in  his  wild  and  thought¬ 
less  days  ;  and  often  when  he  had  a  bad  head-ache 
after  a  drinking  bout,  or  had  lost  his  money  at 
all-fours,  he  vowed  never  to  drink  or  play  again. 
But  as  soon  as  his  head  was  well  and  his  pockets 
recruited,  he  forgot  all  his  resolutions.  And 
how  should  it  be  otherwise  ?  for  he  trusted  in 
his  own  strength,  he  never  prayed  to  God  to 
strengthen  him,  nor  ever  avoided  the  next 
temptation.  He  thought  that  amendment  was  a 
thing  to  bo  set  about  at  any  time ;  he  did  not 
know  that  it  is  the  grace  of  God  which  hringeth 
us  to  repentance. 

The  case  was  now  different.  Tom  began  to 
find  that  his  strength  was  perfect  weakness,  and 
that  he  could  do  nothing  without  the  divine  as¬ 
sistance,  for  which  he  prayed  heartily  and  con¬ 
stantly.  He  sent  home  for  his  Bible  and  Prayer 
book,  which  ho  had  not  opened  for  two  years, 
and  which  had  been  given  him  when  he  left  the 
Sunday  school.  He  spent  the  chief  part  of  his 
time  in  reading  them,  and  derived  great  com¬ 
fort,  as  well  as  great  knowledge,  from  this  em¬ 
ployment  of  his  time.  The  study  of  the  Bible 
filled  his  heart  with  gratitude  to  God,  who  had 
not  cut  him  off  in  the  midst  of  his  sins  ;  but  had 
given  him  space  for  repentance  ;  and  the  agonies 
he  had  lately  suffered  with  his  broken  leg  in¬ 
creased  his  thankfulness,  that  he  had  escaped 
the  more  dreadful  pain  of  eternal  misery.  And 
here  let  me  remark  what  encouragement  this  is 
for  rich  people  to  give  away  Bibles  and  good 
books,  and  not  to  lose  all  hope,  though,  for  a  time, 
they  see  little  or  no  good  effect  from  it.  Ac¬ 
cording  to  all  appearance,  Tom’s  books  were 
never  likely  to  do  him  any  good,  and  yet  his 
generous  benefactor,  who  had  cast  his  bread 
upon  the  waters,  found  it  after  many  days  ;  for 
this  Bible,  which  had  lain  untouched  for  years, 
was  at  last  made  the  instrument  of  his  reforma¬ 
tion.  God  will  work  in  his  own  good  time,  and 
in  his  own  way,  but  our  zeal  and  our  exertions 
are  the  means  by  which  he  commonly  chooses 
to  work. 

As  soon  as  he  got  well,  and  was  discharged 
from  the  hospital,  Tom  began  to  think  he  must 
return  to  get  his  bread.  At  first  he  had  some 
scruples  about  going  back  to  his  old  employ : 
but,  says  he  sensibly  enough,  gentlefolks  must 
travel,  travellers  must  have  chaises,  and  chaises 
must  have  drivers ;  ’tis  a  very  honest  calling, 
and  I  don’t  know  that  goodness  belongs  to  one 
sort  of  business  more  than  another  ;  and  he  who 
can  be  good  in  a  state  of  great  temptation,  pro¬ 
vided  the  calling  be  lawful,  and  the  temptations 
arc  not  of  his  own  seeking,  and  he  bo  diligent 


226 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


in  prayer,  may  be  better  than  another  man  for 
aught  I  know  :  and  all  that  belongs  to  us  is,  to 
do  our  duty  in  that  state  of  life  in  which  it  shall 
please  God  to  call  us  ;  and  to  leave  events  in 
God’s  hand.  Tom  had  rubbed  up  his  catechism 
at  the  hospital,  and  ’tis  a  pity  that  people  don’t 
look  at  their  catechism  sometimes  when  they 
are  grown  up ;  for  it  is  full  as  good  for  men  and 
women  as  it  is  for  children;  nay,  better;  for 
though  the  answers  contained  in  it  are  intended 
for  children  to  repeat,  yet  the  duties  enjoined 
in  it  are  intended  for  men  and  women  to  put  in 
practice.  It  is,  if  I  may  so  speak,  the  very 
grammar  of  Christianity  and  of  our  church,  and 
they  who  understand  every  part  of  their  cate¬ 
chism  thoroughly,  will  not  be  ignorant  of  any 
thing  which  a  plain  Christian  need  know. 

Tom  now  felt  grieved  that  he  was  obliged  to 
drive  on  Sundays.  But  people  who  are  in 
earnest  and  have  their  hearts  in  a  thing,  can 
find  helps  in  all  cases.  As  soon  as  he  had  set 
down  his  company  at  their  stage,  and  had  seen 
his  horses  fed,  says  Tom,  a  man  who  takes  care 
of  his  horses,  will  generally  think  it  right  to  let 
them  rest  an  hour  or  two  at  least.  In  every 
town  it  is  a  chance  but  there  may  be  a  church 
open  during  part  of  that  time.  If  the  prayers 
should  be  over.  I’ll  try  hard  for  the  sermon; 
and  if  I  dare  not  stay  to  the  sermon  it  is  a 
chance  but  I  may  catch  the  prayers ;  it  is  worth 
trying  for,  however;  and  as  I  used  to  think  no¬ 
thing  of  making  a  push,  for  the  sake  of  getting 
an  hour  to  gamble,  I  need  not  grudge  to  take  a 
little  pains  extraordinary  to  serve  God.  By 
this  watchfulness  he  soon  got  to  know  the  hours 
of  service  at  all  the  towns  on  the  road  he  travel¬ 
led;  and  w'hile  the  horses  fed,  Tom  went  to 
church  ;  and  it  became  a  favourite  proverb  with 
him,  that  prayers  and  provender  hinder  no  man's 
journey ;  and  I  beg  leave  to  recommend  Torn’s 
maxim  to  all  travellers ;  whether  master  or 
servant,  carrier  or  coachman. 

At  first  his  companions  wanted  to  laugh  and 
make  sport  of  this — but  when  they  saw  that  no 
lad  on  the  road  was  up  so  early  or  worked  so 
hard  as  Tom ;  when  they  saw  no  chaise  so  neat, 
no  glasses  so  bright,  no  harness  so  tight,  no 
driver  so  diligent,  so  clean,  or  so  civil,  they 
found  he  was  no  subject  to  make  sport  at.  Torn 
indeed  was  very  careful  in  looking  after  the 
linch  pins  ;  in  never  giving  his  horses  too  much 
water  when  they  were  hot ;  nor  whatever  was 
his  haste,  would  he  ever  gallop  tliem  up  hill, 
strike  them  across  the  head,  or  when  tired,  cut 
and  slash  them,  or  gallop  over  the  stones,  as  soon 
as  he  got  into  town,  as  some  foolish  fellows  do. 
What  helped  to  cure  Tom  of  these  bad  practices, 
was  that  remark  he  met  with  in  the  Bible,  that 
a  good  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast.  He  was 
much  moved  one  day  on  reading  the  prophet 
Jonah,  to  observe  what  compassion  the  great 
God  of  Heaven  and  earth  had  for  poor  beasts : 
for  one  of  the  reasons  there  given  why  the  Al¬ 
mighty  was  unwilling  to  destroy  the  great  city 
of  Ninevah  was,  because  there  was  much  cattle 
in  it.  After  this,  Tom  never  could  bear  to  see 
a  wanton  stroke  inflicted.  Doth  God  care  for 
horses,  said  he,  and  shall  man  be  cruel  to  them  ? 

Tom  soon  grew  rich  for  one  in  his  station : 
for  every  gentleman  on  the  road  would  be 


driven  by  no  other  lad  if  careful  Tom  was  to  bo 
had.  Being  diligent,  he  got  a  great  deal  of 
money ;  being  frugal,  he  spent  but  little  ;  and 
having  no  vices,  he  wasted  none.  He  soon 
found  out  that  there  w’as  some  meaning  in  that 
text  which  says,  that  Godliness  hath  the  promise 
of  the  life  that  now  is,  as  well  as  that  which  is 
to  come;  for  the  same  principles  which  make  a 
man  sober  and  honest,  have  also  a  natural  ten¬ 
dency  to  make  him  healthy  and  rich  ;  while  a 
drunkard  and  a  spendthrift  can  hardly  escape 
being  sick  and  a  beggar.  Vice  is  the  parent  of 
misery  in  both  worlds. 

After  a  few  years  Tom  begged  a  holiday,  and 
made  a  visit  to  his  native  village ;  his  good 
character  had  got  thither  before  him.  He  found 
his  father  was  dead,  but  during  his  long  illness 
Tom  had  supplied  him  with  money,  and  by  al¬ 
lowing  him  a  trifle  every  week,  had  had  the 
honest  satisfaction  of  keeping  him  from  the 
parish.  Farmer  Hodges  was  still  living,  but 
being  grown  old  and  infirm,  he  was  desirous  to 
retire  from  business.  He  retained  a  great  re¬ 
gard  for  his  old  servant,  Torn  ;  and  finding  he 
was  worth  money,  and  knowing  he  knew  some¬ 
thing  of  country  business,  he  offered  to  let  him 
a  small  farm  at  an  easy  rate,  and  promised  his 
assistance  in  the  management  for  the  first  year, 
with  the  loan  of  a  small  sum  of  money,  that  he 
might  set  out  with  a  pretty  stock.  Tom  thank¬ 
ed  him  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  went  back  and 
took  a  handsome  leave  of  his  master,  who  made 
him  a  present  of  a  horse  and  cart,  in  acknow¬ 
ledgment  of  his  long  and  faithful  services  ;  for, 
says  he,  I  have  saved  many  horses  by  Tom’s 
care  and  attention,  and  I  could  well  afford  to  do 
the  same  by  every  servant  who  did  tlie  same  by 
me ;  and  should  be  a  richer  man  at  the  end  of 
every  year  by  the  same  generosity,  provided  I 
could  meet  with  just  and  faithful  servants  who 
deserve  the  same  rewards.  Tom  was  soon  set¬ 
tled  in  his  new  farm,  and  in  less  than  a  year 
had  got  every  thing  neat  and  decent  about  him. 
Farmer  Hodge’s  long  experience  and  friendly 
advice,  joined  to  his  own  industry  and  hard  la¬ 
bour,  soon  brought  the  farm  to  great  perfection. 
The  regularity,  sobriety,  peaceableness,  and 
piety  of  his  daily  life,  his  constant  attendance 
at  church  twice  every  Sunday,  and  his  decent 
and  devout  behaviour  when  there,  soon  recom¬ 
mended  him  to  the  notice  of  Dr.  Shepherd,  who 
was  still  living  a  pattern  of  zeal,  activity,  and 
benevolence  to  all  parish  priests.  The  doctor 
soon  began  to  hold  up  Tom,  or,  as  we  must  now 
more  properly  term  him,  Mr.  Thomas  White, 
to  the  imitation  of  the  whole  parish,  and  the 
frequent  and  condescending  conversation  of  this 
worthy  clergyman  contributed  no  less  than  his 
preaching  to  the  improvement  of  his  new  parish¬ 
ioner  in  piety. 

Farmer  White  soon  found  out  that  a  dairy 
could  not  well  be  carried  on  without  a  mistress, 
and  began  to  think  seriously  of  marrying  ;  ho 
prayed  to  God  to  direct  him  in  so  important  a 
business.  He  knew  that  a  tawdry,  vain,  dressy 
girl  was  not  likely  to  make  good  chee.se  and 
butter,  and  that  a  worldly  ungodly  woman  would 
make  a  sad  wife  and  mistress  of  a  family.  He 
soon  heard  of  a  young  woman  of  excellent 
character,  who  had  been  bred  up  by  the  vicar’s 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


227 


ady,  and  still  lived  in  the  family  as  upper  maid. 
She  was  prudent,  sober,  industrious  and  reli¬ 
gious.  Her  neat,  modest,  and  plain  appearance 
at  church  (for  she  was  seldom  seen  any  where 
else  out  of  her  master’s  family)  was  an  example 
to  all  persons  in  her  station,  and  never  failed  to 
re(!ommend  her  to  strangers,  even  before  they 
had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  the  goodness  of 
her  character.  It  was  her  character,  however, 
which  recommended  her  to  farmer  White.  He 
knew  that /aoo«r  is  deceitful,  and  beauty  is  vain, 
hut  a  woman  that  feareth  the  Lord,  she  shall  be 
praised : — ay,  and  not  only  praised,  but  chosen 
too,  says  farmer  White,  as  he  took  down  his  hat 
from  the  nail  on  which  it  hung,  in  order  to  go 
and  wait  on  Dr.  Shepherd,  to  break  his  mind 
and  ask  his  consent ;  for  he  thought  it  would 
be  a  very  unhandsome  return  for  all  the  favours 
he  was  receiving  from  his  minister,  to  decoy 
away  his  faithful  servant  from  her  place  witli- 
out  his  consent. 

This  worthy  gentleman,  though  sorry  to  lose 
so  valuable  a  member  of  his  little  family,  did  not 
scruple  a  moment  about  parting  with  her,  v.'hen 
he  found  it  would  be  so  greatly  to  her  advantage. 
Tom  was  agreeably  surprised  to  hear  she  had 
saved  fifty  pounds  by  her  frugality.  The  doc¬ 
tor  married  them  himself,  farmer  Hodges  being 
nresent. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  wedding  day.  Dr. 
Shepherd  condescended  to  call  on  farmer  and 
Mrs.  White,  to  give  a  few  words  of  advice  on 
the  new  duties  they  had  entered  into ;  a  com¬ 
mon  custom  with  him  on  these  occasions.  He 
often  took  an  opportunity  to  drop,  in  the  most 
kind  and  tender  way,  a  hint  upon  the  great  in¬ 
decency  of  making  marriages,  christenings,  and 
above  all,  funerals,  days  of  riot  and  excess,  as  is 
too  often  the  case  in  country  villages.  The  ex¬ 
pectation  that  the  vicar  might  possibly  drop  in, 
in  his  walks,  on  these  festivals,  often  restrained 
excessive  drinking,  and  improper  conversation, 
even  among  those  who  were  not  restrained  by 
higher  motives,  as  farmer  and  Mrs.  White  were. 

What  the  doctor  said  was  always  in  such  a 
cheerful,  good-humoured  way,  that  it  was  sure 
to  increase  the  pleasure  of  the  day,  instead  of 
damping  it.  ‘  Well,  farmer,’  said  he,  ‘  and  you, 
my  faithful  Sarah,  any  other  friend  might  re¬ 
commend  peace  and  agreement  to  you  on  your 
marriage ;  but  I,  on  the  contrary,  recommend 
cares  and  strifes.’*  The  company  stared — but 
Sarah,  who  knew  that  her  old  master  was  a 
facetious  gentleman,  and  always  had  some  mean¬ 
ing  behind,  looked  serious.  ‘  Cares  and  strife, 
sir,  said  the  farmer,  ‘  what  do  you  mean  ?’ — ‘  I 
mean,’  said  he,  ‘  for  the  first,  that  your  cares 
shall  be  who  shall  please  God  most,  and  your 
strifes,  who  shall  serve  him  best,  and  do  your 
duty  most  faithfully.  Thus,  all  your  cares  and 
strifes  being  employed  to  the  highest  purposes, 
all  petty  cares  and  worldly  strifes  shall  be  at  an 
end.’ 

‘  Always  remember,  that  you  have,  both  of 
you,  a  better  friend  than  each  other.’  The  com¬ 
pany  stared  again,  and  thought  no  woman  could 
have  so  good  a  friend  as  her  husband.  ‘  As  you 
nave  chosen  each  other  from  the  best  motives,’ 

♦  Sue  Dodd’s  Sayings 


continued  the  doctor,  ‘  you  have  every  reasonable 
ground  to  hope  for  happiness  ;  but  as  this  world 
is  a  soil  in  which  troubles  and  misfortunes  will 
spring  up  ;  troubles  from  which  you  cannot  save 
one  another  ;  misfortunes  which  no  human  pru¬ 
dence  can  avoid  :  then  remember,  ’tis  the  best 
wisdom  to  go  to  that  friend  who  is  always  near, 
always  willing,  and  always  able  to  help  you ; 
and  that  friend  is  God.’ 

‘Sir,’  said  farmer  White,  ‘I  humbly  thank 
you  for  all  your  kind  instructions,  of  which  I 
shall  now  stand  more  in  need  than  ever,  as  I 
shall  have  more  duties  to  fulfil.  I  hope  the  re¬ 
membrance  of  my  past  offences  will  keep  me 
humble,  and  the  sense  of  my  remaining  sin  will 
keep  me  watchful.  I  set  out  in  the  world,  sir, 
with  what  is  called  a  good-natural  disposition, 
but  I  soon  found  to  my  cost,  that  without  God’s 
grace  that  will  carry  a  man  but  a  little  way. 
A  good  temper  is  a  good  thing,  but  nothing  but 
the  fear  of  God  can  enable  one  to  bear  up 
against  temptation,  evil  company,  and  evil  pas¬ 
sions.  The  misfortune  of  breaking  my  leg,  as 
I  then  thought  it,  has  proved  the  greatest  bless¬ 
ing  of  my  life.  It  showed  mo  my  own  weak¬ 
ness,  the  value  of  the  Bible,  and  the  goodness 
of  God.  How  many  of  my  brother  drivers  have 
I  seen,  since  that  time,  cut  off  in  the  prime  of 
life  by  drinking,  or  sudden  accident,  while  I 
have  not  only  been  spared,  but  blessed  and 
prospered.  O  sir !‘  it  would  be  the  joy  of  my 
heart,  if  some  of  my  old  comrades,  good-na¬ 
tured,  civil  fellows  (whom  I  can’t  help  loving) 
could  see,  as  I  have  done,  the  danger  of  evil 
courses  before  it  is  too  late.  Though  they  may 
not  hearken  to  you,  sir,  or  any  other  minister 
they  may  believe  me  because  I  have  been  one 
of  them :  and  I  can  speak  from  experience,  of 
the  great  difference  there  is,  even  as  to  worldly 
comfort,  between  a  life  of  sobriety  and  a  life  of 
sin.  I  could  tell  them,  sir,  not  as  a  thing  I 
have  read  in  a  book,  but  as  a  truth  I  feel  in  ray 
own  heart,  that  to  fear  God  and  keep  his  com¬ 
mandments,  will  not  only  bring  a  man  peace  at 
last,  but  will  make  him  happy  now.  And  I  will 
venture  to  say,  sir,  that  all  the  stocks,  pillories, 
prisons,  and  gibbets  in  the  land,  though  so  very 
needful  to  keep  bad  men  in  order,  yet  will  never 
restrain  a  good  man  from  committing  evil  half 
so  much  as  that  single  text,  How  shall  I  do  this 
great  wickedness  and  sin  against  God  V  Dr. 
Shepherd  condescended  to  approve  of  what  the 
farmer  had  said,  kindly  shook  him  by  the  hand 
and  took  leave. 


PART  II. 

The  Way  to  Plenty,  or  the  second  part  oj  Tom 
White.  Written  in  1795,  the  year  of  scarcity, 

Tom  White,  as  we  have  shown  in  the  first 
part  of  this  history,  from  an  idle  post  boy  was 
become  a  respectable  farmer.  God  had  blessed 
his  industry,  and  he  had  prospered  in  the  world. 
He  was  sober  and  temperate,  and,  as  was  the 
natural  consequence,  he  was  active  and  healthy. 
He  was  industrious  and  frugal,  and  he  became 
prosperous  in  his  circumstances.  This  is  in  the 


228 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ordinary  course  of  Providence.  But  it  is  not  a 
certain  and  necessary  rule.  God  maJceth  his 
sun  to  shine  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust.  A 
man  who  uses  every  honest  means  of  thrift  and 
industry,  will,  in  most  cases,  find  success  attend 
his  labours.  But  still,  the  race  is  not  always 
to  the  swift  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong,  God  is 
sometimes  pleased,  for  wise  ends,  to  disappoint 
all  the  worldly  hopes  of  the  most  upright  man. 
His  corn  may  be  smitten  by  a  blight;  his 
barns  may  be  consumed  by  fire ;  his  cattle 
may  be  carried  off  by  distemper.  And  to  these, 
and  other  misfortunes,  the  good  man  is  as  liable 
as  the  spendthrift  or  the  knave.  Success  is  the 
common  reward  of  industry,  but  if  it  were  its 
constant  .reward,  the  industrious  would  be 
tempted  to  look  no  further  than  the  present 
state.  They  would  lose  one  strong  ground  of 
their  faith.  It  would  set  aside  the  scripture 
scheme.  This  world  would  then  be  looked  on 
as  a  state  of  reward,  instead  of  trial,  and  we 
should  forget  to  look  to  a  day  of  final  retribution. 

Farmer  White  never  took  it  into  his  head, 
that,  because  he  paid  his  debts,  worked  early 
and  late,  and  ate  the  bread  of  carefulness,  he 
was  therefore  to  come  into  no  misfortune  like 
other  folk,  but  was  to  be  free  from  the  common 
trials  and  troubles  of  life.  He  knew  that  pros¬ 
perity  was  far  from  being  a  sure  mark  of  God’s 
favour,  and  had  read  in  good  books,  and  espe¬ 
cially  in  the  Bible,  of  the  great  poverty  and  af¬ 
flictions  of  the  best  of  men.  Though  he  was  no 
great  scholar,  he  had  sense  enough  to  observe, 
that  a  time  of  public  prosperity  was  not  always 
a  time  of  public  virtue ;  and  he  thought  that 
what  was  true  of  a  whole  nation  might  be  true 
of  one  man.  So  the  more  he  prospered  the  more 
ne  prayed  that  prosperity  might  not  corrupt  his 
heart.  And  when  he  saw  lately  signs  of  public 
distress  coming  on,  he  was  not  half  so  much 
friglitened  as  some  others  were,  because  he 
thought  it  might  do  us  good  in  the  long  run; 
and  ho  was  in  hope  that  a  little  poverty  might 
bring  on  a  little  penitence.  The  great  grace  he 
laboured  after  was  that  of  a  cheerful  submission. 
He  used  to  say,  that  if  the  Lord’s  prayer  had 
onl}!  contained  those  four  little  words.  Thy  will 
be  done,  it  would  be  worth  more  than  the  biggest 
oook  m  the  world  without  them. 

Dr.  Shepherd,  the  worthy  vicar  (with  whom 
the  farmer’s  wife  had  formerly  lived  as  house¬ 
keeper)  was  very  fond  of  taking  a  walk  with 
him  about  his  grounds,  and  ho  used  to  say  that 
he  learnt  as  much  from  the  farmer  as  the  farmer 
did  from  him.  If  the  doctor  happened  to  observe, 
I  am  afraid  these  long  rains  will  spoil  this  fine 
piece  of  oats,  the  farmer  would  answer,  but  then, 
sir,  think  how  good  it  is  for  the  grass.  If  the 
doctor  feared  the  wheat  would  be  but  indifferent, 
the  farmer  was  sure  the  rye  would  turn  out  well. 
When  grass  failed,  he  did  not  doubt  but  turnips 
would  be  plenty.  Even  for  floods  and  inunda¬ 
tions  he  would  find  out  some  way  to  justify  Pro¬ 
vidence.  ’Tis  better,  said  he,  to  have  our  lands 
a  little  overflowed,  than  that  tlie  springs  should 
be  dried  up,  and  our  cattle  faint  for  lack  of  wa¬ 
ter.  When  the  drought  came,  he  thanked  God 
that  the  season  would  be  healthy  ;  and  the  high 
winds,  which  frightened  others,  ho  said,  served 
to  clear  the  air.  Whoever,  or  whatever  was 


wrong,  he  was  always  sure  that  Providence  was 
in  the  right.  And  he  used  to  say,  that  a  man 
with  ever  so  small  an  income,  if  he  had  but  fru¬ 
gality  and  temperance,  and  would  cut  off  all  vain 
desires,  and  cast  his  care  upon  God,  was  richer 
than  a  lord  who  was  tormented  by  vanity  and 
covetousness.  When  he  saw  others  in  the  wrong, 
he  did  not,  however,  abuse  them  for  it,  but  took 
care  to  avoid  the  same  fault.  He  had  sense  and 
spirit  enough  to  break  through  many  old,  but 
very  bad  customs  of  his  neighbours.  If  a  thing 
is  wrong  in  itself  (said  he  one  day  to  farmer 
Hodges)  a  whole  parish  doing  it  can’t  make  it 
right.  And  as  to  its  being  an  old  custom,  why, 
if  it  be  a  good  one,  I  like  it  the  better  for  being 
old,  because  it  has  had  the  stamp  of  ages,  and 
the  sanction  of  experience  on  its  worth.  But  if 
it  be  old  as  well  as  bad,  that  is  another  reason 
for  my  trying  to  put  an  end  to  it,  that  we  may 
not  mislead  our  children  as  our  fathers  have 
misled  us. 

The  Roof-Raising.'^ 

Some  years  after  he  was  settled,  he  built  a 
large  new  barn.  All  the  workmen  were  looking 
forward  to  the  usual  holiday  of  roof-raising.  On 
this  occasion  it  was  a  custom  to  give  a  dinner 
to  the  workmen,  with  so  much  liquor  after  it, 
that  they  got  so  drunk  that  they  not  only  lost 
the  remaining  half  day’s  work,  but  they  were 
not  always  able  to  work  the  following  day. 

Mrs.  White  provided  a  plentiful  dinner  for 
roof-raising,  and  gave  each  man  his  mug  of  beer. 
After  a  hearty  meal  they  began  to  grow  clamor¬ 
ous  for  more  drink.  The  farmer  said,  ‘  My  lads, 
I  don’t  grudge  you  a  few  gallons  of  ale  merely 
for  the  sake  of  saving  my  liquor,  though  that  is 
some  consideration,  especially  in  these  dear 
times ;  but  I  never  will,  knowingly,  help  any 
man  to  make  a  beast  of  himself.  I  am  resolved 
to  break  through  a  bad  custom.  You  are  now 
well  refreshed.  If  you  will  go  cheerfully  to 
your  work,  you  will  have  half  a  day’s  pay  to 
take  on  Saturday  night  more  than  you  would 
have  if  this  afternoon  were  wasted  in  drunken¬ 
ness.  For  this  your  families  will  be  the  better ; 
whereas,  were  I  to  give  you  more  liquor,  when 
you  have  already  had  enough,  I  should  help  to 
rob  them  of  their  bread.  But  I  wish  to  show 
you,  that  I  have  your  good  at  heart  full  as  much 
as  my  profit.  If  you  will  now  go  to  work,  I 
will  give  you  all  another  mug  at  night  when  you 
leave  off.  Thus  your  time  will  be  saved,  your 
families  helped,  and  my  ale  will  not  go  to  make 
reasonable  creatures  worse  than  brute  beasts.’ 

Here  he  stopped.  ‘  You  are  in  right  on’t, 
master,’  said  Tom  the  thatcher ;  ‘you  are  a 
hearty  man,  farmer,’  said  John  Plane,  the  car¬ 
penter  ‘Come  along,  boys,’  said  Tim  Brick 
the  mason:  so  they  all  went  merrily  to  work, 
fortified  with  a  good  dinner.  There  was  only 
one  drunken  surly  fellow  that  refused  ;  this  was 
Dick  Guzzle,  the  smith. — Dick  never  works 
above  two  or  throe  days  in  the  week,  and  spends 
the  others  at  the  Red  Lion.  He  swore,  that  if 
the  farmer  did  not  give  him  as  much  liquor  as 
he  liked  at  roof-raising,  he  would  not  strike  ano¬ 
ther  stroke,  but  would  leave  the  job  unfinished, 
and  he  might  get  hands  where  he  could.  Far 
mer  White  took  him  at  his  word,  and  paid  him 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


229 


off  directly  :  glad  enough  to  get  rid  of  such  a 
sot,  whom  he  had  only  employed  from  pity  to  a 
large  and  almost  starving  family.  When  the 
men  came  for  their  mug  in  the  evening,  the 
farmer  brought  out  the  remains  of  the  cold  gam¬ 
mon  ;  they  made  a  hearty  supper,  and  thankee 
him  for  having  broken  through  a  foolish  custom, 
which  was  afterwards  much  left  off  in  that  pa¬ 
rish,  though  Dick  would  not  come  into  it,  anc 
lost  most  of  his  work  in  consequence. 

Farmer  White’s  labourers  were  often  com¬ 
plaining,  that  things  were  so  dear  that  they 
could  not  buy  a  bit  of  meat.  He  knew  it  was 
partly  true,  but  not  entirely ;  for  it  was  before 
these  very  hard  times  that  their  complaints  be¬ 
gan.  One  morning  he  stept  out  to  see  how  an 
outhouse  which  he  was  thatching  went  on.  He 
was  surprised  to  find  the  work  at  a  stand.  He 
walked  over  to  the  thateher’s  house.  ‘  Tom,’ 
said  he,  ‘  I  desire  that  piece  of  work  may  be 
finished  directly.  If  a  shower  comes  my  grain 
will  be  spoiled.’  ‘  Indeed,  master,  I  shan’t  work 
to-day,  nor  to-morrow  neither,’  said  Tom. — 

‘  You  forget  that  ’tis  Easter  Monday,  and  to¬ 
morrow  is  Easter  Tuesday.  And  so  on  Wed¬ 
nesday  I  shall  thatch  away,  master. — But  it  is 
hard  if  a  poor  man,  who  works  all  the  seasons 
round,  may  not  enjoy  these  few  holydays,  which 
come  but  once  a  year.’ 

‘Tom,’  said  the  farmer,  ‘when  these  days 
were  first  put  into  our  prayer-book,  the  good 
men  who  ordained  them  to  be  kept,  little  thought 
that  the  time  would  come  when  holyday  should 
mean  drunken-day,  and  that  the  seasons  which 
they  meant  to  distinguish  by  superior  piety, 
should  be  converted  into  seasons  of  more  than 
ordinary  excess.  How  much  dost  tliink  now  I 
shall  pay  thee  for  this  piece  of  thatch  1  ‘  Why, 

you  know,  master,  you  have  let  it  to  me  by  the 
great.  I  think  between  this  and  to-morrow 
night,  as  the  weather  is  so  fine,  I  could  clear 
about  fbur  shillings,  after  I  have  paid  my  boy  ; 
but  thatching  does  not  come  often,  and  other 
work  is  not  so  profitable.’  ‘  Very  well,  Tom  ; 
and  how  much  now  do  you  think  you  may  spend 
in  these  two  holydays  ?’  ‘  Why,  master,  if  the 
ale  is  pleasant,  and  the  company  merry,  I  do 
not  expect  to  get  off  for  less  than  three  shillings.’ 

‘  Tom,  can  you  do  pounds,  shillings,  and  pence  ?’ 

‘  I  can  make  a  little  score,  master,  behind  the 
kitchen  door,  with  a  bit  of  chalk,  which  is  as 
much  as  I  want.’  ‘  Well,  Tom,  add  the  four 
shillings  you  would  have  earned  to  the  three 
you  intend  to  spend,  what  does  that  make  ?’ 

‘  Let  me  see !  three  and  four  make  seven.  Seven 
shillings,  master.’  ‘  Tom,  you  often  tell  me  the 
times  are  so  bad  that  you  can  never  buy  a  bit 
of  meat.  Now  here  is  the  cost  of  two  joints  at 
once  :  to  say  nothing  of  the  sin  of  wasting  time 
and  getting  drunk.’  ‘  I  never  once  thought  of 
that,’  said  Tom.  ‘  Now  Torn,’  said  the  farmer, 
if  I  were  you,  I  would  step  over  to  butcher 
Jobbins’s,  buy  a  shoulder  of  mutton,  which  being 
left  from  Saturday’s  market  you  will  get  a  little 
cheaper.  This  I  would  make  my  wile  bake  in 
a  deep  dish  full  of  potatoes.  I  would  then  go  to 
work,  and  when  the  dinner  was  ready  I  would 
go  and  enjoy  it  with  my  wife  and  children  ;  you 
need  not  give  the  mutton  to  the  brats,  the  pota¬ 
toes  will  have  all  the  gravy,  and  be  very  savoury 


for  them.’  ‘  Ay,  but  I  have  got  no  beer,  master , 
the  times  are  so  hard  that  a  poor  man  can’t  af¬ 
ford  to  brew  a  drop  of  drink  now  as  we  used  to 
do.’ 

‘  Times  are  bad,  and  malt  is  very  dear,  Tom, 
and  yet  both  don’t  prevent  you  from  spending 
seven  shillings  in  keeping  holyday.  Now  send 
for  a  quart  of  ale  as  it  is  to  be  a  feast :  and  you 
will  even  then  be  four  shillings  richer  than  if 
you  had  gone  to  the  public  house.  I  would  have 
you  put  by  these  four  shillings,  till  you  can  add 
a  couple  to  them  ;  with  this  I  would  get  a  bushel 
of  malt,  and  my  wife  should  brew  it,  and  you 
may  take  a  pint  of  your  own  beer  at  home  of  a 
night,  which  will  do  you  more  good  than  a  gal¬ 
lon  at  the  Red  Lion.’  ‘  I  have  a  great  mind  to 
take  your  advice,  master,  but  I  shall  be  made 
such  fun  of  at  the  Lion  !  they  will  so  laugh  at 
me  if  I  don’t  go  !’  ‘  Let  those  laugh  that  win, 
Tom.’  ‘  But  master,  I  have  got  a  friend  to  meet 
me  there.’  ‘  Then  ask  your  friend  to  come  and 
eat  a  bit  of  your  cold  mutton  at  night,  and  here 
is  sixpence  for  another  pot,  if  you  will  promise 
to  brew  a  small  cask  of  your  own.’  ‘  Thank 
you,  master,  and  so  I  will.J  and  I  won’t  go  to 
the  Lion.  Come  boy,  bring  the  helm,  and  fetch 
the  ladder.’  And  so  Tom  was  upon  the  roof  in 
a  twinkling.  The  barn  was  thatched,  the  mut¬ 
ton  bought,  the  beer  brewed,  the  friend  invited, 
and  the  holyday  enjoyed. 

The  Sheep  Shearing 

Dr.  Shepherd  happened  to  say  to  farmer 
White  one  day,  that  there  was  nothing  that  he 
disliked  more  than  the  manner  in  which  sheep¬ 
shearing  and  harvest-home  were  kept  by  some 
in  his  parish.  ‘  What,’  said  the  good  doctor, 
‘just  when  we  are  blest  with  a  prosperous  ga¬ 
thering  in  of  these  natural  riches  of  our  land, 
the  fleece  of  our  flocks ;  when  our  barns  are 
crowned  with  plenty,  and  we  have,  through  the 
Divine  blessing  on  our  honest  labour,  reaped  the 
fruits  of  the  earth  in  due  season  ;  is  that  very 
time  to  be  set  apart  for  ribaldry,  and  riot,  and 
drunkenness  ?  Do  we  thank  God  for  his  mer¬ 
cies,  by  making  ourselves  unworthy  and  unfit 
to  enjoy  them  1  When  he  crowns  the  year  with 
his  goodness,  shall  we  affront  him  by  our  im¬ 
piety  ?  It  is  more  than  a  common  insult  to  his 
providence ;  it  is  a  worse  than  brutal  return  to 
Him  who  openeth  his  hand  and  filleth  all  things 
living  with  plenteousness.’ 

‘I  thank  you  for  the  hint,  sir,’  said  the  farmer. 

‘  I  am  resolved  to  rejoice  though,  and  others 
shall  rejoice  with  me  ;  and  we  will  have  a  merry 
night  on’t.’ 

So  Mrs.  White  dressed  a  very  plentiful  supper 
of  meat  and  pudding ;  and  spread  out  two  tables. 
The  farmer  sat  at  the  head  of  one,  consisting 
of  some  of  his  neighbours,  and  all  his  work¬ 
people.  At  the  other  sat  his  wife,  with  two  long 
benches  on  each  side  of  her.  On  these  benches 
sat  all  the  old  and  infirm  poor,  especially  those 
who  lived  in  the  work-house,  and  had  no  day 
of  festivity  to  look  forward  to  in  the  whole  year 
but  this.  On  the  grass,  in  the  little  court,  sat 
the  children  of  his  labourers,  and  of  the  other 
poor,  whoso  employment  it  had  been  to  gather 
flowers,  and  dress  and  adorn  the  horns  of  tho 
ram ;  for  the  farmer  did  not  wish  to  put  an  end 


230 


The  works  of  hannah  more. 


to  an  old  custom,  if  it  was  innocent — His  own 
children  stood  by  the  table,  and  he  gave  them 
plenty  of  pudding,  which  they  carried  to  the 
children  of  the  poor,  with  a  little  draught  of  ci¬ 
der  to  ever}’^  one.  The  farmer  who  never  sat 
down  without  begging  a  blessing  on  his  meal, 
did  it  with  suitable  solemnity  on  the  present  joy¬ 
ful  occasion. 

Dr.  Shepherd  practised  one  very  useful  me¬ 
thod,  which  I  dare  say  was  not  peculiar  to  him¬ 
self  ;  a  method  of  which  I  doubt  not  other  country 
clergymen  have  found  the  advantage.  He  was 
often  on  the  watch  to  observe  those  seasons  when 
a  number  of  his  parishioners  were  assembled 
together,  not  only  at  any  season  of  festivity,  but 
at  their  work.  He  has  been  known  to  turn  a 
walk  through  a  hay-field  to  good  account;  and 
has  been  found  to  do  as  much  good  by  a  few 
minutes  discourse  with  a  little  knot  of  reapers, 
as  by  a  Sunday’s  sermon.  He  commonly  in¬ 
troduced  his  religious  observations  by  some 
questions  relating  to  their  employment ;  he  first 
gained  their  affections  by  his  kindness,  and  then 
converted  his  influence  over  them  to  their  soul’s 
good.  The  interes.,  he  took  in  their  worldly 
affairs  opened  their  hearts  to  the  reception  of 
those  divine  truths  which  he  was  always  earnest 
to  impress  upon  them.  By  these  methods  too 
Im  got  acquainted  with  their  several  characters, 
their  spiritual  wants,  their  individual  sins, 
dangers,  and  temptations,  which  enabled  him  to 
preach  with  more  knowledge  and  successful  ap¬ 
plication,  than  those  ministers  can  do  who  are 
unacquainted  with  the  state  of  their  congrega¬ 
tions.  It  was  a  remark  of  Dr.  Shepherd,  that  a 
thorough  acquaintance  with  human  nature  was 
one  of  the  most  important  species  of  knowledge 
a  clergyman  could  possess. 

The  sheep-shearing  feast,  though  orderly  and 
decent,  was  yet  hearty  and  cheerful.  Dr.  Shep¬ 
herd  dropped  in  with  a  good  deal  of  company 
he  had  at  his  house,  and  they  were  much  pleased. 
When  the  doctor  saw  how  the  aged  and  infirm 
poor  were  enjoying  themselves,  he  was  much 
moved;  he  shook  tlie  farmer  by  the  hand  and 
said,  ‘  But  thou,  when  thou  makest  a  feast,  call 
the  blind,  and  the  lame,  and  the  halt,  they  can¬ 
not  recompense  thee,  but  thou  shaft  be  recom¬ 
pensed  at  the  resurrection  of  the  just.’ 

‘  Sir,’  said  the  farmer,  ‘  ’tis  no  great  matter 
of  expense  ;  I  kill  a  sheep  of  my  own  ;  potatoes 
are  as  plenty  as  blackberries,  with  people  who 
have  a  little  forethought.  I  save  much  more 
cider  in  the  course  of  a  year  by  never  allowing 
any  carousing  in  my  kitchen,  or  drunkenness 
in  my  fields,  than  would  supply  many  such 
feasts  as  these,  so  that  I  shall  be  never  the  poorer 
at  Christmas.  It  is  cheaper  to  make  people 
happy,  sir,  than  to  make  them  drunk.  The 
doctor  and  the  ladies  condescended  to  walk  from 
one  table  to  the  other,  and  heard  many  merry 
stories,  but  not  one  profane  word,  or  one  inde¬ 
cent  song  :  so  that  he  was  not  forced  to  the  pain¬ 
ful  necessity  either  of  reproving  them,  or  leaving 
them  in  anger.  When  all  was  over,  they  sung 
the  sixty-fifth  Psalm,  and  the  ladies  all  joined  in 
it ;  and  when  they  got  home  to  the  vicarage  to 
tea,  they  declared  they  liked  it  better  than  any 
concert. 


The  Hard  Winter. 

In  the  famous  cold  winter  of  the  year  1795,  it 
was  edifying  to  see  how  patiently  farmer  White 
bore  that  long  and  severe  frost.  Many  of  his 
sheep  were  frozen  to  death,  but  he  thanked  God 
that  he  had  still  many  left.  He  continued  to 
find  in-door  work  that  his  men  might  not  be  out 
of  employ.  The  season  being  so  bad,  which 
some  others  pleaded  as  an  excuse  for  turning 
off  their  workmen,  he  thought  a  fresh  reason  for 
keeping  them.  Mrs.  White  was  so  considerate, 
that  just  at  that  time  she  lessened  the  number 
of  her  hogs,  that  she  might  have  more  whey  and 
skim-milk  to  assist  poor  families.  Nay,  I  have 
known  her  to  live  on  boiled  meat  for  a  long 
while  together,  in  a  sickly  season,  because  the 
pot  liquor  made  such  a  supply  of  broth  for  the 
sick  poor.  As  the  spring  came  on,  and  things 
grew  worse,  she  never  had  a  cake,  a  pie,  or  a  pud¬ 
ding  in  her  house  ;  notwithstanding  she  used  to 
have  plenty  of  these  good  things,  and  will  again 
I  hope,  when  the  present  scarcity  is  over ; 
though  she  says  she  will  never  use  such  white 
flour  again,  even  if  it  should  come  down  to  five 
shillings  a  bushel. 

All  the  parish  now  began  to  murmur.  Far¬ 
mer  Jones  was  sure  the  frost  had  killed  the 
wheat.  Farmer  Wilson  said  the  rye  would 
never  come  up.  Brown,  the  maltster,  insisted 
the  barley  was  dead  at  the  root.  Butcher  Job- 
bins  said  beef  would  be  a  shilling  a  pound.  All 
declared  there  would  not  be  a  hop  to  brew  with. 
The  orchards  were  all  blighted ;  there  would 
not  be  apples  enough  to  make  a  pie  ;  and  as  to 
hay  there  would  be  none  to  be  had  for  love  nor 
money.  ‘  I’ll  tell  you  what,’  said  farmer  White, 
‘  the  season  is  dreadful ;  the  crops  unpromising 
just  now  ;  but  ’tis  too  early  to  judge.  Don’t  let 
us  make  things  worse  than  they  are.  We 
ought  to  comfort  the  poor,  and  you  are  driving 
them  to  despair.  Don’t  you  know  how  much 
God  was  displeased  with  the  murmurs  of  his 
chosen  people  ?  And  yet,  when  they  were  tired 
of  manna  he  sent  them  quails  ;  but  all  did  not 
do.  Nothing  satisfies  grumblers.  We  have  a 
promise  on  our  side,  that  there  shall  he  seed-time 
and  harvest  time  to  the  end.  Let  us  then  hopo 
for  a  good  day,  but  provide  against  an  evil  one. 
Let  us  rather  prevent  the  evil  before  it  is  come 
upon  us,  than  sink  under  it  when  it  comes. 
Grumbling  cannot  help  us ;  activity  can.  Let 
us  set  about  planting  potatoes  in  every  nook  and 
corner,  in  case  the  corn  should  fail,  which,  how¬ 
ever,  I  don’t  believe  will  be  the  case.  Let  us 
mend  our  management  before  we  are  driven  to 
it  by  actual  want.  And  if  we  allow  our  honest 
labourers  to  plant  a  few  potatoes  for  their  fa¬ 
milies  in  the  headlands  of  our  ploughed  fields, 
or  other  waste  bits  of  ground,  it  will  do  us 
no  harm,  and  be  a  great  help  to  them.  The 
way  to  lighten  the  load  of  any  public  calamity 
is  not  to  murmur  at  it  but  put  a  hand  to  lessen  it. 

The  fanner  had  many  temptations  to  send  his 
corn  at  an  extravagant  price  to  a  certain  seaport 
town,  but  as  he  knew  that  it  was  intended  to 
export  it  against  law,  he  would  not  be  tempted 
to  encourage  unlawful  gain  ;  so  he  thrashed  out 
a  small  mow  at  a  time,  and  sold  it  to  the  neigh- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


231 


bouring  poor  far  below  the  market-price.  He 
served  his  own  workmen  first.  This  was  the 
same  to  them  as  if  he  had  raised  their  wages, 
and  even  better,  as  it  was  a  benefit  of  which 
their  families  were  sure  to  partake.  If  the  poor 
in  the  next  parish  were  more  distressed  than 
his  own,  he  sold  them  at  the  same  rate.  For, 
said  he,  there  is  no  distinction  of  parishes  in 
heaven ;  and  though  charity  begins  at  home, 
yet  it  ought  not  to  end  there. 

He  had  been  used  in  good  times  now  and 
then  to  catch  a  hare  or  a  partridge,  as  he  was 
qualified  ;  but  he  now  resolved  to  give  up  that 
pleasure.  So  he  parted  from  a  couple  of 
spaniels  he  had  :  for  he  said  he  could  not  bear 
that  his  dogs  should  be  eating  the  meat,  or  the 
milk,  which  so  many  men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren  wanted. 

The  White  Loaf. 

One  day,  it  was  about  the  middle  of  last  July, 
when  things  seemed  to  be  at  the  dearest,  and 
the  rulers  of  the  land  had  agreed  to  set  the  ex¬ 
ample  of  eating  nothing  but  coarse  bread.  Dr. 
Shepherd  read,  before  sermon  in  the  church, 
their  public  declaration,  which  the  magistrates 
of  the  county  sent  him,  and  which  they  had 
also  signed  themselves.  Mrs.  White,  of  course. 
Was  at  church,  and  commended  it  mightily. 
Next  morning  the  doctor  took  a  walk  over  to 
the  farmer’s,  in  order  to  settle  further  plans  for 
the  relief  of  the  parish.  He  was  much  sur¬ 
prised  to  meet  Mrs.  White’s  little  maid  Sally 
with  a  very  small  white  loaf,  which  she  had  been 
buying  at  a  shop.  He  said  nothing  to  the  girl, 
as  he  never  thought  it  right  to  expose  the  faults 
of  a  mistress  to  her  servants ;  but  walked  on, 
resolving  to  give  Mrs.  White  a  severe  lecture 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life.  He  soon  changed 
his  mind,  for  on  going  into  the  kitchen,  the 
first  person  he  saw  was  Tom  the  thatcher,  who 
had  had  a  sad  fall  from  a  ladder;  his  arm,  which 
was  slipped  out  of  his  sleeve,  was  swelled  in  a 
frightful  manner.  Mrs.  White  was  standing 
at  the  dresser  making  the  little  white  loaf  into 
a  poultice,  which  she  laid  upon  the  swelling  in 
a  large  clean  old  linen  cloth. 

‘  I  ask  your  pardon,  my  good  Sarah,’  said  the 
doctor ;  ‘  I  ought  not,  however  appearances 
were  against  you,  to  have  suspected  that  so 
humble  and  prudent  a  woman  as  you  are,  would 
be  led  either  to  indulge  any  daintines  of  your 
own,  or  to  fly  in  the  face  of  your  betters,  by 
eating  white  bread  while  they  are  eating  brown. 
Whenever  I  come  here,  I  see  it  is  not  needful 
to  be  rich  in  order  to  be  charitable.  A  bounti¬ 
ful  rich  man  would  have  sent  Tom  to  a  surgeon, 
who  would  have  done  no  more  for  him  than  you 
have  done ;  for  in  those  inflammations  the  most 
skilful  surgeon  could  only  apply  a  poultice. 
Your  kindness  in  dressing  the  wouud  yourself, 
will,  I  doubt  not,  perform  the  cure  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  that  threepenny  loaf  and  a  little  hog’s 
lard.  And  I  will  take  care  that  Tom  shall  have 
a  good  supply  of  rice  from  the  subscription.’ 
‘  And  he  slian’t  want  for  skim-milk,’  said  Mrs. 
White  ;  ‘  and  was  ho  the  best  lord  in  the  land 
in  the  state  ho  is  in,  a  dish  of  good  rice  milk 
would  bo  better  for  him  than  tlie  richest  meat.’ 


The  Parish  Meeting 

On  the  tenth  of  August,  the  vestry  held  an¬ 
other  meeting,  to  consult  on  the  best  method  of 
further  assisting  the  poor.  The  prospect  of 
abundant  crops  now  cheered  every  heart.  Far¬ 
mer  White,  who  had  a  mind  to  be  a  little  jocular 
with  his  desponding  neighbours,  said,  ‘  Well, 
neighbour  Jones,  all  the  wheat  was  killed,  I  sup¬ 
pose  !  the  barley  is  all  dead  at  the  root !’  Far¬ 
mer  Jones  looked  sheepish,  and  said,  ‘  To  be 
sure  the  crops  had  turned  out  better  than  he 
thought.’ — ‘Then,’  said  Dr.  Shepherd,  ‘let  us 
learn  to  trust  Providence  another  time ;  let  our 
experience  of  his  past  goodness  strengthen  our 
faith.’ 

Among  other  things,  they  agreed  to  subscribe 
for  a  large  quantity  of  rice,  which  was  to  be  sold 
out  to  the  poor  at  a  very  low  price,  and  Mrs. 
White  was  so  kind  as  to  undertake  the  trouble 
of  selling  it.  After  their  day’s  work  was  over, 
all  who  wished  to  buy  at  these  reduced  rates, 
were  ordered  to  come  to  the  farm  on  the  Tues¬ 
day  evening.  Dr.  Shepherd  dropped  in  at  the 
same  time,  and  when  Mrs.  White  had  done 
weighing  her  rice,  the  doctor  spoke  as  follows  : 

‘  My  honest  friend,  it  has  pleased  God,  for 
some  wise  end,  to  visit  this  land  with  a  scarcity, 
to  which  we  have  been  but  little  accustomed. 
There  are  some  idle,  evil-minded  people,  who 
are  on  the  watch  for  the  public  distresses  ;  not 
that  they  may  humble  themselves  under  the 
mighty  hand  of  God  (which  is  the  true  use  to 
be  made  of  all  troubles)  but  that  they  may  bene¬ 
fit  themselves  by  disturbing  the  public  peace. 
These  people,  by  riot  and  drunkenness,  double 
the  evil  which  they  pretend  to  cure.  Riot  will 
complete  our  misfortunes  ;  while  peace,  indus¬ 
try,  and  good  management,  will  go  near  to  cure 
them.  Bread,  to  be  sure,  is  uncommonly  dear. 
Among  the  various  ways  of  making  it  cheaper, 
one  is  to  reduce  the  quality  of  it,  another  to  les¬ 
sen  the  quantity  we  consume.  If  we  cannot 
get  enough  of  coarse  wheaten  bread,  let  us  make 
it  of  other  grain.  Or  let  us  mix  one  half  of 
potatoes,  and  one  half  of  wheat.  This  last  is 
what  I  eat  in  my  own  family  ;  it  is  pleasant  and 
wholesome.  Our  blessed  Saviour  ate  barley 
bread,  you  know,  as  we  are  told  in  the  last 
month’s  Sunday  reading  of  the  Cheap  Reposi¬ 
tory,*  which  I  hope  you  have  all  heard ;  as  I 
desired  the  master  of  the  Sunday-school  to  read 
it  just  after  evening  service,  when  I  know  many 
of  the  parents  are  apt  to  call  in  at  the  school. 
This  is  a  good  custom,  and  one  of  those  little 
books  shall  be  often  read  at  that  time. 

*  My  good  women,  I  truly  feel  for  you  at  this 
time  of  scarcity ;  and  I  am  going  to  show  my 
good  will,  as  much  by  my  advice  as  my  sub¬ 
scription.  It  is  my  duty,  as  your  friend  and 
minister,  to  tell  you,  that  one  half  of  your  present 
hardships  is  owing  to  had  management.  I  often 
meet  your  children  without  shoes  and  stock¬ 
ings,  with  great  luncheons  of  tlie  very  whitest 
bread,  and  that  three  times  a  day.  Half  that 
quantity,  and  still  less  if  it  wore  coarse,  put  into 
a  dish  of  good  onion  or  leek  porridge,  would 

*  See  Clipnp  Repository,  Tr.oct  on  the  Scarcity,  print¬ 
ed  for  T.  Evans,  Long-lane,  West  Sinitlifield,  London 


2^2 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


inake  them  afi  excellent  breakfast.  Many  too,  of 
the  very  poorest  of  you,  eat  your  bread  hot  from 
the  oven  ;  this  makes  the  difference  of  one  loaf  in 
five ;  I  assure  you  ’tis  what  I  cannot  afford  to 
do.  Come,  Mrs.  White,  you  must  assist  me  a 
little.  I  am  not  very  knowing  in  these  matters 
myself;  but  I  know  that  the  rich  would  be  twice 
as  charitable  as  they  are,  if  the  poor  made  a 
better  use  of  their  bounty.  Mrs.  White,  do  give 
these  poor  women  a  little  advice  how  to  make 
their  pittance  go  further  than  it  now  does.  When 
you  lived  with  me  you  were  famous  for  making 
us  nice  cheap  dishes,  and  I  dare  say  you  are  not 
less  notable,  now  you  manage  for  yourself.’ 

‘  Indeed,  neighbours,’  said  Mrs.  White,  ‘  what 
the  good  doctor  says  is  very  true.  A  halfpenny 
worth  of  oatmeal,  or  groats,  with  a  leek  or  onion, 
out  of  your  own  garden,  whioh  costs  nothing,  a 
bit  of  salt,  and  a  little  coarse  bread,  will  break¬ 
fast  your  whole  family.  It  is  a  great  mistake 
at  any  time  to  think  a  bit  of  meat  is  so  ruinous, 
and  a  great  load  of  bread  so  cheap.  A  poor  man 
gets  seven  or  eight  shillings  a  week ;  if  he  is 
careful  he  brings  it  home.  I  dare  not  say  how 
much  of  this  goes  for  tea  in  the  afternoon,  now 
sugar  and  butter  are  so  dear,  because  I  should 
have  you  all  upon  me  ;  but  I  will  say,  that  too 
much  of  this  little  goes  even  for  bread,  from  a 
mistaken  notion  that  it  is  the  hardest  fare. 
This,  at  all  times,  but  particularly  just  now,  is 
bad  management.  Dry  peas,  to  be  sure,  have 
been  very  dear  lately  ;  but  now  they  are  plenty 
enough.  I  am  certain  then,  that  if  a  shilling  or 
two  of  the  seven  or  eight  was  laid  out  for  a  bit 
of  coarse  beef,  a  sheep’s  head,  or  any  such  thing, 
it  would  be  well  bestowed.  I  would  throw  a 
couple  of  pounds  of  this  into  the  pot,  with  two 
or  three  handsful  of  gray  peas,  an  onion,  and  a 
little  pepper.  Then  I  would  throw  in  cabbage 
or  turnip,  and  carrot ;  or  any  garden  stuff  that 
was  most  plenty ;  let  it  stew  two  or  three  hours, 
and  it  will  make  a  dish  fit  for  his  majesty.  The 
working  men  should  have  the  meat ;  the  chil¬ 
dren  don’t  want  it ;  the  soup  will  be  thick  and 
substantial,  and  requires  no  bread.’ 

Rice  Milk. 

‘You  who  can  get  skim-milk,  as  all  our  work¬ 
men  can,  have  a  great  advantage.  A  quart  of 
this,  and  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  the  rice  you 
have  just  bought,  a  little  bit  of  alspice,  and 
brown  sugar,  will  make  a  dainty  and  cheap 
dish.’ 

‘  Bless  your  heart !’  muttered  Amy  Grumble, 
who  looked  as  dirty  as  a  cinder- wench,  with  her 
face  and  fingers  all  daubed  with  snuff :  ‘  rice 
milk,  indeed  !  it  is  very  nice  to  be  sure  for  those 
who  can  dress  it,  but  we  have  not  a  bit  of  coal ; 
rice  is  no  use  to  us  without  firing ;’  ‘  and  yet,’ 
said  the  doctor,  ‘  I  see  your  tea-kettle  boiling 
twice  every  day,  as  I  pass  by  the  poor-house, 
and  fresh  butter  at  thirteen-pence  a  pound  on 
your  shelf.’  ‘  O  dear  sir,’  cried  Amy,  ‘  a  few 
sticks  serve  to  boil  the  tea-kettle.’ — ‘  And  a  few 
more,’  said  the  doctor,  ‘  will  boil  the  rice  milk, 
and  give  twice  the  nourishment  at  a  quarter  of 
the  expense.’ 

Rice  Pudding. 

‘  Pray,  Sarah,’  said  the  doetor,  ‘  how  did  you 


use  to  make  that  pudding  my  children  were  so 
fond  of?  And  I  remember,  when  it  was  cold, 
we  used  to  have  it  in  the  parlour  for  supper.’ 
‘  Nothing  more  easy,’  said  Mrs.  White :  ‘  I  put 
half  a  pound  of  rice,  two  quarts  of  skim-milk, 
and  two  ounces  of  brown  sugar.’  ‘  Well,’  said 
the  doctor,  ‘  and  how  many  will  this  dine  ?’ 
‘Seven  or  eight,  sir.’  ‘Very  well,  and  what 
will  it  cost  ?’ — ‘  Why,  sir,  it  did  not  cost  you  so 
much,  because  we  baked  it  at  home,  and  I  used 
our  own  milk  ;  but  it  will  not  cost  above  seven 
pence  to  those  who  pay  for  both.  Here,  too, 
bread  is  saved.’ 

‘  Pray,  Sarah,  let  me  put  in  a  word,’  said  far¬ 
mer  White  :  ‘  I  advise  my  men  to  raise  each  a 
large  bed  of  parsnips.  They  are  very  nourish¬ 
ing,  and  very  profitable.  Sixpenny  worth  of 
seed,  well  sowed  and  trod  in,  will  produce  more 
meals  than  four  sacks  of  potatoes  ;  and  what  is 
material  to  you  who  have  so  little  ground,  it  will 
not  require  more  than  an  eighth  part  of  the 
ground  which  the  four  sacks  will  take.  Provi¬ 
dence  having  contrived  by  the  very  formation  of 
this  root  that-  it  shall  occupy  but  a  very  small 
space.  Parsnips  are  very  good  the  second  day 
warmed  in  the  frying  pan,  and  a  little  rasher  of 
pork,  or  bacon,  will  give  them  a  nice  flavour.’ 

Dr.  Shepherd  now  said,  ‘  as  a  proof  of  tho 
nourishing  quality  of  parsnips,  I  was  reading  in 
a  history  book  this  very  day,  that  the  American 
Indians  make  a  great  part  of  their  bread  of  pars¬ 
nips,  though  Indian  corn  is  so  famous ;  it  wiU' 
make  a  little  variety  too.’ 

A  Cheap  Stew. 

‘  I  remember,’  said  Mrs.  White,  ‘  a  cheap  dish, 
so  nice  that  it  makes  my  mouth  water.  I  peel 
some  raw  potatoes,  slice  them  thin,  put  the  slices 
into  a  deep  frying-pan,  or  pot  with  a  little  water, 
an  onion,  and  a  bit  of  pepper.  Then  I  got  a 
bone  or  two  of  a  breast  of  mutton,  or  a  little  strip 
of  salt  pork  and  put  into  it.  Cover  it  down 
close,  keep  in  the  steam,  and  let  it  stew  for  an 
hour.’ 

‘  You  really  give  me  an  appetite,  Mrs.  White,’ 
by  your  dainty  receipts,’  said  the  doctor.  ‘  I  am 
resolved  to  have  this  dish  at  my  own  table.’  ‘  I 
could  tell  you  another  very  good  dish,  and  still 
cheaper,’  answered  she.  ‘  Come,  let  us  have  it,’ 
cried  the  doctor.  ‘I  shall  write  all  down  as 
soon  as  I  get  home,  and  I  will  favour  any  bod}’’ 
with  a  copy  of  these  reeeipts  who  will  call  at 
my  house.’ — ‘  And  I  will  do  more,  sir,’  said  Mrs. 
White,  ‘  for  I  will  put  any  of  these  women  in 
the  way  how  to  dress  it  the  first  time,  if  they 
are  at  a  loss.  But  this  is  my  dish: 

‘  Take  two  or  three  pickled  herrings,  put  them 
into  a  stone  jar,  fill  it  up  with  potatoes,  and  a 
little  water,  and  let  it  bake  in  the  oven  till  it  is 
done.  I  would  give  one  hint  more,’  added  she  ; 

‘  I  have  taken  to  use  nothing  but  potatoe  starch  ; 
and  though  I  say  it,  that  should  not  say  it,  no¬ 
body’s  linen  in  a  eommon  way  looks  better  than 
ours.’ 

The  doctor  now  said,  ‘  I  am  sorry  for  one 
hardship  which  many  poor  people  labour  under  * 

I  mean  the  difficulty  of  getting  a  little  milk.  I 
wish  all  farmer’s  wives  were  as  considerate  as 
you  are,  Mrs.  White.  A  little  milk  is  a  great 
comfort  to  the  poor,  especially  when  their  chil- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


233 


dren  are  sick  ;  and  I  hajVe  known  it  answer  to 
the  seller  as  well  as  to  the  buyer,  to  keep  a  cow 
or  two  on  purpose  to  sell  it  by  the  quart,  instead 
of  making  butter  and  eheese. 

‘  Sir,  said  farmer  White,  ‘  I  beg  leave  to  say 
a  word  to  the  men,  if  you  please,  for  all  your 
advice  -goes  to  the  women.  If  you  will  drink 
less  gin,  you  may  get  more  meat.  If  you  ab¬ 
stain  from  the  ale-house,  you  may,  many  of  you, 
get  a  little  one-way  beer  at  home.’ — ‘  Ay,  that 
we  can  farmer,’  said  poof  Tom,  the  thatcher, 
who  was  now  got  well.  ‘  Easter  Monday  for 
that — I  say  no  more.  A  word  to  the  wise.’ 
The  farmer  smiled  and  went  on  :  ‘  The  number 
of  public  houses  in  many  a  parish,  brings  on 
more  hunger  and  rags,  than  all  the  taxes  in  it, 
heavy  as  they  are.  All  the  other  evils  put  to¬ 
gether  hardly  make  up  the  sum  of  that  one. 
We  are  now  raising  a  fresh  subscription  for  you. 
This  will  be  our  rule  of  giving.  We  will  not 
give  to  sots,  gamblers,  and  Sabbath-breakers. 
Those  who  do  not  set  their  young  children  to 
work  on  week-days,  and  send  them  to  school  and 
church  on  Sundays,  deserve  little  favour.  No 
man  should  keep  a  dog  till  he  has  more  food 
than  his  family  w^nts.  If  he  feeds  them  at 
home,  they  rob  his  children  ;  if  he  starves  them, 
they  rob  his  neighbours.  We  have  heard  in  a 
neighbouring  city,  that  some  people  carried 
back  the  subscription  loaves,  because  they  were 
too  coarse  ;  but  we  hope  better  things  of  you.’ 
Here  Betty  Plane  begged,  with  all  humility,  to 
put  in  a  word.  ‘  Certainly,’  said  the  doctor,  ‘  we 
will  listen  to  all  modest  complaints,  and  try  to 
redress  them.’  ‘  You  are  pleased  to  say,  sir,’ 
said  she,  ‘that  we  might  find  much  comfort 
from  buying  coarse  bits  of  beef.  And  so  we 
might,  but  you  do  not  know,  sir,  that  we  could 
seldom  get  them,  even  when  we  had  the  money, 
and  times  were  so  bad.’  ‘  How  so,  Betty  ?’  ‘  Sir, 
when  we  go  to  butcher  Jobbins,  for  a  bit  of  shin, 
or  any  other  lean  piece,  his  answer  is,  ‘  You 
ean’t  have  it  to-day.  The  cook  at  the  great 
house  has  bespoke  it  for  gravy,  or  the  doctor’s 


maid  (begging  your  pardon,  sir,)  has  just  or¬ 
dered  it  for  soup.’ — Now,  if  such  kind  gentlefolk 
were  aware  that  this  gravy  and  soup  not  only 
consume  a  great  deal  of  meat,  which,  to  be  sure, 
those  have  a  right  to  do  who  can  pay  for  it ;  but 
that  it  takes  away  those  coarse  pieces  which  the 
poor  would  buy,  if  they  bought  at  all.  For,  ia- 
deed,  the  rieh  have  been  very  kind,  and  I  don’t 
know  what  we  should  have  done  without  them.’ 

‘  I  thank  you  for  the  hint,  Betty,’  said  the 
doctor,  ‘  and  I  assure  you  I  will  have  no  more 
gravy  soup.  My  garden  will  supply  me  with 
soups  that  are  both  wholesomer  and  better  ;  and 
I  will  answer  for  my  lady  at  the  great  house, 
that  she  will  do  the  same.  I  hope  this  will  be¬ 
come  a  general  rule,  and  then  we  shall  expect 
that  butchers  will  favour  you  in  the  prices  of 
the  coarse  pieces,  if  we  who  are  rich,  buy  no¬ 
thing  but  the  prime.  In  our  gifts  we  shall  pre- 
fer,  as  the  farmer  has  told  you,  those  who  keep 
steadily  to  their  work.  Such  as  come  to  the 
vestry  for  a  loaf,  and  do  not  come  to  church  for 
the  sermon,  we  shall  mark ;  and  prefer  those 
who  come  constantly,  whether  there  are  any 
gifts  or  not.  But  there  is  one  rule  from  which 
we  never  will  depart.  Those  who  have  been 
seen  aiding,  or  abetting  any  riot,  any  attack  on 
butchers,  bakers,  wheat-mows,  mills,  or  millers, 
we  will  not  relieve ;  but  with  the  quiet,  con¬ 
tented,  hard-working  man,  I  will  share  my  last 
morsel  of  bread.  1  shall  only  add,  though  it  has 
pleased  God  to  send  us  this  visitation  as  a  pun¬ 
ishment,  yet  we  may  convert  this  short  trial  into 
a  lasting  blessing,  if  we  all  turn  over  a  new  leaf. 
Prosperity  had  made  most  of  us  careless.  The 
thoughtless  profusion  of  some  of  the  rich  could 
only  be  exceeded  by  the  idleness  and  bad  manage¬ 
ment  of  some  of  the  poor.  Let  us  now  at  last 
adopt  that  good  old  maxim,  every  one  mend  one. 
And  may  God  add  his  blessing.’ 

The  people  now  cheerfully  departed  with  their 
rice,  resolving  as  many  of  them  as  could  get 
milk,  to  put  one  of  Mrs.  White’s  receipts  in 
practice,  and  an  excellent  supper  they  had. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  HESTER  WILMOT. 

BEINa  THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE  SUNDAY  SCHOOL. 


Hester  Wilmot  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Weston,  of  parents  who  maintained  themselves 
by  their  laboin||they  were  both  of  them  ungod¬ 
ly,  it  is  no  won^r  therefore  they  were  unhappy. 
They  lived  badly  together,  and  how  could  they 
do  otherwise  ?  for  their  tempers  were  very  differ¬ 
ent,  and  they  had  no  religion  to  smootli  down 
this  difference,  or  to  teach  them  that  they  ought 
to  bear  with  each  other’s  faults.  Rebecca  VVil- 
mol  was  a  proof  that  people  may  have  some 
right  qualities,  and  yet  be  but  bad  characters, 
and  utterly  destitute  of  religion.  She  was  clean, 
notable  and  industrious.  Now  I  know  some 
folks  fancy  that  the  poor  who  have  these  quali¬ 
ties  need  have  no  other,  but  this  is  a  sad  mistake, 
as  I  am  sure  every  page  in  the  Bible  would 
show  ;  and  it  is  a  pity  people  do  not  consult  it 
VoL.  I. 


oftener.  They  direct  their  ploughing  and  sow¬ 
ing  by  the  information  of  the  Almanac,  why 
will  they  not  consult  the  Bible  for  the  direction 
of  their  hearts  and  lives  ?  Rebecca  was  of  a 
violent,  ungovernable  temper ;  and  that  very 
neatness  which  is  in  itself  so  pleasing,  in  her 
became  a  sin,  for  her  affection  to  her  husband 
and  children  was  quite  lost  in  an  over  anxious 
desire  to  have  her  house  reckoned  the  nicest  in 
the  parish.  Rebecca  was  also  a  proof  that  a. 
poor  woman  may  bo  as  vain  as  a  rich  one,  for  it 
was  not  so  much  the  eomfbrt  of  neatness,  as  tho 
praise  of  neatness,  which  she  coveted.  A  spot 
on  her  hearth,  or  a  bit  of  rust  on  a  brass  can¬ 
dlestick,  would  throw  her  into  a  violent  passion. 
Now  it  is  very  right  to  keep  tho  hearth  clean 
and  the  candlestick  briirht,  but  it  is  very  wrong 


234 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


■SO  to  set  one’s  affections  on  a  hearth  or  a  candle¬ 
stick,  as  to  make  one’s  self  unhappy  if  any  tri¬ 
fling'  accident  happens  to  them;  and  if  Rebecca 
had  been  as  careful  to  keep  her  heart  without 
spot,  or  her  life  without  blemish,  as  she  was  to 
keep  her  fire-irons  free  from  either,  she  would 
have  been  held  up  in  this  history,  not  as  a  warn¬ 
ing,  but  as  a  pattern,  and  in  that  case  her  nicety 
would  have  come  in  for  a  part  of  the  praise.  It 
was  no  fault  in  Rebecca,  but  a  merit,  that  her 
oak  table  was  so  bright  you  could  almost  see  to 
put  your  cap  on  in  it ;  but  it  was  no  merit  but 
a  fault,  that  when  John,  her  husband,  laid  down 
his  cup  of  beer  upon  it  so  as  to  leave  a  mark, 
she  would  fly  out  into  so  terrible  a  passion  that 
all  the  children  were  forced  to  run  to  corners  ; 
now  poor  John  having  no  corner  to  run  to,  ran 
to  tho  ale-house,  till  that  which  was  at  first  a 
refuge  too  soon  became  a  pleasure. 

Rebecca  never  wished  her  children  to  learn 
to  read,  because  she  said  it  would  only  serve  to 
make  them  lazy,  and  she  herself  had  done  very 
well  without  it.  She  would  keep  poor  Hester 
from  church  to  stone  the  space  under  the  stairs 
in  fine  patterns  and  flowers.  I  don’t  pretend  to 
say  there  was  any  harm  in  this  little  decoration, 
it  looks  pretty  enough,  and  it  is  better  to  let  the 
children  do  that  than  nothing.  But  still  these 
are  not  things  to  set  one’s  heart  upon ;  and  be¬ 
sides  Rebecca  only  did  it  as  a  trap  for  praise ; 
for  she  was  sulky  and  disappointed  if  any  ladies 
happened  to  call  in  and  did  not  seem  delighted 
with  the  flowers  which  she  used  to  draw  with  a 
burnt  stick  on  the  whitewash  of  the  chimney 
corners.  Besides  all  this  finery  was  often  done 
on  a  Sunday,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  of  harm 
in  doing  right  things  at  a  wrong  time,  or  in 
wasting  much  time  on  things  which  are  of  no 
real  use,  or  in  doing  any  thing  at  all  out  of  va¬ 
nity.  Now  I  beg  that  no  lazy  slattern  of  a  wife 
will  go  and  take  any  comfort  in  her  dirt  from 
what  is  here  said  against  Rebecca’s  nicety  ;  for 
I  believe,  that  for  one  who  makes  her  husband 
unhappy  through  neatness,  twenty  do  so  by  dirt 
and  laziness-  All  excuses  are  wrong,  but  the 
excess  of  a  good  quality  is  not  so  common  as  the 
excess  of  a  bad  one  ;  and  not  being  so  obvious, 
perhaps,  for  that  very  reason  requires  more  ani¬ 
madversion. 

John  Wilmot  was  not  an  ill-natured  man,  but 
he  had  no  fixed  principle.  Instead  of  setting 
himself  to  cure  his  wife’s  faults  by  mild  reproof 
and  good  example,  he  was  driven  by  them  into 
still  greater  faults  himself.  It  is  a  common  case 
with  people  who  have  no  religion  when  any  cross 
accident  befals  them,  instead  of  trying  to  make 
the  best  of  a  bad  matter,  instead  of  considering 
their  trouble  as  a  trial  sent  from  God  to  purify 
them,  or  instead  of  considering  the  faults  of 
others  as  a  punishment  for  their  own  sins,  in¬ 
stead  of  this  I  say,  what  do  they  do,  but  either 
sink  down  at  once  into  despair,  or  else  run  for 
comfort  into  evil  courses.  Drinking  is  the  com¬ 
mon  remedy  for  sorrow,  if  that  can  be  called  a 
remedy,  the  end  of  which  is  to  destroy  soul  and 
body.  John  now  began  to  spend  all  his  leisure 
hours  at  the  Bell.  lie  used  to  be  fond  of  his  chil¬ 
dren  :  but  when  he  could  not  come  home  in  quiet, 
and  play  with  the  little  ones,  while  his  wife 
flressed  him  a  bit  of  hot  supper,  he  grew  in  time 


not  to  come  home  at  all.  He  who  has  once 
taken  to  drink  can  seldom  be  said  to  be  guilty 
of  one  sin  only  ;  John’s  heart  became  hardened. 
His  affection  for  his  family  was  lost  in  self-in¬ 
dulgence.  Patience  and  submission,  on  the  part 
of  the  wife,  might  have  won  much  upon  a  man 
of  John’s  temper  ;  but  instead  of  trying  to  re¬ 
claim  him,  his  wife  seemed  rather  to  delight  in 
putting  him  as  much  in  the  wrong  as  she  could, 
that  she  might  be  justified  in  her  constant  abuse 
of  him.  I  doubt  whether  she  would  have  been  as 
much  pleased  with  his  reformation  as  she  was 
with  always  talking  of  his  faults,  though  I  know 
it  was  the  opinion  of  the  neighbours,  that  if  she 
had  taken  as  much  pains  to  reform  her  husband 
by  reforming  her  own  temper,  as  she  did  to 
abuse  him  and  expose  him,  her  endeavours 
might  have  been  blessed  with  success.  Good 
Christians,  who  are  trying  to  subdue  their  own 
faults,  can  hardly  believe  that  the  ungodly  have 
a  sort  of  savage  satisfaction  in  trying,  by  indul¬ 
gence  of  their  own  evil  tempers,  to  lessen  the 
happiness  of  those  with  whom  they  have  to  do. 
Need  we  look  any  farther  for  a  proof  of  our  own 
corrupt  nature,  when  we  see  mankind  delight  in 
sins  which  have  neither  the  temptation  of  profit 
or  the  allurement  of  pleasure,  such  as  plaguing, 
vexing,  or  abusing  each  other. 

Hester  was  the  eldest  of  their  five  children 
she  was  a  sharp  sensible  girl,  but  at  fourteen 
years  old  she  could  not  tell  a  letter,  nor  had  she 
ever  been  taught  to  bow  her  knee  to  Him  who 
made  her,  for  John’s  or  rather  Rebecca’s  house, 
had  seldom  the  name  of  God  pronounced  in  it, 
except  to  be  blasphemed. 

It  was  just  about  this  time,  if  I  mistake  not, 
that  Mrs.  Jones  set  up  her  Sunday-school,  of 
which  Mrs.  Betty  Crew  was  appointed  mistress, 
as  has  been  before  related.  Mrs.  Jones  finding 
that  none  of  the  Wilmots  were  sent  to  school, 
took  a  walk  to  Rebecca’s  house,  and  civilly  told 
her,  she  called  to  let  her  know  that  a  school  was 
opened,  to  which  she  desired  her  to  send  her 
children  on  Sunday  following,  especially  her 
eldest  daughter  Hester.  ‘  Well,’  said  Rebecca, 
‘and  what  will  you  give  her  if  I  do  ?’  ‘  Give 

her  !’  replied  Mrs.  Jones,  ‘  that  is  rather  a  rude 
question,  and  asked  in  a  rude  manner  :  how¬ 
ever,  as  a  soft  answer  turneth  away  wrath,  I 
assure  you  that  I  will  give  her  the  best  of  learn¬ 
ing  ;  I  will  teach  her  to  fear  God  and  keep  Ms 
commandments'  ‘  I  would  rather  you  would 
teach  her  to  fear  me,  and  keep  m3'  house  clean,’ 
said  this  wicked  woman.  ‘  She  shan’t  come, 
however,  unless  you  will  pay  her  for  it.’  ‘  Pay 
her  for  it !’  said  the  lady,  ‘  will  ^J^ot  be  reward 
enough  that  she  will  be  taught  t6  read  the  word 
of  God  without  any  expense  to  you  ?  For  though 
many  gifts  both  of  books  and  clothing  will  be 
given  the  children,  yet  you  are  not  to  consider 
those  gifts  so  much  in  the  light  of  payment  as 
an  expression  of  good  will  in  your  benefactors.’ 
‘  I  say,’  interrupted  Rebecca,  ‘  that  Hester  shan’t 
go  to  school.  Religion  is  of  no  use  that  I  know 
of  but  to  make  people  hate  their  own  flesh  and 
blood ;  and  I  see  no  good  in  learning  but  to 
make  folks  proud,  and  lazy,  and  dirty.  I  cannot 
tell  a  letter  myself,  and,  though  I  say  it,  that 
should  not  say  it,  there  is  not  a  notabler  woman 
in  the  parish.’  ‘  Pray,’  said  Mrs.  Jones  mildly 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


235 


do  you  thiuK  that  young  people  will  disobey 
their  parents  the  more  for  being  taught  to  fear 
Ood  ?’  ‘  I  don’t  think  any  thing  about  it,’  said 
Rebecca;  ‘  I  shan’t  let  her  come,  and  there’s  the 
long  and  short  of  the  matter.  Hester  has  other 
fish  to  fry  ;  but  you  may  have  some  of  these  lit¬ 
tle  ones  if  you  will :’  ‘  No,’  said  Mrs.  Jones, 
*  I  will  not ;  I  have  not  set  up  a  nursery,  but  a 
school.  I  am  not  at  all  this  expense  to  take  cry¬ 
ing  babes  out  of  the  mother’s  way,  but  to  in¬ 
struct  reasonable  beings  in  the  road  to  eternal 
life  ;  and  it  ought  to  be  a  rule  in  all  schools  not 
to  take  the  troublesome  young  children  unless 
the  mother  will  try  to  spare  the  elder  ones,  who 
are  capable  of  learning.’  ‘  But,’  said  Rebecca, 
‘  I  have  a  young  child  which  Hester  must  nurse 
while  I  dress  dinner.  And  she  must  iron  the 
rags,  and  scour  the  irons,  and  dig  the  potatoes, 
and  fetch  the  water  to  boil  them.’  ‘  As  to  nurs¬ 
ing  the  child,  that  is  indeed  a  necessary  duty, 
and  Hester  ought  to  stay  at  home  part  of  the 
day  to  enable  you  to  go  to  church  ;  and  families 
should  relieve  each  other  in  this  way,  but  as  to 
all  the  rest  they  are  no  reasons  at  all,  for  the 
irons  need  not  be  scoured  so  often,  and  the  rags 
should  be  ironed,  and  the  potatoes  dug,  and  the 
water  fetched  on  the  Saturday  ;  and  I  can  tell 
you  that  neither  your  minister  here,  nor  your 
Judge  hereafter,  will  accept  of  any  such  ex¬ 
cuses.’ 

All  this  while  Hester  staid  behind  pale  and 
trembling,  lest  her  unkind  mother  should  carry 
her  point.  She  looked  up  at  Mrs.  Jones  with  so 
much  love  and  gratitude,  as  to  win  her  affection, 
and  this  good  lady  went  on  trying  to  soften  this 
harsh  mother.  At  last  Rebecca  condescended 
to  say,  ‘Well  I  don’t  know  but  I  may  let  her 
come  now  and  then  when  I  can  spare  her,  pro¬ 
vided  I  find  you  make  it  worth  her  while.’  All 
this  time  she  had  never  asked  Mrs.  Jones  to 
sit  down,  nor  had  once  bid  her  young  children 
be  quiet,  though  they  were  crying  and  squalling 
the  whole  time.  Rebecca  fancied  this  rudeness 
was  the  only  way  she  had  of  showing  she  thouglit 
herself  to  be  as  good  as  her  guest,  but  Mrs. 
Jones  never  lost  her  temper.  The  moment  she 
went  out  of  the  house,  Rebecca  called  out  loud 
enough  for  her  to  hear,  and  ordered  Hester  to 
get  the  stone  and  a  hit  of  sand  to  scrub  out  the 
prints  of  that  dirty  woman’s  shoes.  Hester  in 
high  spirits  cheerfully  obeyed,  and  rubbed  out 
the  stains  so  neatly,  that  her  mother  could  not 
help  lamenting  that  so  handy  a  girl  was  going 
to  be  spoiled,  by  being  taught  godliness,  and 
learning  any  such  nonsense. 

Mrs.  Jone^lrho  knew  the  world,  told  her 
agent  Mrs.  Crew, ‘that  her  grand  difficulty  would 
arise  not  so  much  from  the  children  as  the  pa¬ 
rents.  These,  said  she,  are  apt  to  fall  into  that 
sad  mistake,  that  because  their  children  are 
poor,  and  have  a  little  of  this  world’s  goods,  the 
mothers  must  make  it  up  to  them  in  false  indul¬ 
gence.  The  children  of  the  gentry  are  much 
more  reproved  and  corrected  for  their  faults,  and 
bred  up  in  far  stricter  discipline.  He  was  a 
king  who  said.  Chasten  thy  son,  and  let  not  thy 
rod  spare  for  his  crying.  But  do  not  lose  your 
patience  ;  the  more  vicious  the  children  are,  you 
must  remember  the  more  they  stand  in  need  of 
your  instruction.  When  they  are  bad,  comfort 


yourself  with  thinking  how  much  worse  they 
would  have  been  but  for  you ;  and  what  a  bur¬ 
den  they  would  become  to  society  if  these  evil 
tempers  were  to  receive  no  check.  The  great 
thing  which  enabled  Mrs.  Crew  to  teach  well, 
was  the  deep  insight  she  had  got  into  the  corrup¬ 
tion  of  human  nature.  And  I  doubt  if  any  one  can 
make  a  thoroughly  good  teacher  of  religion  and 
morals,  who  wants  the  master-key  to  the  heart. 
Others  indeed  may  teach  knowledge,  decency, 
and  good  manners;  but  those,  however  valuable, 
are  not  Christianity.  Mrs.  Crew,  who  knew 
that  out  of  the  heart  proceed  lying,  theft,  and 
all  that  train  of  evils  which  begin  to  break  out 
even  in  young  children,  applied  her  labours  to 
correct  this  root  of  evil.  But  though  a  diligent, 
she  was  a  humble  teacher,  well  knowing  that 
unless  the  grace  of  God  blessed  her  labours,  she 
should  but  labour  in  vain. 

Hestor  Wilmot  never  failed  to  attend  the 
school,  whenever  her  perverse  mother  would 
give  her  leave,  and  her  delight  in  learning  was 
so  great,  that  she  would  work  early  and  late  to 
gain  a  little  time  for  her  book.  As  she  had  a 
quick  capacity,  she  learned  soon  to  spell  and 
read,  and  Mrs.  Crew  observing  her  diligence, 
used  to  lend  her  a  book  to  carry  home,  that  she 
might  pick  up  a  little  at  odd  times.  It  would 
be  well  if  teachers  would  make  this  distinction. 
To  give,  or  lend  books  to  those  who  take  no  de¬ 
light  in  them  is  an  useless  expense  ;  while  it  is 
kind  and  right  to  assist  well-disposed  young  peo¬ 
ple  with  every  help  of  this  sort.  Those  who 
love  books  seldom  hurt  them,  while  the  slothful 
who  hate  learning,  will  wear  out  a  book  more 
in  a  week,  than  the  diligent  will  do  in  a  year. 
Hester’s  way  was  to  read  over  one  question  in 
her  catechism,  or  one  verse  in  her  hymn  book, 
by  fire-light  before  she  went  to  bed  ;  this,  she 
thought  over  in  the  night ;  and  when  she  was 
dressing  herself  in  the  morning,  she  was  glad 
to  find  she  always  knew  a  little  more  than  she 
had  done  the  morning  before.  It  is  not  to  be 
believed  how  much  those  people  will  be  found 
to  have  gained  at  the  end  of  the  year,  who  are 
accustomed  to  work  up  all  the  little  odd  ends 
and  remnants  of  leisure  ;  who  value  time  even 
more  than  money  ;  and  who  are  convinced  that 
minutes  are  no  more  to  be  wasted  than  pence. 
Nay,  he  who  finds  he  has  wasted  a  shilling  may 
by  diligence  hope  to  fetch  it  up  again  ;  but  nu 
repentance  or  industry  can  ever  bring  back  one 
wasted  hour.  My  good  young  reader,  if  ever 
you  are  tempted  to  waste  an  hour,  go  and  ask  a 
dying  man  what  he  would  give  for  that  hour 
which  you  are  throwing  away,  and  according  as 
he  answers  so  do  you  act. 

As  her  mother  hated  the  sight  of  a  book,  Hes¬ 
ter  was  forced  to  learn  out  of  sight :  it  was  no 
disobedience  to  do  this,  as  long  as  she  wasted  no 
part  of  that  time  which  it  was  her  duty  to  spend 
in  useful  labour.  She  would  have  thought  it  a 
sin  to  have  left  her  work  for  her  book ;  but  she 
did  not  think  it  wrong  to  steal  time  from  her 
sleep,  and  to  be  learning  an  hour  before  the  rest 
of  the  lamily  were  awake.  Hester  would  not 
neglect  the  washing-tub,  or  the  spinning-wheel, 
even  to  get  on  with  her  catechism ;  but  she 
thought  it  fair  to  think  over  her  questio^ns,  while 
she  was  washing  and  spinning.  In  a  few  months 


236 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


«he  was  able  to  read  fluently  in  St.  John’s  Gos¬ 
pel,  which  is  the  easiest  But  Mrs.  Crew  did 
not  think  it  enough  that  her  children  could  read 
a  chapter,  she  would  make  them  understand  it 
also.  It  is  in  a  good  degree  owing  to  the  want 
of  religious  knowledge  in  teachers,  that  there  is 
so  little  religion  in  the  world.  Unless  the  Bible 
is  laid  open  to  the  understanding,  children  may 
read  from  Genesis  to  the  Revelation,  without 
any  other  improvement  than  barely  learning 
how  to  pronounce  the  words.  Mrs.  Crew  found 
there  was  but  one  way  to  compel  their  attention  ; 
this  was  by  obliging  them  to  return  back  again 
to  her  the  sense  of  what  she  had  read  to  them, 
and  this  they  might  do  in  their  own  words,  if 
they  could  not  remember  the  words  of  Scrip¬ 
ture.  Those  who  had  weak  capacities  would, 
to  be  sure,  do  this  but  very  imperfectly ;  but 
even  the  weakest,  if  they  were  willing,  would 
retain  something.  She  so  managed  that  saying 
the  catechism  was  not  merely  an  act  of  the  me¬ 
mory,  but  of  the  understanding  :  for  she  had  ob¬ 
served  formerly  that  those  who  had  learned  the 
catechism  in  the  common  formal  way,  when 
they  were  children,  had  never  understood  it 
when  they  became  men  and  women,  and  it  re¬ 
mained  in  the  memory  without  having  made 
any  impression  on  the  mind.  Thus  this  fine 
summary  of  the  Christian  religion  is  considered 
as  little  more  than  a  form  of  words,  the  being 
able  to  repeat  which,  is  a  qualification  for  being 
confirmed  by  the  bishop,  instead  of  being  con¬ 
sidered  as  really  containing  those  grounds  of 
Christian  faith  and  practice,  by  which  they  are 
to  be  confirmed  Christians. 

Mrs.  Crew  used  to  say  to  Mrs.  Jones,  those 
who  teach  the  poor  must  indeed  give  line  upon 
line,  precept  upon  precept,  here  a  little  and  there 
a  little,  as  they  can  receive  it.  So  that  teaching 
must  be  a  great  grievance  to  those  who  do  not 
really  make  it  a  labour  of  love.  I  see  so  much 
levity,  obstinacy,  and  ignorance,  that  it  keeps 
my  own  forbearance  in  continual  exercise,  inso¬ 
much  that  I  trust  I  am  getting  good  myself, 
while  I  am  doing  good  to  others.  No  one,  ma¬ 
dam,  can  know  till  they  try,  that  after  they  have 
asked  a  poor  untaught  child  the  same  question 
nineteen  times,  they  must  not  lose  their  temper, 
but  go  on  and  ask  it  the  twentieth.  Now  and 
then,  when  I  am  tempted  to  be  impatient,  I  cor¬ 
rect  myself  by  thinking  over  that  active  proof 
which  our  blessed  Saviour  requires  of  our  love 
to  him  when  he  says.  Feed  my  lambs. 

Hester  Wilmot  had  never  been  bred  to  go  to 
church,  for  lier  father  and  mother  had  never 
thought  of  going  themselves,  unless  at  a  chris¬ 
tening  in  their  own  family,  or  at  a  funeral  of 
their  neighbours,  both  of  which  they  considered 
merely  as  opportunities  for  good  eating  and 
drinking,  and  not  as  offices  of  religion. 

As  poor  Hester  had  no  comfort  at  home,  it 
was  the  less  wonder  she  delighted  in  her  school, 
her  Bible,  and  her  church  ;  for  so  great  is  God’s 
goodness,  that  he  is  pleased  to  make  religion  a 
peculiar  comfort  to  those  who  have  no  other 
comfort.  The  God  whose  name  slie  had  seldom 
heard  but  when  it  was  taken  in  vain,  was  now 
revealed  to  her  as  a  God  of  infinite  power,  jus¬ 
tice,  and  holiness.  What  she  read  in  her  Bible, 
and  what  she  felt  in  her  own  heart,  convinced 


her  she  was  a  sinner,  and  her  catechism  saM 
the  same.  She  was  much  distressed  one  day 
on  thinking  over  this  promise  which  she  had 
just  made  (in  answer  to  the  question  which  fell 
to  her  lot)  To  renounce  the  devil  and  all  his 
works,  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  wicked 
world,  and  all  the  sinful  lusts  of  the  flesh.  I 
say  she  was  distressed  on  finding  that  these 
were  not  merely  certain  words  which  she  was 
bound  to  repeat,  but  certain  conditions  which 
she  was  bound  to  perform.  She  was  sadly  puz¬ 
zled  to  know  how  this  was  to  be  done,  till  she 
met  with  these  words  in  her  Bible  :  My  grace 
is  sufficient  for  thee.  But  still  she  was  at  a  loss 
to  know  how  this  grace  was  to  be  obtained. 
Happily  Mr.  Simpson  preached  on  the  next  Sun¬ 
day  from  this  text.  Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,  &c. 
In  this  sermon  was  explained  to  her  the  nature,, 
the  duty,  and  the  efficacy  of  prayer.  After  this 
she  opened  her  heart  to  Mrs.  Crew,  who  taught 
her  the  great  doctrines  of  Scripture,  in  a  serious 
but  plain  way.  Hester’s  own  heart  led  her  to 
assent  to  that  humbling  doctrine  of  the  catechism, 
that  We  are  by  nature  born  in  sin ;  and  truly 
glad  was  she  to  be  relieved  by  hearing  of  That 
spiritual  grace  by  which  we  have  a  new  birth 
unto  righteousness.  Thus  her  mind  was  no 
sooner  humbled  by  one  part  than  it  gained  com¬ 
fort  from  another.  O.i  the  other  hand,  while 
she  was  rejoicing  in  a  lively  hope  in  God's  mer¬ 
cy  through  Christ,  her  mistress  put  her  in  mind 
that  that  was  only  the  true  repentance  by  which 
we  forsake  sin.  Thus  the  catechism,  explained 
by  a  pious  teacher,  was  found  to  contain  all  the 
articles  of  the  Christian  faith. 

Mrs.  Jones  greatly  disapproved  the  practice 
of  turning  away  the  scholars  because  they  were 
grown  up.  Young  people,  said  she,  want  to  be 
warned  at  sixteen  more  than  they  did  at  six, 
and  they  are  commonly  turned  adrift  at  the  very 
age  when  they  want  most  instruction ;  when 
dangers  and  temptations  most  beset  them.  They 
are  exposed  to  more  evil  by  the  leisure  of  a  Sun¬ 
day  evening  than  by  the  business  of  a  whole 
week  :  but  then  religion  must  be  made  pleasant,, 
and  instruction  must  be  carried  on  in  a  kind, 
and  agreeable,  and  familiar  way.  If  they  once 
dislike  the  teacher  they  will  soon  get  to  dislike 
what  is  taught,  so  that  a  master  or  mistress  is 
in  some  measure  answerable  for  the  future  piety 
of  young  persons,  inasmuch  as  that  piety  de 
pends  on  their  manner  of  making  religion  plea 
sant  as  well  as  profitable. 

To  attend  Mrs.  Jones’s  evening  instructions 
was  soon  thought  not  a  task  but  a  holiday.  In 
a  few  months  it  was  reckone^jji  disadvantage 
to  the  character  of  any  young  person  in  the  pa¬ 
rish  to  know  that  they  did  not  attend  the  even, 
ing  school.  At  first,  indeed,  many  of  them  came 
only  with  a  view  to  learn  amusement ;  but,  by 
the  blessing  of  God,  they  grew  fond  of  instruc¬ 
tion,  and  some  of  them  became  truly  pious. 
Mrs.  Jones  spoke  to  them  on  Sunday  evening 
as  follows  : — ‘  My  dear  young  women,  I  rejoice 
at  your  improvement;  but  I  rejoice  with  trem¬ 
bling.  I  have  known  young  people  set  out  well, 
who  afterwards  fell  off.  The  heart  is  deceitful. 
Many  like  religious  knowledge,  who  do  not  like 
the  strictness  of  a  religious  life.  I  must  there¬ 
fore  watch  whether  those  who  are  diligent  at 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


237 


church  and  school,  are  diligent  in  their  daily 
walk.  Whether  those  who  say  they  believe  in 
God,  really  obey  him.  Whether  they  who  pro¬ 
fess  to  love  Christ  keep  his  coinmandments. 
Those  who  hear  themselves  commended  for 
early  piety,  may  learn  to  rest  satisfijid  with  the 
praise  of  man.  People  may  get  a  knack  at  re¬ 
ligious  phrases  without  being  religious ;  they 
may  even  get  to  frequent  places  of  worship  as 
an  amusement,  in  order  to  meet  their  friends, 
and  may  learn  to  delight  in  a  sort  of  spiritual 
gossip,  while  religion  has  no  power  in  their 
hearts.  But  I  hope  better  things  of  you,  and 
things  that  accompany  salvation,  though  I  thus 
speak. 

What  became  of  Hester  Wilmot,  with  some 
account  of  Mrs.  Jones’s  May-day  feast  for  her 
school,  my  readers  shall  be  told  next  month. 


PART  II. 

The  New  Gown. 

Hester  Wilmot,  I  am  sorry  to  observe,  had 
been  by  nature  peevish,  and  lazy;  she  would 
when  a  child,  now  and  then  slight  her  work, 
and  when  her  mother  was  unreasonable  she  was 
too  apt  to  return  a  saucy  answer  ;  but  when  she 
became  acquainted  with  her  own  heart,  and  with 
the  Scriptures,  these  evil  tempers  were,  in  a  good 
measure,  subdued,  for  she  now  learnt  to  imitate, 
•not  her  violent  mother,  but  him  who  was  meek 
and  lowly.  When  she  was  scolded  for  doing  ill, 
she  prayed  for  grace  to  do  better  ;  and  the  only 
answer  she  made  to  her  mother’s  charge,  ‘  that 
religion  only  served  to  make  people  lazy,’  was 
to  strive  to  do  twice  as  much  work,  in  order  to 
prove  that  really  made  them  diligent.  The  only 
thing  in  which  she  ventured  to  disobey  her  mo¬ 
ther  was,  that  when  she  ordered  her  to  do  week 
day’s  work  on  a  Sunday,  Hester  cried,  and  said, 
she  did  not  dare  to  disobey  God  ;  but  to  show 
that  she  did  not  wish  to  save  her  own  labour, 
she  would  do  a  double  portion  of  work  on  the 
Saturday  night,  and  rise  two  hours  earlier  on 
Monday  morning. 

Once,  when  she  had  worked  very  hard,  her 
mother  told  her  she  would  treat  her  with  a  holy- 
day  the  following  Sabbath,  and  take  her  a  fine 
walk  to  eat  cakes  and  drink  ale  at  Weston  fair, 
which,  though  it  was  professed  to  be  kept  on  the 
Monday,  yet,  to  the  disgrace  of  the  village,  al¬ 
ways  began  on  the  Sunday  evening.*  Rebecca, 
who  would  on  no  account  have  wasted  the  Mon¬ 
day,  which  was  a  working  day,  in  idleness  and 
pleasure,  thought  she  had  a  very  good  right  to 
enjoy  herself  at  the  fair  on  the  Sunday  evening, 
as  well  as  to  take  her  children.  Hester  earnest¬ 
ly  begged  to  be  left  at  home,  and  her  mother  in 
a  rage  went  without  her.  A  wet  walk,  and 
more  ale  than  she  was  used  to  drink,  gave  Re¬ 
becca  a  dangerous  fever. — During  this  illness 

♦This  practice  is  too  common.  Tliose  fairs  which 
rofcss  to  bo  kept  on  Monday,  commonly  begin  on  the 
unday.  It  isinucli  to  be  wished  that  magistrates  would 
put  a  stop  to  it,  as  Mr.  Simpson  did  at  Weston,  at  tiie 
(request  of  Mrs.  Jones.  There  is  another  great  evil  worth 
the  notice  of  justices.  In  many  villiiges,  during  the  fair, 
ale  is  sold  at  private  houses,  which  have  no  license,  to 
the  great  injury  of  sobriety  and  good  morals. 


Hester,  who  would  not  follow  her  to  a  scene  of 
dissolute  mirth,  attended  her  night  and  day,  and 
denied  herself  necessaries  that  her  sick  mother 
might  have  comforts  :  and  though  she  secretly 
prayed  to  God  that  this  sickness  might  change 
her  mother’s  heart,  yet  she  never  once  reproach¬ 
ed  her,  or  put  her  in  mind,  that  it  was  caught 
by  indulging  in  a  sinful  pleasure. 

Another  Sunday  night  her  father  told  Hester, 
he  thought  she  had  now  been  at  school  long 
enough  for  him  to  have  a  little  good  of  her  learn¬ 
ing,  so  he  desired  she  would  stay  at  home  and 
read  to  him.  Hester  cheerfully  ran  and  fetched 
her  Testament.  But  John  fell  a  laughing,  call¬ 
ed  her  a  fool,  and  said,  it  would  be  time  enough 
to  read  the  Testament  to  him  when  he  was  go¬ 
ing  to  die,  but  at  present  he  must  have  some- 
thing  merry.  So  saying,  he  gave  her  a  song 
book  which  he  had  picked  up  at  the  Bell.  Hester 
having  cast  her  eyes  over  it,  refused  to  read  it, 
saying  she  did  not  dare  offend  God  by  reading 
what  would  hurt  her  own  soul. — John  called 
her  a  canting  hypocrite ;  and  said,  he  would 
put  the  Testament  into  the  fire  for  that  there 
was  not  a  more  merry  girl  than  she  was  before 
she  became  religious. — Her  mother  for  once  took 
her  part,  not  because  she  thought  her  daughter 
in  the  right,  but  because  she  was  glad  of  any 
pretence  to  show  her  husband  was  in  the  wrong ; 
though  she  herself  would  have  abused  Hester 
for  the  same  thing  if  John  had  taken  her  part. 
John,  with  a  shocking  oath  abused  them  both  ; 
and  went  off  in  a  violent  passion. — Hester,  in¬ 
stead  of  saying  one  undutiful  word  against  her 
father,  took  up  a  Psalter  in  order  to  teach  her 
little  sisters ;  but  Rebecca  was  so  provoked  at 
her  for  not  joining  her  in  her  abuse  of  her  hus¬ 
band,  that  she  changed  her  humour,  said  John 
was  in  the  right,  and  Hester  a  perverse  hypo¬ 
crite,  who  only  made  religion  a  pretence  for 
being  undutiful  to  her  parents.  Hester  bore  all 
in  silence,  and  committed  her  cause  to  Him  who 
judgeth  righteously.  It  would  have  been  a  great 
comfort  to  her  if  she  had  dared  to  go  to  Mrs. 
Crew,  and  to  have  joined  in  the  religious  exer¬ 
cises  of  the  evening  at  school.  But  her  mother 
refused  to  let  her,  saying  it  would  only  harden 
her  heart  in  mischief.  Hester  said  not  a  word, 
but  after  having  put  the  little  ones  to  bed,  and 
heard  them  say  their  prayers  out  of  sight,  she 
went  and  sat  down  in  her  own  little  loft,  and 
said  to  herself,  it  would  be  pleasant  to  me  to 
have  taught  my  little  sisters  to  read,  I  thought 
it  was  my  duty,  for  David  has  said.  Come  ye 
children  hearken  unto  me,  I  will  teach  you  the 
fear  of  the  Lord.  It  would  have  been  still  more 
pleasant  to  have  passed  the  evening  at  school, 
because  I  am  still  ignorant,  and  fitter  to  learn 
than  to  teach ;  but  I  cannot  do  either  without 
flying  in  the  face  of  my  mother ;  God  sees  fit 
to-night  to  change  my  pleasant  duties  into  a 
painful  trial.  I  give  up  my  will,  and  I  submit 
to  the  will  of  my  father ;  but  when  he  orders 
me  to  commit  a  known  sin,  then  I  dare  not  do 
it,  because,  in  so  doing,  I  must  disobey  my  Fa- 
ther  which  is  in  heaven. 

Now  it  so  fell  out,  that  this  dispute  happened 
on  the  very  Sunday  next  before  Mrs.  Jones’s 
yearly  feast.  On  May-day  all  the  school  at- 
tended  her  to  church,  each  in  a  stuff  gown  of 


238 


THE  WORK,S  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


their  own  earning,  and  a  cap  and  white  apron 
of  her  giving.  After  church  there  was  an  ex¬ 
amination  made  into  the  learning  and  behaviour 
of  the  scholars ;  those  who  were  most  perfect  in 
their  chapters,  and  who  Drought  the  best  cha¬ 
racter  for  industry,  humility,  and  sobriety,  re¬ 
ceived  a  Bible,  or  some  other  good  book. 

Now  Hester  had  been  a  whole  year  hoarding 
up  her  little  savings,  in  order  to  be  ready  with 
a  new  gown  on  the  May-day  feast.  She  had 
never  got  less  than  two  shillings  a  week  by  her 
spinning,  besides  working  for  the  family,  and 
earning  a  trifle  by  odd  jobs. — This  money  she 
faithfully  carried  to  her  mother  every  Saturday 
night,  keeping  back  by  consent,  only  twopence 
a-week  towards  the  gown.  The  sum  was  com¬ 
plete,  the  pattern  had  long  been  settled,  and 
Hester  had  only  on  the  Monday  morning  to  go 
to  the  shop,  pay  her  money,  and  bring  home  her 
gown  to  be  made.  Her  mother  happened  to  go 
out  early  that  morning  to  iron  in  a  gentleman’s 
family,  where  she  usually  staid  a  day  or  two, 
and  Hester  was  busy  putting  the  house  in  order 
before  she  went  to  the  shop. 

On  that  very  Monday  there  was  to  be  a 
meeting  at  the  Bfcll  of  all  the  idle  fellows  in  the 
parish.  John  Wilmot  of  course  was  to  be  there. 
Indeed  he  had  accepted  a  challenge  of  the  black¬ 
smith  to  a  batch  at  all-fours.  The  blacksmith 
was  flush  of  money,  John  thought  himself  the 
best  player ;  and  that  he  might  make  sure  of 
winning,  he  resolved  to  keep  himself  sober, 
which  he  knew  was  more  than  the  other  would 
do.  John  was  so  used  to  go  upon  tick  for  ale, 
that  he  got  to  the  door  of  the  Bell  before  he  re¬ 
collected  that  he  could  not  keep  his  word  with 
the  gambler  without  money,  and  he  had  not  a 
penny  in  his  pocket,  so  he  sullenly  turned  home¬ 
wards.  He  dared  not  apply  to  his  wife,  as  he 
knew  he  should  be  more  likely  to  get  a  scratch¬ 
ed  face  than  a  sixpence  from  her ;  but  he  knew 
that  Hester  had  received  two  shillings  for  her 
last  week’s  spinning  on  Saturday,  and  perhaps 
she  might  not  yet  have  given  it  to  her  mother. 
Of  the  hoarded  sum  he  knew  nothing.  He  ask¬ 
ed  her  if  she  could  lend  him  half  a  crown,  and 
he  would  pay  her  next  day.  Hester  pleased  to 
see  him  in  good  humour  after  what  had  passed 
the  night  before  ran  up  and  fetched  down  her 
little  box,  and  in  the  Joy  of  her  heart  that  he 
now  desired  something  she  could  comply  with 
without  wounding  her  conscience,  cheerfully 
poured  out  her  whole  little  stock  upon  the  table. 
John  was  in  raptures  at  the  sight  of  three  half- 
crowns  and  a  sixpence,  and  eagerly  seized  it, 
box  and  all,  together  with  a  few  hoarded  half¬ 
pence  at  the  bottom,  though  he  had  only  asked 
to  borrow  half-a-crown.  None  but  one  whose 
heart  was  hardened  by  a  long  course  of  drunk¬ 
enness  could  have  taken  away  the  whole,  and 
for  such  a  purpose.  He  told  her  she  should 
certainly  have  it  again  next  morning,  and,  in¬ 
deed  intended  to  pay  it,  not  doubting  but  he 
should  double  the  sum.  But  John  overrated 
his  own  skill,  or  luck,  for  he  lost  every  farthing 
to  the  blacksmith,  and  sneaked  home  before 
midnight,  and  quietly  walked  up  to  bed.  He 
was  quite  sober,  which  Hester  thought  a  good 
sign.  Next  morning  she  asked  him,  in  a  very 
humble  way,  for  the  money,  which  she  said  she 


would  not  have  done,  but  that  if  the  gown  wa» 
not  bought  directly  it  would  not  be  ready  in  time 
for  the  feast.  John’s  conscience  had  troubled 
him  a  little  for  what  he  had  done,  for  when  he 
was  not  drunk  he  was  not  ill-natured,  and  he 
stammered  out  a  broken  excuse,  but  owned  ho 
had  lost  the  money,  and  had  not  a  farthing  left. 
The  moment  Hester  saw  him  mild  and  kind 
her  heart  was  softened,  and  she  begged  him  not 
to  vex ,  adding,  that  she  would  be  contented 
never  to  have  a  new  gown  as  long  as  she  lived, 
if  she  could  have  the  comfort  of  always  seeing 
him  come  home  sober  as  he  was  last  night.  For 
Hester  did  not  know  that  he  had  refrained  from 
getting  drunk,  only  that  he  might  gamble  with 
a  better  chance  of  success,  and  that  when  a 
gamester  keeps  himself  sober,  it  is  not  that  he 
may  practice  a  virtue,  but  that  he  may  commit 
a  worse  crime.  ‘  I  am  indeed  sorry  for  what  I 
have  done,’  said  he  ;  ‘  you  cannot  go  to  the  feast, 
and  what  will  madam  Jones  say?’ — ‘  Yes,  but  I 
can,  said  Hester,  ‘  for  God  looks  not  at  the  gown, 
but  at  the  heart,  and  I  am  sure  he  sees  mine  full 
of  gratitude  at  hearing  you  talk  so  kindly  ;  and 
if  I  thought  my  dear  father  would  change  his 
present  evil  courses,  I  should  be  the  happiest 
girl  at  the  feast  to-morrow.’  John  walked  away 
mournfully,  and  said  to  himself,  surely  there 
must  be  something  in  religion,  since  it  can  thus 
change  the  heart.  Hester  was  once  a  pert  girl, 
and  now  she  is  as  mild  as  a  lamb.  She  was  once 
an  indolent  girl,  and  now  she  is  up  with  the 
lark.  She  was  a  vain  girl,  and  would  do  any 
thing  for  a  new  riband ;  and  now  she  is  con¬ 
tented  to  go  in  rags  to  a  feast  at  which  every 
one  else  will  have  a  new  gown.  She  deprived 
herself  of  her  gown  to  give  me  the  money  ;  and 
yet  this  very  girl,  so  dutiful  in  some  respects, 
would  submit  to  be  turned  out  of  doors  rather 
than  read  a  loose  book  at  my  command,  or 
break  the  Sabbath.  I  do  not  understand  this  ; 
there  must  be  some  mystery  in  it.  All  this  he 
said  as  he  was  going  to  work.  In  the  evening 
he  did  not  go  to  the  Bell :  whether  it  was  owing 
to  his  new  thoughts,  or  to  his  not  having  a  penny 
in  his  pocket,  I  will  not  take  upon  me  positively 
to  say,  but  I  believe  it  was  a  little  of  one  and  a 
little  of  the  other. 

As  the  pattern  of  the  intended  gown  had  long 
been  settled  in  the  family,  and  as  Hester  had 
the  money  by  her,  it  was  looked  on  as  good  as 
bought,  so  that  she  was  trusted  to  get  it  brought 
home,  and  made  in  her  mother’s  absence.  In¬ 
deed,  so  little  did  Rebecca  care  about  the  school, 
that  she  would  not  have  cared  any  thing  about 
the  gown,  if  her  vanity  had  not  made  her  wish 
that  her  daughter  should  be  the  best  drest  of 
any  girl  at  the  feast.  Being  from  home,  as 
was  said  before,  she  knew  nothing  of  the  dis¬ 
appointment.  On  May-day  morning,  Hester, 
instead  of  keeping  from  the  feast,  because  she- 
had  not  a  new  gown,  or  meanly  inventing  any 
excuse  for  wearing  an  old  one,  dressed  herself 
out  as  neatly  as  she  could  in  her  poor  old  things, 
and  went  to  join  the  school  in  order  to  go  to 
church.  Whether  Hester  had  formerly  indulg¬ 
ed  a  little  pride  of  heart,  and  talked  of  thix 
gown  rather  too  much,  I  am  not  quite  sure  ; 
certain  it  is,  there  was  a  great  hue  and  cry 
made  at  seeing  Hester  Wilmot,  the  neatest  girl, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


23^ 


the  most  industrious  girl  in  the  school,  come  to 
the  May-day  feast  in  an  old  stuff  gown,  when 
every  other  girl  was  so  creditably  drest.  In¬ 
deed,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  there  were  two  or 
three  much  too  smart  for  their  station,  and  who 
had  dizened  themselves  out  in  very  improper 
finery,  which  Mrs.  Jones  made  them  take  off 
before  her.  ‘  I  mean  this  feast,’  said  she,  ‘  as 
a  reward  of  industry  and  piety,  and  not  as 
a  trial  of  skill  who  can  be  finest,  and  outvie  the 
rest  in  show.  If  I  do  not  take  care,  my  feast 
will  become  an  encouragement,  not  to  virtue, 
but  to  vanity.  I  am  so  great  a  friend  to  decency 
of  apparel,  that  I  even  like  to  see  you  deny  your 
appetites,  that  you  may  be  able  to  come  decently 
dressed  to  the  house  of  God.  To  encourage  you 
to  do  this.  I  like  to  set  apart  this  one  day  of 
innocent  pleasure,  against  which  you  may  be 
preparing  all  the  year,  by  laying  aside  some¬ 
thing  every  week  towards  buying  a  gown  out 
of  all  your  savings.  But,  let  me  tell  you,  that 
meekness  and  an  humble  spirit  is  of  more  value 
in  the  sight  of  God  and  good  men,  than  the 
gayest  cotton  gown,  or  the  brightest  pink  riband 
in  the  parish.’ 

Mrs.  Jones  for  all  this,  was  as  much  surprised 
as  the  rest  at  Hester’s  mean  garb  :  but  such  is 
the  power  of  a  good  character,  that  she  gave 
her  credit  for  a  right  intention,  especially  as 
she  knew  the  unhappy  state  of  her  family.  For 
it  was  Mrs.  Jones’s  way,  (and  it  is  not  a  bad 
way,)  always  to  wait,  and  inquire  into  the  truth 
before  she  condemned  any  person  of  good  cha¬ 
racter,  though  appearances  were  against  them. 
As  we  cannot  judge  of  people’s  motives,  said 
she,  we  may,  from  ignorance,  often  condemn 
their  best  actions,  and  approve  of  their  worst. 
It  will  be  always  time  enough  to  judge  unfa¬ 
vourably,  and  let  us  give  others  credit  as  long 
as  we  can,  and  then  we  in  our  turn,  may  expect 
a  favourable  judgment  from  others,  and  remem¬ 
ber  who  had  said.  Judge  not,  that  ye  he  not 
judged. 

Hester  was  no  more  proud  of  what  she  had 
done  for  her  farther,  than  she  was  humbled  by 
the  meanness  ofher  garb  ;  and  notwithstanding 
Betty  Stiles,  one  of  the  girls  whose  finery  had 
been  taken  away,  sneered  at  her,  Hester  never 
offered  to  clear  herself,  by  exposing  her  father, 
though  she  thought  it  right,  secretly  to  inform 
Mrs.  Jones  of  what  had  past.  When  the  exami* 
nation  of  the  girls  began,  Betty  Stiles  was  asked 
some  questions  on  the  fourth  and  fifth  command¬ 
ments,  which  she  answered  very  well.  Hester 
was  asked  nearly  the  same  questions,  and,  though 
she  answered  them  no  better  than  Betty  had 
done,  they  were  all  surprised  to  see  Mrs.  Jones 
rise  up,  and  give  a  handsome  Bible  to  Hester, 
while  she  gave  nothing  to  Betty.  This  girl 
cried  out  rather  pertly,  ‘  Madam,  it  is  very  hard 
that  I  have  no  book  :  I  was  as  perfect  as  Hes¬ 
ter.’ — ‘  I  have  often  told  you,’  said  Mrs.  Jones, 

*  that  religion  is  not  a  thing  of  the  tongue  but 
of  the  heart.  That  girl  gives  me  the  best  proof 
that  she  has  learned  the  fourth  commandment 
to  good  purpose,  who  persists  in  keeping  holy 
the  Sabbath  day,  though  commanded  to  break 
it  by  a  parent  whom  she  loves.  And  that  girl 
best  proves  that  she  keeps  the  fifth,  who  gives 
ujo  her  own  comfort,  and  clothing,  and  credit,  to 


honour  and  obey  her  father  and  mother,  evei>- 
though  they  are  not  sueh  as  she  could  wish. 
Betty  Stiles,  though  she  could  answer  the  ques¬ 
tions  so  readily,  went  abroad  last  Sunday  when 
she  should  have  been  at  school,  and  refused  to 
nurse  her  siek  mother,  when  she  could  not  help 
herself.  Is  this  having  learnt  those  two  com 
mandments  to  any  good  purpose  V 

Farmer  Hoskins,  who  stood  by,  whispered 
Mrs.  Jones,  ‘Well,  madam,  now  you  have  con¬ 
vinced  even  me  of  the  benefit  of  religious  in¬ 
struction  ;  now  I  see  there  is  a  meaning  to  it. 
I  thought  it  was  in  at  one  ear  and  out  at  the 
other,  and  that  a  song  was  as  well  as  a  psalm ; 
but  now  I  have  found  the  proof  of  the  pudding 
is  in  the  eating.  I  see  your  scholars  must  do 
what  they  hear,  and  obey  what  they  learn.  Why, 
at  this  rate,  they  will  all  be  better  servants  for 
being  really  godly,  and  so  I  will  add  a  pudding 
to  next  year’s  feast.’ 

The  pleasure  Hester  felt  in  receiving  a  new 
Bible,  made  her  forget  that  she  had  on  an  old 
gown.  She  walked  to  church  in  a  thankful 
frame ;  but  how  great  was  her  joy,  wh^n  she 
saw,  among  a  number  of  working  men,  her  own 
father  going  into  church.  As  she  past  by  him-, 
she  cast  on  him  a  look  of  so  much  joy  and  affec¬ 
tion  that  it  brought  tears  into  his  eyes,  espe¬ 
cially  when  he  compared  her  mean  dress  with 
that  of  the  other  girls,  and  thought  who  had 
been  the  cause  of  it.  John,  who  had  not  been  at 
church  for  some  years,  was  deeply  struck  with 
the  service.  The  confession  with  whieh  it 
opens  went  to  his  heart.  He  felt,  for  the  first 
time,  that  he  was  a  miserable  sinner,  and  that 
there  was  no  health  in  him.  He  now  felt  com¬ 
punction  for  sin  in  general,  though  it  was  only 
his  ill-behaviour  to  his  daughter  which  had 
brought  him  to  church.  The  sermon  was  such 
as  to  strengthen  the  impression  which  the- 
prayers  had  made ;  and  when  it  was  over,  in¬ 
stead  of  joining  the  ringers,  Tor  the  belfry  was 
the  only  part  of  the  ehurch  John  liked,  because 
it  usually  led  to  the  ale-house,)  he  quietly  walk¬ 
ed  back  to  his  work.  It  was,  indeed,  the  best 
day’s  work  he  ever  made.  He  could  not  get 
out  of  his  head  the  whole  day,  the  first  words 
he  heard  at  church ;  When  the  wicked  man 
turneth  away  from  his  wickedness,  and  doeth 
that  which  is  lawful  and  right,  he  shall  save  his 
soul  alive.  At  night,  instead  of  going  to  the 
Bell,  he  went  home,  intending  to  ask  Hester  to 
forgive  him  ;  but  as  soon  as  he  got  to  the  door, 
he  heard  Rebecca  scolding  his  daughter  for 
having  brought  such  a  disgrace  on  the  family 
as  to  be  seen  in  that  old  rag  of  a  gown,  and  in¬ 
sisted  on  knowing  w’hat  she  had  done  with  the 
money.  Hester  tried  to  keep  the  secret,  but  her 
mother  declared  she  would  turn  her  out  of 
doors  if  she  did  not  tell  the  truth.  Hester  was 
at  last  forced  to  confess  she  had  given  it  to  her 
father.  Unfortunately  for  poor  John,  it  was  at 
this  very  moment  that  he  opened  the  door.  The 
mother  now  divided  her  fury  between  her  guilty 
husband  and  her  innocent  child,  till  from  words 
she  fell  to  blows.  John  defended  his  daughter, 
and  received  some  of  the  strokes  intended  for 
the  poor  girl.  This  turbulent  scene  partly  put 
John’s  good  resolution  to  flight,  though  the  pa¬ 
tience  of  Hester  did  him  almost  as  much  good 


240 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


as  the  sermon  he  had  heard.  At  length  the 
poor  girl  escaped  up  stairs,  not  a  little  bruised, 
and  a  scene  of  much  violence  passed  between 
John  and  Rebecca.  She  declared  she  would 
not  sit  down  to  supper  with  such  a  brute,  and 
set  off  to  a  neighbour’s  house,  that  she  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  abusing  him  the  longer. 
John,  whose  mind  was  much  disturbed,  went 
np  stairs  without  his  supper.  As  he  was  pass- 
ing  by  Hester’s  little  room  he  heard  her  voice, 
and  as  he  concluded  she  was  venting  bitter  com¬ 
plaints  against  her  unnatural  parents,  he  stop¬ 
ped  to  listen,  resolved  to  go  in  and  comfort  her. 
He  stopped  at  the  door,  for,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  he  saw  her  kneeling  by  her  bedside,  and 
praying  so  earnestly  that  she  did  not  hear  him. 
As  he  made  sure  she  could  be  praying  for  no¬ 
thing  but  his  death,  what  was  her  surprise  to 
hear  these  words :  ‘  O  Lord,  have  mercy  upon 
my  dear  father  and  mother,  teach  me  to  love 
them,  to  pray  for  them,  and  do  them  good;  make 
me  more  dutiful  and  more  patient,  that,  adorn¬ 
ing  the  doctrine  of  God,  my  Saviour,  I  may  re¬ 
commend  his  holy  religion,  and  my  dear  parents 
may  be  brought  to  love  and  fear  thee,  through 
Jesus  Christ.’ 

Poor  John,  who  would  never  have  been  hard¬ 
hearted  if  he  had  not  been  a  drunkard,  could 
not  stand  this,  he  fell  down  on  his  knees,  em¬ 
braced  his  child  ;  and  begged  her  to  teach  him 
how  to  pray.  He  prayed  himself  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  though  he  did  not  know  what  words 
to  use,  yet  his  heart  was  melted  ;  he  owned  he 
was  a  sinner,  and  begged  Hester  to  fetch  the 
prayer-book,’and  read  over  the  confession  with 
which  he  had  been  so  struck  at  church.  This 
was  the  pleasantest  order  she  had  ever  obeyed. 
Seeing  him  deeply  affected  with  a  sense  of  sin 
she  pointed  out  to  him  the  Saviour  of  sinners; 
and  in  this  manner  she  passed  some  hours  with 
her  father,  which  were  the  happiest  of  her  life; 
such  a  night  was  worth  a  hundred  cotton,  or 
even  silk  gowns.  In  the  course  of  the  week  Hes¬ 
ter  read  over  the  confession,  and  some  other 
prayers,  to  her  father  so  often  that  he  got  them 
by  heart,  and  repeated  them  while  he  was  at 
work. — She  next  taught  him  the  fifty-first 
psalm.  At  length  he  took  courage  to  kneel 
down  and  pray  before  he  went  to  bed.  From 
that  time  he  bore  his  wife’s  ill-humour  much 
better  than  he  had  ever  done,  and,  as  he  knew 
her  to  be  neat,  and  notable,  and  saving,  he  be¬ 
gan  to  think,  that  if  her  temper  was  not  quite 
so  bad,  his  home  might  still  become  as  pleasant 
a  place  to  him  as  ever  the  Bell  had  been ;  but 
unless  she  became  more  tractable  he  did  not 
know  what  to  do  with  his  long  evenings  after 
the  little  ones  were  in  bed,  for  he  began,  once 
more,  to  delight  in  playing  with  them.  Hester 
proposed  that  she  herself  should  teach  him  to 
read  an  hour  every  night,  and  he  consented. 
Rebecca  began  to  storm,  from  the  mere  trick 
she  had  got  of  storming;  but  finding  that  he 
now  brought  home  all  his  earnings,  and  that 
she  got  both  his  money  and  his  company,  (for 
she  had  once  loved  him,)  she  began  to  reconcile 
herself  to  this  new  way  of  life.  In  a  few  months 
John  could  read  a  psalm.  In  learning  to  read 
it  he  also  got  it  by  heart,  and  this  proved  a  little 
etore  for  private  devotion,  and  while  he  was 


mowing  or  reaping,  he  could  call  to  mind  a  text 
to  cheer  his  labour.  He  now  went  constantly 
to  church,  and  often  dropped  in  at  the  school  on 
a  Sunday  evening  to  hear  their  prayers.  He 
expressed  so  much  pleasure  at  this,  that  one  day 
Hester  ventured  to  ask  him  if  they  should  set 
up  family  prayer  at  home  ?  John  said  he  should 
like  it  mightily,  but  as  he  could  not  yet  read 
quite  well  enough,  he  desired  Hester  to  try  to 
get  a  proper  book  and  begin  next  Sunday  night. 
Hester  had  bought  of  a  pious  hawker,  for  three 
halfpence,*  ^the  Book  of  prayers,  printed  for  the 
Cheap  Repositor)%  and  knew  she  should  there 
find  something  suitable. 

When  Hester  read  the  exhortation  at  the  be¬ 
ginning  of  this  little  book,  her  mother,  who  sat 
in  the  corner,  and  pretended  to  be  asleep,  was 
so  much  struck  that  she  could  not  find  a  word 
to  say  against  it.  For  a  few  nights,  indeed,  she 
continued  to  sit  still,  or  pretended  to  rock  the 
young  child  while  her  husband  and  daughter 
were  kneeling  at  their  prayers.  She  expected 
John  would  have  scolded  her  for  this,  and  so 
perverse  was  her  temper,  that  she  was  disap¬ 
pointed  at  his  finding  no  fault  with  her.  Seeing 
at  last  that  he  was  very  patient,  and  that  though 
he  prayed  fervently  himself  he  suffered  her  to 
do  as  she  liked,  she  lost  the  spirit  of  opposition 
for  want  of  something  to  provoke  it.  As  her 
pride  began  to  be  subdued,  some  little  disposi 

tion  to  piety  was  awakened  in  her  heart _ By 

degrees  she  slid  down  on  her  knees,  though  at 
first  it  was  behind  the  cradle,  or  the  clock,  or 
in  some  corner  where  she  thought  they  would 
not  see  her.  Hester  rejoiced  even  in  this  out¬ 
ward  change  in  her  mother,  and  prayed  that 
God  would  at  last  be  pleased  to  touch  her  heart 
as  he  had  done  that  of  her  father. 

As  John  now  spent  no  idle  money,  he  had 
saved  up  a  trifle  by  working  over-hours ;  this  he 
kindly  offered  to  Hester  to  make  up  for  the  loss 
of  her  gown.  Instead  of  accepting  it,  Hester 
told  him,  that  as  she  herself  was  young  and 
healthy,  she  should  soon  be  able  to  clothe  herself 
out  of  her  own  savings,  and  begged  him  to 
make  her  mother  a  present  of  this  gown,  which 
he  did.  It  had  been  a  maxim  of  Rebecca,  that 
it  was  better  not  to  go  to  church  at  all,  than  go 
in  an  old  gown.  She  had,  however,  so  far  con¬ 
quered  this  evil  notion,  that  she  had  lately  gone 
pretty  often.  This  kindness  of  the  gown  touched 
her  not  a  little,  and  the  first  Sunday  she  put  it 
on  Mr.  Simpson  happened  to  preach  from  this 
text,  God  resisteth  the  proud,  but  ffiveth  grace  to 
the  humble.  This  sermon  so  affected  Rebecca 
that  she  never  once  thought  she  had  her  new 
gown  on,  till  she  came  to  take  it  oft'  when  she 
went  to  bed,  and  that  very  night,  instead  of 
skulking  behind,  she  knelt  down  by  her  hus¬ 
band,  and  joined  in  prayer  with  much  fervour. 

There  was  one  thing  sunk  deep  in  Rebecca’s 
mind  ;  she  had  observed  that  since  her  husband 
had  grown  religious  he  had  been  so  careful  not 
to  give  her  any  offence,  that  he  was  become 
scrupulously  clean ;  took  off  his  dirty  shoes  be¬ 
fore  he  sat  down,  and  was  very  cautious  not  to 
spill  a  drop  of  beer  on  her  shining  table.  Now 

*  These  prayers  may  be  had  also  divided  into  two 
parts,  one  fit  for  private  persons,  the  other  for  families 
price  one  half;)enny. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HA?<NAH  MORE. 


241 


st  was  rather  remarkable,  that  as  John  grew 
more  neat,  Rebecca  grew  more  indifferent  to 
neatness.  But  both  these  changes  arose  from 
the  same  cause,  the  growth  of  religion  in  their 
hearts.  John  grew  cleanly  from  thd  fear  of 
giving  pain  to  his  wife,  while  Rebecca  grew  in- 
different  from  having  discovered  the  sin  and 
folly  of  an  over-anxious  care  about  trifles.  When 


the  heart  is  once  given  up  to  God,  such  vanitfes 
in  a  good  degree  die  of  themselves. 

Hester  continues  to  grow  in  grace,  and  in 
knowledge.  Last  Christmas-day  she  was  ap¬ 
pointed  an  under  teacher  in  the  school,  and  ma- 
ny  people  think  that  some  years  hence,  if  any 
thing  should  happen  to  Mrs.  Crew,  Hester  may 
be  promoted  to  be  head  mistress 


THE  GRAND  ASSIZES,  &c. 

OR  GENERAL  JAIL  DELIVERY. 
AN  ALLEGORY. 


‘There  was  in  a  certain  country  a  great  king, 
who  was  also  a  judge.  He  was  very  rherciful, 
but  he  was  also  very  just;  for  he  used  to  say, 
that  justice. was  the  foundation  of  all  goodness, 
and  that  indiscriminate  and  misapplied  mercy 
was  in  fact  injustice.  His  subjects  were  apt 
enough,  in  a  general  way,  to  extol  his  merciful 
temper,  and  especially  those  subjects  who  were 
always  committing  crimes  which  made  them 
particularly  liable  to  be  punished  by  his  justice. 
This  last  quality  they  constantly  kept  out  of 
sight,  till  they  had  cheated  themselves  into  a 
notion  that  he  was  too  good  to  punish  at  all. 

Now  it  had  happened  a  long  time  before,  that 
this  whole  people  had  broken  their  allegiance, 
and  had  forfeited  the  king’s  favour,  and  had  also 
fallen  from  a  very  prosperous  state  in  which  he 
had  originally  placed  them,  having  one  and  all 
become  bankrupts.  But  when  they  were  over 
head  and  ears  in  debt,  and  had  nothing  to  pay, 
the  king’s  son  most  generously  took  the  whole 
burden  of  their  debts  on  himself;  and,  in  short, 
it  was  proposed  that  all  their  affairs  should  be 
settled,  and  their  very  crimes  ibrgiven,  (for  they 
were  criminals  as  well  as  debtors)  provided  only 
they  would  show  themselves  sincerely  sorry  for 
what  they  had  done  themselves,  and  be  thankful 
for  what  had  been  done  for  them.  I  should  how¬ 
ever  remark,  that  a  book  was  also  given  them, 
in  which  a  true  and  faithful  account  of  their 
own  rebellion  was  written  ;  and  of  the  manner 
of  obtaining  the  king’s  pardon,  together  with  a 
variety  of  directions  for  their  conduct  in  time 
to  come ;  and  in  this  book  it  was  particularly 
mentioned,  that  after  having  lived  a  certain 
number  of  years  in  a  remote  part  of  the  same 
king’s  country,  yet  still  under  his  eye  and  juris¬ 
diction,  there  should  be  a  grand  assizes,  when 
every  one  was  to  be  publicly  tried  for  his  past 
behaviour  ;  and  after  this  trial  was  over,  certain 
heavy  punishments  were  to  be  inflicted  on  those 
who  should  have  still  persisted  in  their  rebellion, 
and  certain  high  premiums  were  to  be  bestowed 
as  a  gracious  reward  upon  the  penitent  and  obe¬ 
dient. 

It  may  be  proper  here  to  notice,  that  this 
king’s  court  differed  in  some  respect  from  our 
courts  of  justice,  being  indeed  a  sort  of  court  of 
appeal,  to  which  questions  were  carried  after 
they  had  been  imperfectly  decided  in  the  com¬ 
mon  courts !  And  although  with  us  all  crimi¬ 
nals  are  tried  (and  a  most  excellent  mode  of 
trial  it  is)  by  a  jury  of  their  peers,  yet  in  this 
king’s  country  the  mode  was  very  different ;  for 


since  every  one  of  the  people  had  been  in  a  cer¬ 
tain  sense  criminals,  the  king  did  not  think  it 
fair  to  make  them  judges  also.  It  would,  indeed, 
have  been  impossible  to  follow  in  all  respects 
the  customs  which  prevail  with  us,  for  the  crimes 
with  which  men  are  charged  in  our  courts  are 
mere  overt  acts,  as  the  lawyers  call  them,  that 
is,  acts  wff  ich  regard  the  outward  behaviour ; 
such  as  the  acts  of  striking,  maiming,  stealing, 
and  so  forth.  But  in  this  king’s  court  it  is  not 
merely  outward  sins,  but  sins  of  the  heart  also 
which  were  to  be  punished.  Many  a  crime, 
therefore,  which  was  never  heard  of  in  the  court 
of  King’s  Bench,  or  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and  which 
indeed  could  not  be  cognizable  by  these  courts, 
was  here  to  be  brought  to  light,  and  was  reserv¬ 
ed  for  this  great  day.  Among  these  were  pride, 
and  oppression,  and  envy,  and  malice,  and  re¬ 
venge,  and  covetousness,  and  secret  vanity  of 
mind,  and  evil  thoughts  of  all  sorts,  and  all  sin¬ 
ful  wishes  and  desires.  When  covetousness,  in¬ 
deed,  put  men  on  committing  robbery,  or  when 
malice  drove  them  to  acts  of  murder,  then  the 
common  courts  immediately  judged  the  crimi¬ 
nal,  without  Waiting  for  these  great  assizes  ;  ne¬ 
vertheless,  since  even  a  thief  and  murderer 
would  now  and  then  escape  in  the  common 
courts,  for  want  of  evidence,  or  through  some 
fault  or  other  of  the  judge  or  jury,  the  escape 
was  of  little  moment  to  the  poor  criminal,  for 
he  was  sure  to  be  tried  again  by  this  great  king; 
and  even  though  the  man  should  have  been  pu¬ 
nished  in  some  sense  before,  yet  he  had  now  a 
farther  and  more  lasting  punishment  to  fear, 
unless,  indeed,  he  was  one  of  those  who  had  ob¬ 
tained  (by  the  means  I  before  spoke  of)  this 
great  king’s  pardon.  The  sins  of  the  heart,  how¬ 
ever,  TAmre  by  far  the  most  numerous  sort  of 
sins,  which  were  to  come  before  this  great  tri¬ 
bunal  ;  and  these  were  to  be  judged  by  this  great 
king  in  person,  and  by  none  but  himself;  be¬ 
cause  he  alone  possessed  a  certain  power  of  get¬ 
ting  at  all  secrets, 

I  once  heard  of  a  certain  king  of  Sicily,  who 
built  a  whispering  gallery  in  the  form  of  an  ear, 
through  which  he  could  hear  every  word  his  re¬ 
bellious  subjects  uttered,  though  spoken  ever  so 
low.  But  this  secret  of  the  king  of  Sicily  was 
nothing  to  what  this  great  king  possessed  ;  for 
he  had  the  power  of  knowing  every  thought 
which  was  conceived  in  the  mind,  though  it 
never  broke  out  into  words,  or  proceeded  to  ac¬ 
tions. 

Now  you  may  be  ready  to  think,  perhaps 


242 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


tlrtit  tnese  peqple  were  worse  off  than  any  others, 
because  they  were  to  be  examined  so  closely, 
and  judged  so  strictly.  Far  from  it;  the  king 
was  too  just  to  expect  bricks  without  giving 
them  straw ;  he  gave  them,  therefore,  every 
help  that  they  needed.  He  gave  them  a  book 
of  directions,  as  I  before  observed ;  and  because 
they  were  naturally  short-sighted,  he  supplied 
them  with  a  glass  for  reading  it,  and  thus  the 
most  dim-sighted  might  see,  if  they  did  not  wil¬ 
fully  shut  their  eyes  :  but  though  the  king  in¬ 
vited  them  to  open  their  eyes  he  did  not  compel 
them ;  and  many  remain  stone  blind  all  their 
lives  with  the  book  in  their  hand,  because  they 
would  not  use  the  glass,  nor  take  the  proper 
-means  for  reading  and  understanding  all  that 
was  written  for  them.  The  humble  and  sincere 
learned  in  time  to  see  even  that  part  of  the  book 
which  was  least  plainly  written ;  and  it  was 
observed  that  the  ability  to  understand  it  de¬ 
pended  more  on  the  heart  than  the  head ;  an 
evil  disposition  blinded  the  sight,  while  humility 
operated  like  an  eye-salve. 

Now  it  happened  that  those  who  had  been  so 
lucky  as  to  escape  the  punishment  of  the  lower 
courts,  took  it  into  their  heads  that  they  were 
all  very  good  sort  of  people,  and  of  course  very 
safe  from  any  danger  at  this  great  assize.  This 
grand  intended  trial,  indeed,  had  been  talked  of 
so  much,  and  put  off  so  long  (for  it  had  seemed 
long  at  least  to  these  short-sighted  people)  that 
many  persuaded  themselves  it  would  never  take 
place  at  all ;  and  far  the  greater  part  were  living 
away  therefore  without  ever  thinking  about  it ; 
they  went  on  just  as  if  nothing  at  all  had  been 
done  for  their  benefit ;  and  as  if  they  had  no 
king  to  please,  no  king’s  son  to  be  thankful  to, 
no  book  to  guide  themselves  by,  and  as  if  the 
assizes  were  never  to  come  about. 

But  with  this  king  a  thousand  years  were  as 
a  day,  for  he  was  not  slack  concerning  his  pro¬ 
mises,  as  some  men  count  slackness. — So  at 
length  the  solemn  period  approached.  Still, 
however,  the  people  did  not  prepare  for  the  so¬ 
lemnity,  or  rather,  they  prepared  for  it  much 
as  some  of  the  people  in  our  provincial  towns 
are  apt  to  prepare  for  the  annual  assize  times; 
I  mean  by  balls  and  feastings,  and  they  saw 
their  own  trial  come  on,  with  as  little  concern 
as  is  felt  by  the  people  in  our  streets,  when  they 
see  the  judge’s  procession  enter  the  town  ;  they 
indeed  comfort  themselves  that  it  is  only  those  in 
the  prisons  who  are  guilty. 

But  when  at  last  the  day  came,  and  every 
man  found  that  he  was  to  be  judged  for  himself; 
and  that  somehow  or  other,  all  his  secrets  were 
brought  out,  and  that  there  was  now  no  escape, 
not  even  a  short  reprieve,  things  began  to  take 
a  more  serious  turn.  Some  of  the  worst  of  the 
criminals  were  got  together  debating  in  an  outer 
court  of  the  grand  hall ;  and  there  they  passed 
their  time,  not  in  compunction  and  tears,  not  in 
comparing  their  lives  with  what  was  required  in 
that  book  which  had  been  given  them,  but  they 
derived  a  fallacious  hope  by  comparing  them¬ 
selves  with  such  as  had  been  still  more  notorious 
offenders. 

One  who  had  grown  wealthy  by  rapine  and 
oppression,  but  had  contrived  to  keep  within  the 
letter  of  the  law,  insulted  a  poor  fellow  as  a 


thief,  because  he  had  stolen  a  loaf  of  bread; 
‘  You  are  far  wickeder  than  I  was,’  said  a  citi¬ 
zen  to  his  apprentice,  ‘  for  you  drank  and  swore 
at  the  ale-house  every  Sunday  night.’  ‘  Yes,’ 
said  the  poor  fellow,  ‘  but  it  was  your  fault  that 
I  did  so,  for  you  took  no  care  of  my  soul,  but 
spent  all  your  Sabbaths  in  jaunting  abroad  or  in 
rioting  at  home  ;  I  might  have  learnt,  but  there 
was  no  one  to  teach  me  ;  I  might  have  followed 
a  good  example,  but  I  saw  only  bad  ones.  I 
sinned  against  less  light  than  you  did.’  A 
drunken  journeyman,  who  had  spent  all  his 
wages  on  gin,  rejoiced  that  he  had  not  spent  a 
great  estate  in  bribery  at  elections,  as  the  lord 
of  his  manor  had  done,  while  a  perjured  elector 
boasted  that  he  was  no  drunkard  like  the  jour- 
neyjnan;  and  the  member  himself  took  comfort 
that  he  had  never  received  the  bribes  which  he 
had  not  been  ashamed  to  offer. 

I  have  not  room  to  describe  the  awful  pomp 
of  the  court,  nor  the  terrible  sounding  of  the 
trumpet  which  attended  the  judge’s  entrance, 
nor  the  sitting  of  the  judge,  nor  the  opening  of 
the  books,  nor  the  crowding  of  the  millions,  who 
stood  before  him.  I  shall  pass  over  the  multi¬ 
tudes  who  were  tried  and  condemned  to  dun¬ 
geons  and  chains,  and  eternal  fire,  and  to  per¬ 
petual  banishment  from  the  presence  of  the 
king,  which  always  seemed  to  be  the  saddest 
part  of  the  sentence.  I  shall  only  notice  furtlier, 
a  few  who  brought  some  plea  of  merit,  and 
claimed  a  right  to  be  rewarded  by  the  king,  and 
even  deceived  themselves  so  far  as  to  think  that 
his  own  book  of  laws  would  be  their  justifica¬ 
tion. 

A  thoughtless  spendthrift  advanced  without 
any  contrition,  and  said,  ‘that  he  had  lived  hand¬ 
somely,  and  had  hated  the  covetous  whom  God 
abhorretli ;  that  he  trusted  in  that  passage  of 
the  book  which  said,  that  covetouness  was  idola 
try  ;  and  that  he  therefore  hoped  for  a  favoura¬ 
ble  sentence.’  Now  it  proved  that  this  man  had 
not  only  avoided  covetousness,  but  that  he  had 
even  left  his  wife  and  children  in  want  through 
his  excessive  prodigality.  The  judge  therefore 
immediately  pointed  to  that  place  in  tlie  book 
where  it  is  written,  he  that  provideth  not  for  his 
household  is  worse  than  an  infidel.  He  that 
liveth  in  pleasure  is  dead  while  he  livelh  ;  ‘  thou,’ 
said  he,  ‘in  thy  life  time,  receivedst  thy  good 
things,  and  now  thou  must  be  tormented.'  Tlien 
a  miser,  whom  hunger  and  hoarding  had  worn 
to  skin  and  bone,  crept  forward,  and  praised  the 
sentence  passed  on  this  extravagant  youth,  ‘  and 
surely,’  said  he,  ‘  since  he  is  condemned,  I  am 
a  man  that  may  make  some  plea  to  favour — I 
was  never  idle  or  drunk,  I  kept  my  body  in  sub¬ 
jection.  I  have  been  so  self-denying  that  I  am 
certainly  a  saint :  I  have  loved  neither  father 
nor  mother,  nor  wife  nor  children,  to  excess,  in 
all  this  I  have  obeyed  the  book  of  the  law.’  Then 
the  judge  said,  ‘  But  where  are  thy  works  of 
mercy  and  thy  labours  of  love,  see  that  family 
which  perished  in  thy  sight  last  hard  winter, 
while  thy  barns  were  overflowing ;  that  poor 
family  were  my  representatives ;  yet  they  were 
hungry,  and  thou  gavest  them  no  meat.  Go  to, 
now  thou  rich  man,  weep  and  howl  for  the  mise¬ 
ries  that  are  come  upon  you.  Your  gold  and 
your  silver  is  cankered,  and  the  rust  of  them 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


2i3 


shall  be  a  witness  against  you,  and  shall  eat 
your  Jlesh  as  it  were  fire' 

Then  came  up  one  with  a  most  self-sufficient 
air.  He  walked  up  boldly,  having  in  one  hand 
the  plan  of  an  hospital  which  he  had  built,  and 
in  the  other  the  drawing  of  a  statue,  which  was 
erecting  for  him  in  the  country  that  he  had  just 
left,  and  on  his  forehead  appeared,  in  gold  let¬ 
ters,  the  list  of  all  the  public  charities  to  which 
he  had  subscribed.  He  seemed  to  take  great 
pleasure  in  the  condemnation  of  the  miser,  and 
said,  ‘  Lord,  when  saw  I  thee  hungry  and  fed 
thee  not,  or  in  prison  and  visited  thee  not  ?  1 
have  visited  the  fatherless  and  widow  in  their 
affliction.’  Here  the  judge  cut  him  short,  by 
saying,  ‘True,  thou  didst  visit  the  fatherless, 
but  didst  thou  fulfil  equally  that  other  part  of 
my  command,  ‘to  keep  thyself  unspotted  from 
the  world.’  No,  thou  wast  conformed  to  the 
world  in  many  of  its  sin^l  customs,  ‘  thou  didst 
follow  a  multitude  to  do  evil ;  thou  didst  love 
the  world  and  the  things  of  the  world ;  and  the 
motive  to  all  thy  charities  was  not  a  regard  to 
me  but  to  thy  own  credit  with  thy  fellow  men. 
Thou  hast  done  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  re¬ 
putation,  and  now  thou  art  vainly  trusting  in 
thy  deceitful  works,  instead  of  putting  all  thy 
trust  in  my  son,  who  has  offered  himself  to  be  a 
surety  for  thee.  Where  has  been  that  humility 
and  gratitude  to  him  which  was  required  of  thee. 
No,  thou  wouldst  be  thine  own  surety  :  thou 
hast  trusted  in  thyself:  thou  hast  made  thy 
boast  of  thine  own  goodness  ;  thou  hast  sought 
after  and  thou  hast  enjoyed  the  praise  of  men, 
and  verily  I  say  unto  thee,  ‘  thou  hast  had  thy 
reward.’ 

A  poor  diseased  blind  cripple,  who  came  from 
the  very  hospital  which  this  great  man  had 
built,  then  fell  prostrate  on  his  face,  crying  out, 
‘  Lord  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  !’  on  which 
the  judge,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  said,  ‘  Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servant.’  The  poor  man 
replied,  ‘  Lord,  I  have  done  nothing !’ — ‘  But 
thou  hast  ‘suffered  well,’  said  the  judge  ;  ‘  thou 
hast  been  an  example  of  patience  and  meekness, 
and  though  thou  hadst  but  few  talents,  yet  thou 
hast  well  improved  those  few  ;  thou  hadst  time, 
this  thou  didst  spend  in  the  humble  duties  of  thy 
station,  and  also  in  earnest  prayer ;  thou  didst 
pray  even  for  that  proud  founder  of  the  hospital, 
who  never  prayed  for  himself ;  thou  wast  indeed 
blind  and  lame,  but  it  is  no  where  said,  my  son 
give  me  thy  feet,  or  thine  eyes,  but  give  me  thy 
heart;  and  even  the  few  faculties  I  did  grant 
thee,  were  employed  to  my  glory  ;  with  thine 
ears  thou  didst  listen  to  my  word,  with  thy 


tongue  thou  didst  show  forth,  mj^praise,  ‘  enter 
thou  into  the  joy  of  thy  Lord.’ 

There  were  several  who  came  forward,  and 
boasted  of  some  single  and  particular  virtue,  in 
which  they  had  been  supposed  to  excel.  One 
talked  of  his  generosity,  another  of  his  courage, 
and  a  third  of  his  fortitude  ;  but  it  proved  on  a 
close  examination,  that  some  of  those  supposed 
virtues  were  merely  the  effect  of  a  particular 
constitution  of  body  ;  that  others  proceeded  from 
a  false  motive,  and  that  not  a  few  of  them  were 
actual  vices,  since  they  were  carried  to  Excess  ; 
and  under  the  pretence  of  fulfilling  one  duty, 
some  other  duty  was  lost  sight  of ;  in  short,  these 
partial  virtues  were  none  of  them  practised  in 
obedience  to  the  will  of  the  king,  but  merely  to- 
please  the  person’s  own  humour, -or  to  gain 
praise,  and  they  would  not,  therefore,  stand  this 
day’s  trial,  for  ‘  he  that  had  kept  the  whole  law, 
and  yet  had  wilfully  and  habitually  offended  in 
any  one  point,  was  declared  guilty  of  breaking 
the  whole.’ 

At  this  moment  a  sort  of  thick  scales  fell  from 
the  eyes  of  the  multitude.  They  could  now  no 
longer  take  comfort,  as  they  had  done  for  so 
many  years,  by  measuring  their  neighbours’ 
conduct  against  their  own.  Each  at  once  saw 
himself  in  his  true  light,  and  found,  alas  !  when 
it  was  too  late,  that  he  should  have  made  the 
book  which  had  been  given  him  his  rule  of  prac¬ 
tice  before,  since  it  now  proved  to  be  the  rule 
by  which  he  was  to  be  judged.  Nay,  every  one 
now  thought  himself  even  worse  than  his  neigh¬ 
bour,  because,  while  he  only  saw  and  heard  of 
the  guilt  of  others,  he  felt  his  own  in  all  its  ag¬ 
gravated  horror. 

To  complete  their  confusion,  they  were  com¬ 
pelled  to  acknowledge  the  justice  of  the  judge 
who  condemned  them  ;  and  also  to  approve  the 
favourable  sentence  by  which  thousands  of  other 
criminals  had  not  only  their  lives  saved,  but 
were  made  happy  and  glorious  beyond  all  ima¬ 
gination  ;  not  for  any  great  merits  which  they 
had  to  produce,  but  in  consequence  of  their  sin¬ 
cere  repentance,  and  their  humble  acceptance 
of  the  pardon  offered  to  them  by  the  king’s  son. 
One  thing  was  remarkable,  that  whilst  most  of 
those  who  were  condemned,  never  expected 
condemnation,  but  even  claimed  a  reward  for 
their  supposed  innocence  or  goodness,  all  who 
were  really  rewarded  and  forgiven  were  sensible 
that  they  owed  their  pardon  to  a  mere  act  of 
grace,  and  they  cried  out  with  one  voice,  ‘Not 
unto  us,  not  unto  us,  but  unto  thy  name  be  the 
praise!’ 


THE  SERVANT  MAN  TURNED  SOLDIER. 


OR  THE  FAIR-WEATHER  CHRISTIAN. 

AN  ALLEGORY. 


WiijXAM  was  a  lively  young  servant,  who  lived 
in  a  gTMt  hut  very  irregular  family.  His  place 
was  on  the  whole,  agreeable  to  him,  and  suited 
to  his  gay  thoughtless  temper.  He  found  a 
olentiful  table  and  a  good  cellar.  There  was, 


indeed,  a  great  deal  of  work  to  be  done,  though 
it  was  performed  with  much  disorder  arwl  con¬ 
fusion.  The  family  in  the  main  were  not  un- 
kind  to  him,  though  they  often  contradicted  and 
crossed  him,  especially  when  things  went  ill 


244 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


with  themselves.  This,  William  never  much 
liked,  for  he  was  always  fond  of  having  his  own 
way.  There  was  a  merry,  or  rather  a  noisy 
and  riotous  servant’s  hall ;  for  disorder  and 
quarrels  are  indeed  the  usual  effects  of  plenty 
and  unrestrained  indulgence.  The  men  were 
smart,  but  idle ;  the  maids  were  showy  but  li¬ 
centious,  and  all  did  pretty  much  as  they  liked 
for  a  time,  but  the  time  was  commonly  short. 
The  wages  were  repkoned  high,  but  they  were 
seldom  paid,  and  it  was  even  said  by  sober  peo¬ 
ple,  that  the  family  was  insolvent,  and  never 
fulfilled  any  of  their  flattering  engagements,  or 
their  most  positive  promises  ;  but  still,  notwith¬ 
standing  their  real  poverty,  things  went  on  with 
just  the  same  thoughtlessness  and  splendour, 
and  neither  master  nor  servants  looked  beyond 
the  jollity  of  the  present  hour. 

In  this  unruly  family  there  was  little  church 
going,  and  still  less  praying  at  home.  They 
pretended,  indeed,  in  a  general  way,  to  believe 
in  the  Bible,  but  it  was  only  an  outward  pro¬ 
fession,  few  of  them  read  it  at  all,  and  even 
of  those  who  did  read  it  still  fewer  were  govern¬ 
ed  by  it.  There  was  indeed  a  Bible  lying  on 
the  table  in  the  great  hall,  which  was  kept  for 
the  purpose  of  administering  an  oath,  but  was 
seldom  used  on  any  other  occasion,  and  some 
of  the  heads  of  the  family  were  of  opinion  that 
this  was  its  only  real  use,  as  it  might  serve  to 
keep  the  lower  parts  of  it  in  order. 

William,  who  was  fond  of  novelty  and  plea¬ 
sure,  was  apt  to  be  negligent  of  the  duties  of 
the  house.  He  used  to  stay  out  on  his  errands, 
and  one  of  his  favourite  amusements  was  going 
to  the  parade  to  see  the  soldiers  exercise.  He 
saw  with  envy  how  smartly  they  were  dressed, 
listened  with  rapture  to  the  music,  and  fancied 
that  a  soldier  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  to 
and  fro  in  a  certain  regular  order,  to  go  through 
a  little  easy  exercise,  in  short,  to  live  without 
fighting,  fatigue,  or  danger. 

O,  said  he,  whenever  he  was  affronted  at 
home,  what  a  fine  thing  it  must  be  to  be  a  sol¬ 
dier  !  to  be  so  well  dressed,  to  have  nothing  to 
do  but  to  move  to  the  pleasant  sound  of  fife  and 
drum,  and  to  have  so  many  people  come  to  look 
at  one,  and  admire  one.  O  it  must  be  a  fine 
thing  to  be  a  soldier  ! 

Yet  when  the  vexation  of  the  moment  was 
over,  he  found  so  much  ease  and  diversion  in  the 
great  family,  it  was  so  suited  to  his  low  taste 
and  sensual  appetites,  that  he  thought  no  more 
of  the  matter.  He  forgot  the  glories  of  a  soldier, 
and  eagerly  returned  to  all  the  mean  gratifica¬ 
tions  of  tlie  kitchen.  His  evil  habits  were  but 
little  attended  to  by  those  with  whom  he  lived ; 
his  faults,  among  which  were  lying  and  swear¬ 
ing,  were  not  often  corrected  by  the  family,  who 
had  little  objection  to  those  sins,  which  only 
offended  God  and  did  not  much  affect  their  own 
interest  or  property.  And  except  that  William 
was  obliged  to  work  rather  more  than  he  liked, 
he  found  little,  while  he  was  young  and  healthy, 
that  was  very  disagreeable  in  this  service.  So 
he  went  on,  still  thinking,  however,  when  things 
went  a  little  cross,  what  a  fine  thing  it  was  to 
be  a  soldier  !  At  last  one  day  as  he  was  waiting 
at  dinner,  he  had  the  misfortune  to  let  fall  a 
china  dish,  and  broke  it  all  to  pieces.  It' was  a 


curious  dish,  much  valued  by  the  family,  as  they 
pretended  ;  this  family  were  indeed  apt  to  set  a 
false  fantastic  value  on  things,  and  not  to  esti¬ 
mate  them  by  their  real  worth.  The  heads  of 
the  family,  who  had  generally  been  rather  pa¬ 
tient  and  good-humoured  with  William,  as  I 
said  before,  for  those  vices,  which  though  offen¬ 
sive  to  God  did  not  touch  their  own  pocket,  now 
flew  put  into  a  violent  passion  with  him,  called 
him  a  thousand  hard  names,  and  even  threaten¬ 
ed  to  horsewhip  him  for  his  shameful  negli¬ 
gence. 

William  in  a  great  fright,  for  he  was  a  sad 
coward  at  bottom,  ran  directly  out  of  the  house 
to  avoid  the  threatened  punishment ;  and  hap¬ 
pening  just  at  that  very  time  to  pass  by  the  pa¬ 
rade  where  the  soldiers  chanced  to  be  then  ex¬ 
ercising,  his  resolution  was  taken  in  a  moment. 
He  instantly  determined  to  be  no  more  a  slave, 
as  he  called  it ;  he  wqjild  return  no  more  to  be 
subject  to  the  humours  of  a  tyrannical  family  ; 
no,  he  was  resolved  to  be  free  ;  or  at  least,  if  he 
must  serve,  he  would  serve  no  master  but  the 
king. 

William,  who  had  now  and  then  happened  to 
hear  from  the  accidental  talk  of  the  soldiers 
that  those  who  served  the  great  family  he  had 
lived  with,  were  slaves  to  their  tyranny  and 
vices,  had  also  heard  in  the  same  casual  man¬ 
ner,  that  the  service  of  the  king  was  perfect  free¬ 
dom.  Now  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  hope 
that  this  might  be  a  freedom  to  do  evil,  or  at 
least  to  do  nothing,  so  he  thouglit  it  was  the 
only  place  in  the  world  to  suit  him. 

A  fine  likely  young  man  as  William  was,  had 
no  great  difficulty  to  get  enlisted.  The  few 
forms  were  soon  settled,  he  received  the  bounty 
money  as  eagerly  as  it  was  offered,  took  the 
oaths  of  allegiance,  was  joined  to  the  regiment 
and  heartily  welcomed  by  his  new  comrades. 
He  was  the  happiest  fellow  alive.  All  was 
smooth  and  calm.  The  day  happened  to  be 
very  fine,  and  therefore  William  always  reckon¬ 
ed  upon  a  fine  day.  The  scene  was  gay  and 
lively,  the  music  cheerful,  he  found  the  exercise 
very  easy,  and  he  thought  there  was  little  more 
expected  from  him. 

He  soon  began  to  flourish  away  in  his  talk ; 
and  when  he  met  with  any  one  of  his  old  fellow 
servants,  he  fell  a  prating  about  marches  and 
counter-marches,  and  blockades,  and  battles,  and 
sieges,  and  blood,  and  death,  and  triumphs,  and 
victories,  all  at  random,  for  these  were  words 
and  phrases  he  had  picked  up  without  at  all  un¬ 
derstanding  what  he  said.  He  had  no  know¬ 
ledge,  and  therefore  he  bad  no  modesty,  he  had 
no  experience  and  therefore  he  had  no  fears. 

All  seemed  to  go  on  swimmingly,  for  he  had 
as  yet  no  trial.  Ho  began  to  think  with  triumph 
what  a  mean  life  ho  had  escaped  from  in  the  old 
quarrelsome  family,  and  what  a  happy,  honoura¬ 
ble  life  he  should  have  in  the  army.  O  there  was 
no  life  like  the  life  of  a  soldier  ! 

In  a  short  time,  however,  war  broke  out,  his 
regiment  was  one  of  the  first  which  was  callen 
out  to  actual  and  hard  service.  As  William 
was  the  most  raw  of  all  the  recruits  he  was  the 
first  to  murmur  at  the  difficulties  and  hardships, 
the  cold  and  hunger,  the  fatigue  and  danger  of 
being  a  soldier.  O  what  watchings,  and  jierils 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


245 


and  trials,  and  hardships,  and  difficulties  he  now 
thoug'tit  attended  a  military  life  !  Surely,  said 
he,  I  could  never  have  suspected  all  this  misery 
when  I  used  to  see  the  men  on  the  parade  in  our 
town 

He  now  found,  when  it  was  too  late,  that  all 
the  field-days  he  used  to  attend,  all  the  evolu¬ 
tions  and  exercises  which  he  had  observed  the 
soldiers  to  go  through  in  the  calm  times  of  peace 
and  safety,  were  only  meant  to  fit,  train  and 
qualify  them,  for  the  actual  service  which  they 
were  now  sent  out  to  perform  by  the  command 
of  the  king. 

The  truth  is,  William  often  complained  when 
there  was  no  real  hardship  to  complain  of ;  for 
the  eornmon  troubles  of  lift  fell  out  pretty  much 
alike  to  the  great  family  which  William  had 
left,  and  to  the  soldiers  in  the  king’s  army. 
But  the  spirit  of  obedience,  discipline,  and  self- 
denial  of  the  latter  seemed  hardships  to  one  of 
William’s  loose  turn  of  mind.  When  he  began 
to  murmur,  some  good  old  soldier  clapped  him 
on  the  back,  saying,  cheer  up  lad,  it  is  a  king¬ 
dom  you  are  to  strive  for,  if  we  faint  not,  hence¬ 
forth  there  is  laid  up  for  us  a  great  reward,  we 
have  the  king’s  word  for  it  man.  William  ob¬ 
served,  that  to  those  who  truly  believed  this, 
their  labours  were  as  nothing,  but  ho  himself 
did  not  at  the  bottom  believe  it ;  and  it  was  ob¬ 
served,  of  all  the  soldiers  who  failed,  the  true 
cause  was  that  they  did  not  really  believe  the 
king’s  promise.  He  was  surprised  to  see  that 
those  soldiers,  who  used  to  bluster  and  boast, 
and  deride  the  assaults  of  the  enemy,  now  began 
to  fall  away  ;  while  such  as  had  faithfully  obey¬ 
ed  the  kino’s  orders,  and  believed  in  his  word, 
were  sustained  in  the  hour  of  trial.  Those  who 
had  trusted  in  their  own  strength  alt  fainted  on 
the  slightest  attack,  while  those  who  had  put  on 
the  armour  of  the  king’s  providing,  the  sword, 
and  the  shield,  and  the  helmet,  and  the  breast¬ 
plate,  and  whose  feet  were  shod  according  to 
order,  now  endured  hardship  as  good  soldiers, 
and  were  enabled  to  fight  the  good  fight. 

An  engagement  was  expected  immediately. 
The  men  were  ordered  to  prepare  for  battle. 
While  the  rest  of  the  corps  were  so  preparing, 
William’s  whole  thoughts  were  bent  on  con¬ 
triving  how  he  might  desert.  But  alas  !  he  was 
watched  on  all  sides,  he  could  not  possibly  de¬ 
vise  any  means  to  escape.  The  danger  increas¬ 
ed  every  moment,  the  battle  came  on.  William, 
who  had  been  so  sure  and  confident  before  he 
entered,  flinched  in  the  moment  of  trial,  while 
his  more  quiet  and  less  boastful  comrades  pre¬ 
pared  boldly  to  do  their  duty.  William  looked 
about  on  all  sides,  and  saw  that  there  was  no 
eye  upon  him,  for  he  did  not  know  that  the 
king’s  eye  was  every  where  at  once.  Ho  at 
last  thouijht  he  spied  a  chance  of  escaping,  not 
from  the  enemy,  but  from  his  own  army.  While 
he  was  endeavouring  to  escape,  a  ball  from  the 
opposite  camp  took  off  his  leg.  As  he  fell,  the 
first  words  which  broke  from  him  were,  while 
I  was  in  my  duty  I  was  preserved  ;  in  the  very 
act  of  deserting  I  am  wounded.  Ho  lay  ex¬ 
pecting  every  moment  to  bo  trampled  to  death, 
but  as  the  confusion  was  a  little  over,  he  was 
taken  off  the  field  by  some  of  his  own  party, 


laid  in  a  place  of  safety,  and  left  to  himself 
after  his  wound  was  dressed. 

The  skirmish,  for  it  proved  nothing  more, 
was  soon  over.  The  -greater  part  of  the  regi- 
ment  escaped  in  safety.  William  in  the  mean 
time  suffered  cruelly  both  in  mind  and  body. 
«To  the  pains  of  a  wounded  soldier,  he  added  the* 
disgrace  of  a  coward,  and  the  infamy  of  a  de¬ 
serter.  O,  cried  he,  why  was  I  such  a  fool  as 
to  leave  the  great  family  I  lived  in,  where  there 
was  meat  and  drink  enough  and  to  spare,  only 
on  account  of  a  little  quarrel?  I  might  have 
made  up  that  with  them  as  we  had  done  our 
former  quarrels.  Why  did  I  leave  a  life  of  ease 
and  pleasure,  where  I  had  only  a  little  rub  now 
and  then,  for  a  lift  of  daily  discipline  and  con 
stant  danger  ?  Why  did  I  turn  soldier  ?  O 
what  a  miserable  animal  is  a  soldier ! 

As  he  was  sitting  in  this  weak  and  disabled 
condition,  uttering  the  above  complaints,  he  ob¬ 
served  a  venerable  old  officer,  with  thin  gray 
locks  on  his  head,  and  on  his  face,  deep  wrinkles 
engraved  by  time,  and  many  an  honest  sear 
inflicted  by  war.  William  had  heard  this  old 
officer  highly  commended  for  his  extraordinary 
courage  and  conduct  in  battle,  and  in  peace  he 
used  to  see  him  cool  and  collected,  devoutly  em¬ 
ployed  in  reading  and  praying  in  the  interval 
of  hiore  active  duties.  He  could  not  help  com¬ 
paring  this  officer  with  himself.  I,  said  he, 
flinched  and  drew  back,  and  would  even  have 
deserted  in  the  moment  of  peril,  and  now  in  re¬ 
turn,  I  have  no  consolation  in  the  hour  of  repose 
and  safety.  I  would  not  fight  then,  1  cannot 
pray  now.  O  why  would  I  ever  think  of  being 
a  soldier  ?  He  then  began  afresh  to  weep  and 
lament,  and  he  groaned  so  loud  that  he  drew 
the  notice  of  the  officer,  who  came  up  to  him, 
kindly  sat  down  by  him,  took  him  by  the  hand, 
and  inquired  with  as  much  affection  as  if  he 
had  been  his  brother,  what  was  the  matter  with 
him,  and  what  particular  distress,  more  than 
the  common  fortune  of  war  it  was  which  drew 
from  him  such  bitter  groans  ?  ‘  I  know  some¬ 
thing  of  surgery,’  added  he,  ‘  let  me  examine 
your  wound,  and  assist  you  with  such  little 
comfort  as  I  can.’ 

William  at  once  saw  the  difference  between 
the  soldiers  in  the  king’s  army,  and  the  people 
in  the  great  family  ;  the  latter  commonly  with¬ 
drew  their  kindness  in  sickness  and  trouble, 
when  most  wanted,  which  was  just  the  very 
time  when  the  others  eame  forward  to  assist. 
He  told  the  officer  his  little  history,  the  manner 
of  his  living  in  the  great  family,  the  trifling 
cause  of  his  quarrelling  with  it,  the  slight 
ground  of  his  entering  into  the  king’s  service. 
‘Sir,’ said  he,  ‘I  quarrelled  with  the  family 
and  I  thought  I  was  at  once  fit  for  the  army ;  I 
did  not  know  the  qualifications  it  required.  I  had 
not  reckoned  on  discipline,  and  hardships,  and 
self-denial.  I  liked  well  enough  to  sing  a  loyal 
song,  or  drink  the  king’s  health,  but  I  find  I  do 
not  relish  working  and  fighting  for  him,  though 
I  rashly  promised  even  to  lay  down  my  lift  for 
his  service  if  called  u])on,  when  I  took  the 
bounty  money  and  the  oath  of  allegiance.  In 
short,  sir,  I  find  that  I  long  for  the  ease  and 
sloth,  the  merriment  and  the  feasting  of  my  old 


246 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


service ;  I  find  I  cannot  be  a  soldier,  and,  to 
speak  truth,  I  was  in  the  very  act  of  deserting 
when  I  was  stopped  short  by  the  cannon  ball. 
So  that  I  feel  the  guilt  of  desertion,  and  the 
misery  of  having  lost  my  leg  into  the  bargain.’ 

The  officer  thus  replied  :  ‘your  state  is  that 
of  every  worldly  irreligious  man.  The  great' 
family  you  served  is  a  just  picture  of  the  world. 
The  wages  the  world  promises  to  those  who  are 
willing  to  do  its  work  are  high,  but  the  payment 
is  attended  with  much  disappointment;  nay, 
the  world,  like  your  great  family,  is  in  itself 
insolvent,  and  in  its  very  nature  incapable  of 
making  good  the  promises,  and  of  paying  the 
high  rewards  which  it  holds  out  to  tempt  its 
credulous  followers.  The  ungodly  world,  like 
your  family,  cares  little  for  church,  and  still  less 
for  prayer  ;  and  considers  the  Bible  rather  as  an 
instrument  to  make  an  oath  binding,  in  order  to 
keep  the  vulgar  in  obedience,  than  in  contain¬ 
ing  in  itself  a  perfect  rule  of  faith  and  practice, 
and  as  a  title  deed  to  heaven.  The  generality 
of  men  love  the  world  as  you  did  your  service, 
while  it  smiles  upon  them,  amd  gives  them  easy 
work  and  plenty  of  meat  and  drink  ;  but  as  soon 
as  it  begins  to  cross  and  contradict  them,  they 
get  out  of  humour  with  it,  just  as  you  did  with 
your  service.  They  then  think  its  drudgery 
hard,  its  rewards  low.  They  find  out  that  it  is 
high  in  its  expectations  from  them,  and  slack 
in  its  payments  to  them.  And  they  begin  to 
fancy,  (because  they  do  not  hear  religious  peo¬ 
ple  murmur  as  they  do,)  that  there  must  be 
some  happiness  in  religion.  The  world,  which 
takes  no  account  of  their  deeper  sins,  at  length 
brings  them  into  discredit  for  some  act  of  im¬ 
prudence,  just  as  your  family  overlooked  your 
lying  and  swearing,  but  threatened  to  drub  you 
for  breaking  a  china  dish.  Such  is  the  judg¬ 
ment  of  the  world !  it  particularly  bears  with 
those  who  only  break  the  laws  of  God,  but  se¬ 
verely  punishes  the  smallest  negligence  by 
which  they  themselves  are  injured.  The  world 
sooner  pardons  the  breaking  ten  commandments 
of  God,  than  even  a  china  dish  of  its  own. 

‘  After  some  cross  or  opposition,  worldly  men, 
as  I  said  before,  begin  to  think  how  much  con¬ 
tent  and  cheerfulness  they  remember  to  have 
seen  in  religious  people.  They  therefore  begin 
to  fancy  that  religion  must  be  an  easy  and  de¬ 
lightful,  as  well  as  a  good  thing.  They  have 
heard  that,  her  xoays  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 
and  all  her  paths  are  peace  ;  and  they  persuade 
themselves,  that  by  this  is  meant  worldly 
pleasantness  and  sensual  peace.  They  resolve 
at  length  to  try  it,  to  turn  their  back  upon  the 
world,  to  engage  in  the  service  of  God  and  turn 
Christians;  just  as  you  resolved  to  leave  your 
old  service,  to  enter  into  the  service  of  the  king 
and  turn  soldier.  But  as  you  quitted  your  place 
in  a  passion,  so  they  leave  the  world  in  a  huff. 
They  do  not  count  the  cost.  They  do  not  cal¬ 
culate  upon  the  darling  sin,  the  habitual  plea¬ 
sures,  the  ease  and  vanities  which  they  under¬ 
take  by  their  new  engagements  to  renounce,  any 
more  than  you  counted  what  indulgences  you 
were  going  to  give  up  when  you  quitted  the 
luxuries  and  idleness  of  your  place  to  enlist  in 
the  soldier’s  warfare.  They  have,  as  I  said, 
seen  Christians  cheerful,  and  they  mistook  tlie 


ground  of  their  cheerfulness ;  they  fancied  it 
arose,  not  because  through  grace  they  had  con¬ 
quered  difficulties,  but  because  they  had  no 
difficulties  in  their  passage.  They  fancied  that 
religion  found  the  road  smooth,  whereas  it  only 
helps  to  bear  with  a  rough  road  without  com¬ 
plaint.  They  do  not  know  that  these  Christians 
are  of  good  cheer,  not  because  the  world  is 
free  from  tribulation,  but  because  Christ,  their 
captain,  has  overcome  the  icorld.  But  the  irre- 
ligous  man,  who  has  only  seen  the  outside  of  a 
Christian  in  his  worldly  intercourse,  knows 
little  of  his  secret  conflicts,  his  trials,  his  self, 
denials,  his  warefare  with  the  world  without ; 
and  with  his  own  corrupt  desires  within. 

‘  The  irreligious  man  quarrels  with  the  world 
on  some  such  occasion  as  you  did  with  your 
place.  He  now  puts  on  the  outward  forms  and 
ceremonies  of  religion,  and  assumes  the  badge 
of  Christianity,  just  as  you  were  struck  with  the 
show  of  a  field  day  ;  just  as  you  were  pleased 
with  the  music  and  the  marching,  and  put  on 
the  cockade  and  red  coat.  All  seems  smooth 
for  a  little  while.  He  goes  through  the  out¬ 
ward  exercises  of  a  Christian,  a  degree  of  credit 
attends  his  new  profession,  but  he  never  sus¬ 
pects  there  is  either  difficulty  or  discipline  at¬ 
tending  it;  he  fancies  religion  is  a  thing  for 
talking  about,  and  not  a  thing  of  the  heart  and 
the  life.  He  never  suspects  that  all  tlie  psalm- 
singing  he  joins  in,  and  the  sermons  he  hears, 
and  the  other  means  he  is  using,  are  only  as 
the  exercises  and  the  evolutions  of  the  soldiers, 
to  fit  and  prepare  him  for  actual  service ;  and 
that  these  means  are.  no  more  religion  itself, 
than  the  exercises  and  evolutions  of  your  parade 
were  real  warfare. 

‘  At  length  some  trial  arises :  this  nominal 
Christian  is  called  to  differ  from  the  world  in 
some  great  point ;  something  happens  which 
may  strike  at  his  comfort,  or  his  credit,  or  se¬ 
curity.  This  cools  his  zeal  for  religion,  just  as 
the  view  of  am  engagement  cooled  your  courage 
as  a  soldier.  He  finds  he  was  only  angry  with 
the  world,  he  was  not  tired  of  it.  He  was  out 
of  humour  with  the  world,  not  because  he  had 
seen  through  its  vanity  and  emptiness,  but  be¬ 
cause  the  world  was  out  of  humour  with  him. 
He  finds  that  it  is  an  easy, thing  to  be  a  fair- 
weather  Christian,  bold  where  there  is  nothing 
to  be  done,  and  confident  where  there  is  nothing 
to  be  feared.  Difficulties  unmask  him  to  otliers  ; 
temptations  unmask  him  to  himself;  he  dis¬ 
covers,  that  though  he  is  a  high  professor,  he  is 
no  Christian  ;  just  as  you  found  out  that  your 
red  coat  and  your  cockade,  your  shoulder-knot, 
and  your  musket,  did  not  prevent  you  from  be 
ing  a  coward. 

‘Your  misery  in  the  military  life,  like  that  of 
the  nominal  Christian,  arose  from  your  love  of 
ease,  your  cowardice,  and  your  self  ignorance. 
You  rushed  into  a  new  way  of  life,  without 
trying  after  one  qualification  for  it.  A  total 
change  of  heart  and  temper  were  necessary  for 
your  new  calling.  With  new  views  and  prin¬ 
ciples  the  soldier’s  life  would  have  been  not  only 
easy,  but  delightful  to  you.  But  wliile  with  a  new 
profession  you  retailed  your  old  nature  it  is  no 
wonder  if  all  discipline  seemed  intolerable  to 
you. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


247 


‘  The  true  Christian,  like  the  brave  soldier, 
is  supported  under  dangers  by  a  strong  faith 
that  the  fruits  of  that  victory  for  which  he  fights 
will  be  safety  and  peace.  But,  alas !  the  plea¬ 
sures  of  this  world  are  present  and  visible ;  the 


rewards  for  which  he  strives  are  remote.  He 
theretbre  fails,  because  nothing  short  of  a  lively 
faith  can  ever  outweigh  a  strong  present  tempta- 
tion,  and  lead  a  man  to  prefer  the  joys  of  con¬ 
quest  to  the  pleasures  of  indulgence. 


BETTY  BROWN, 


THE  ST.  GILES'S  ORANGE  GIRL : 

WITH  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  MRS.  SPONGE,  THE  MONEY-LENDER. 


Betty  Brown  the  orange  girl,  was  born  no¬ 
body  knows  where,  and  bred  nobody  knows 
how.  No  girl  in  all  the  streets  of  London  could 
drive  a  barrow  more  nimbly,  avoid  pushing 
against  passengers  more  dexterously,  or  cry  her 
‘  fine  China  oranges’  in  a  shriller  voice.  But 
then  she  could  neither  sew,  nor  spin,  nor  knit, 
nor  wash,  nor  iron,  nor  read,  nor  spell.  Betty 
had  not  been  always  in  so  good  a  situation  as 
that  in  which  we  now  describe  her.  She  came 
into  the  world  before  so  many  good  gentlemen 
and  ladies  began  to  concern  themselves  so 
kindly  that  the  poor  might  have  a  little  learning. 
There  was  no  charitable  society  then  as  there  is 
now,  to  pick  up  poor  friendless  children  in  the 
streets,*  and  put  them  into  a  good  house,  and 
give  them  meat,  and  drink,  and  lodging,  and 
learning,  and  teach  them  to  get  their  bread  in 
an  honest  way,  into  the  bargain.  Whereas,  this 
now  is  often  the  case  in  London  ;  blessed  be  God 
who  has  ordered  the  bounds  of  our  habitation, 
and  cast  our  lot  in  such  a  country  I 

The  longest  thing  that  Betty  can  remember 
is,  that  she  used  to  crawl  up  out  of  a  night  cel¬ 
lar,  stroll  about  the  streets,  and  pick  cinders 
from  the  scavengers’  carts.  Among  the  ashes 
she  sometimes  found  some  ragged  gauze  and 
dirty  ribands ;  with  these  she  used  todizen  her¬ 
self  out,  and  join  the  merry  bands  on  the  first 
of  May.  This  was  not,  however,  quite  fair,  as 
she  did  not  lawfully  belong  either  to  the  female 
dancers,  who  foot  it  gayly  round  the  garland,  or 
to  the  sooty  tribe,  who,  on  this  happy  holyday, 
forget  their  year’s  toil  in  Portman  square,  cheer¬ 
ed  by  the  tender  bounty  of  her  whose  wit  has 
long  enlivened  the  most  learned,  and  whose 
taste  and  talents  long  adorned  the  most  polished 
societies.  Betty,  however,  often  got  a  few  scraps, 
by  appearing  to  . belong  to  both  parties.  But  as 
she  grew  bigger  and  was  not  an  idle  girl,  she 
always  put  herself  in  the  way  of  doing  some¬ 
thing.  She  would  run  of  errands  for  the  foot¬ 
men,  or  sweep  the  door  for  the  maid  of  any 
house  where  she  was  known;  she  would  run  and 
fetch  some  porter  and  never  was  once  known 
either  to  sip  a  drop  by  the  way,  or  steal  the  pot. 
Her  quickness  and  fidelity  in  doing  little  jobs, 
got  her  into  favour  with  a  lazy  cook-maid,  who 
was  too  apt  to  give  away  her  master’s  cold  moat 
and  beer,  not  to  those  who  were  most  in  want, 
but  to  those  who  waited  upon  her,  and  did  the 
little  things  for  her  which,  she  ought  to  have 
done  herself. 

The  cook,  who  fi)und  Betty  a  dexterous  girl, 
soon  ejnployed  her  to  sell  ends  of  candles,  pieces 
•  The  Philanthropic. 


thing  else  she  could  crib  from  the  house.  These 
were  all  carried  to  her  friend,  Mrs.  Sponge,  who 
kept  a  little  shop,  and  a  kind  of  eating-house 
for  poor  working  people,  not  far  from  the  Seven 
Dials.  She  also  bought  as  well  as  sold,  many 
kinds  of  second-hand  things,  and  was  not  scru 
pulous  to  know  whether  what  she  bought  was 
honestly  come  by,  provided  she  could  get  it  for 
a  sixth  part  of  what  it  was  worth.  But  if  the 
owner  presumed  to  ask  for  its  real  value,  then 
she  had  sudden  qualms  of  conscience,  instantly 
suspected  the  things  were  stolen,  and  gave  her¬ 
self  airs  of  honesty,  which  often  took  in  poor 
silly  people,  and  gave  her  a  sort  of  half  reputa¬ 
tion  among  the  needy  and  ignorant,  whose  friend 
she  hypocritically  pretended  to  be. 

^  To  this  artful  woman  Betty  carried  the  cook’s 
pilferings ;  and  as  Mrs.  Sponge  would  give  no 
great  price  for  these  in  money,  the  cook  was 
willing  to  receive  payment  for  her  eatables  in 
Mrs.  Sponge’s  drinkables ;  for  she  dealt  in  all 
kinds  of  spirits.  I  shall  only  just  remark  here, 
that  one  receiver,  like  Mrs.  Sponge,  makes  many 
pilferers,  who  are  tempted  to  commit  these  petty 
thieveries,  by  knowing  how  easy  it  is  to  dispose 
of  them  at  such  iniquitous  houses. 

Betty  was  faithful  to  both  her  employers, 
which  is  extrrordinary,  considering  the  great¬ 
ness  of  the  temptation  and  her  utter  ignorance 
of  good  and  evil.  One  day  she  ventured  to  ask 
Mrs.  Sponge,  if  she  could  not  assist  her  to  get 
into  a  more  settled  way  of  life.  She  told  her 
that  when  she  rose  in  the  morning  she  never 
knew  where  she  should  lie  at  night,  nor  was  she 
ever  sure  of  a  meal  beforehand.  Mrs.  Sponge 
asked  her  what  she  thought  herself  fit  for  • 
Betty,  with  fear  and  trembling,  said  there  was 
one  trade  for  which  she  thought  herself  quali¬ 
fied,  but  she  had  not  the  ambition  to  look  so 
high ;  it  was  far  above  her  humble  views  ;  this 
was,  to  have  a  barrow,  and  sell  fruit,  as  several 
other  of  Mrs.  Sponge’s  customers  did,  whom  she 
had  often  looked  up  to  with  envy,  little  expect¬ 
ing  herself  ever  to  attain  so  independent  a  sta¬ 
tion. 

Mrs.  Sponge  was  an  artful  woman.  Bad  as 
she  was,  she  was  always  aiming  at  something 
of  a  character  ;  this  was  a  great  help  to  iior 
trade.  While  she  watched  keenly  to  make  every 
thing  turn  to  her  own  profit,  she  had  a  false 
fawning  way  of  seeming  to  do  all  she  did  out 
of  pity  and  kindness  to  the  distressed;  and  she 
seldom  committed  an  extortion,  but  she  trie  1  to 
make  the  persons  she  cheated  believe  them- 
solves  highly  obliged  to  her  kindness.  By  tlms 


2i8 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


pretending  to  be  their  friend,  she  gained  their 
confidence ;  and  she  grew  rich  herself,  while 
they  thought  she  was  only  showing  favour  to 
them.  Various  were  the  arts  she  had  of  getting 
rich ;  and  the  money  she  got  by  grinding  the 
poor,  she  spent  in  the  most  luxurious  living ; 
while  she  would  haggle  with  her  hungry  cus¬ 
tomers  for  a  farthing,  she  would  spend  pounds 
on  the  most  costly  delicacies  for  herself. 

Mrs.  Sponge,  laying  aside  that  haughty  look 
and  voice,  well  known  to  such  as  had  the  mis¬ 
fortune  to  be  in  her  debt,  put  on  the  hypocritical 
smile  and  soft  canting  tone,  which  she  always 
assumed,  when  she  meant  to  flatter  her  supe¬ 
riors,  or  take  in  her  dependents.  ‘  Betty,’  said 
she,  ‘  I  am  resolved  to  stand  your  friend.  These 
are  sad  times  to  be  sure.  Money  is  money  now. 
Yet  I  am  resolved  to  put  you  in  a  handsome 
way  of  living.  You  shall  have  a  barrow,  and 
well  furnished  too-’  Betty  could  not  have  felt 
more  joy  or  gratitude,  if  she  had  been  told  that 
she  should  have  a  coach.  ‘  O,  madam  !’  said 
Betty,  ‘  it  is  impossible.  I  have  not  a  penny  in 
the  world  towards  helping  me  to  set  up.’  ‘  I  will 
take  care  of  that,’  said  Mrs.  Sponge  ;  ‘  only  you 
must  do  as  I  bid  you.  You  must  pay  me  in¬ 
terest  for  my  money  ;  and  you  will,  of  course, 
be  glad  also  to  pay  so  much  every  night  for  a 
nice  hot  supper  which  I  get  ready  quite  out  of 
kindness,  for  a  number  of  poor  working  people. 
This  will  be  a  great  comfort  for  such  a  friend¬ 
less  girl  as  you,  for  my  victuals  and  drink  are 
the  best,  and  my  company  the  merriest  of  any 
in  all  St.  Giles’s.’  Betty  thought  all  this  only  so 
many  more  favours,  and  curtseying  to  the 
ground,  said,  ‘  To  be  sure,  ma’am,  and  thank 
you  a  thousand  times  into  the  bargain.  I  never 
could  hope  for  such  a  rise  in  life.’ 

Mrs.  Sponge  knew  what  she  was  about.  Betty 
was  a  lively  girl,  who  had  a  knack  at  learning 
any  thing ;  and  so  well  looking  through  all  her 
dirt  and  rags,  that  there  was  little  doubt  she 
would  get  custom.  A  barrow  was  soon  provided, 
and  five  shillings  put  into  Betty’s  hands.  Mrs. 
Sponge  kindly  condescended  to  go  to  show  her 
how  to  buy  the  fruit ;  for  it  was  a  rule  with  this 
prudent  gentlewoman,  and  one  from  which  she 
never  departed,  that  no  one  should  cheat  but 
herself ;  and  suspecting  from  her  own  heart  the 
fraud  of  all  other  dealers,  she  was  seldom  guilty 
of  the  weakness  of  being  imposed  upon. 

Betty  had  never  possessed  such  a  sum  before. 
She  grudged  to  lay  it  out  all  at  once,  and  was 
ready  to  fancy  she  could  live  upon  the  capital. 
The  crown,  hovvever,  was  laid  out  to  the  best 
advantage.  Betty  was  carefully  taught  in  what 
manner  to  cry  her  oranges;  and  received  many 
useful  lessons  how  to  get  off  the  bad  with  the 
good,  and  the  stale  with  the  fresh.  Mrs.  Sponge 
also  lent  her  a  few  bad  sixpences,  for  which  she 
ordered  her  to  bring  home  good  ones  at  night. 
Betty  stared.  Mrs.  Sponge  said,  ‘  Betty,  those 
who  would  get  money,  must  not  be  too  nice 
about  trifles.  Keep  one  of  these  sixpences  in 
your  hand,  and  if  an  ignorant  young  customer 
gives  you  a  good  sixpence,  do  you  immediately 
slip  it  into  your  other  hand,  and  give  him  the 
bad  one,  declaring  that  it  is  the  very  one  you 
have  just  received,  and  be  ready  to  swear  that 
you  have  not  anotlier  sixpence  in  the  world. 


You  must  also  learn  how  to  treat  different  sorts 
of  customers.  To  some  you  may  put  off,  with 
safety,  goods  which  would  be  quite  unsaleable 
to  others.  Never  offer  bad  fruit,  Betty,  to  those 
who  know  better  ;  never  waste  the  good  on  those 
who  may  be  put  off  with  worse :  put  good 
oranges  at  top  to  attract  the  eye,  and  the  mouldy 
ones  under  for  sale.’ 

Poor  Betty  had  not  a  nice  conscience,  for  she 
had  never  learnt  that  grand,  but  simple  rule  of 
all  moral  obligation.  Never  do  that  to  another 
which  you  would  not  have  another  do  to  you.  She 
set  off  with  her  barrow,  as  proud  and  as  happy 
as  if  she  had  been  set  up  in  the  first  shop  in 
Covent  Garden.  Betty  had  a  sort  of  natural 
good  temper,  which  made  her  unwilling  to  im¬ 
pose,  but  she  had  no  principle  which  told  her  it 
was  a  sin  to  do  so.  She  had  such  good  success, 
that  when  night  came,  she  had  not  an  orange 
left.  With  a  light  heart  she  drove  her  empty 
barrow  to  Mrs.  Sponge’s  door.  She  went  in 
with  a  merry  face,  and  threw  down  on  the  coun¬ 
ter  every  farthing  she  had  taken.  ‘Betty,’  said 
Mrs.  Sponge,  ‘  I  have  a  right  to  it  all,  as  it  wa» 
got  by  my  money.  But  I  am  too  generous  to 
take  it.  I  will  therefore  only  take  sixpence  for 
this  day’s  use  of  my  five  shillings.  This  is  a. 
most  reasonable  interest,  and  I  will  lend  you  tho 
same  sum  to  trade  with  to-morrow,  and  so  on  ; 
you  only  paying  me  sixpence  for  the  use  of  it 
every  night,  which  will  be  a  great  bargain  to 
you.  You  must  also  pay  me  my  price  every 
night  for  your  supper,  and  you  shall  have  an  ex¬ 
cellent  lodging  above  stairs ;  so  you  see  every 
thing  will  now  be  provided  for  you  in  a  genteel 
manner,  through  my  generosity.’* 

Poor  Betty’s  gratitude  blinded  her  so  com¬ 
pletely,  that  she  had  forgot  to  calculate  the  vast 
proportion  which  this  generous  benefactress  was 
to  receive  out  of  her  little  gains.  She  thought 
herself  a  happy  creature,  and  went  in  to  supper 
with  a  number  of  others  of  her  own  class.  For 
this  supper,  and  for  more  porter  and  gin  than 
she  ought  to  have  drunk,  Betty  was  forced  ta 
pay  so  high  that  it  ate  up  all  the  profits  of  the 
day,  which,  added  to  the  daily  interest,  made 
tMrs.  Sponge  a  rich  return  for  her  five  shillings. 

Betty  was  reminded  again  of  the  gentility  of 
her  new  situation,  as  she  crept  up  to  bed  in  one 
of  Mrs.  Sponge’s  garrets,  five  stories  high.  This 
loft,  to  be  sure,  was  small  and  had  no  window, 
but  wbat  it  wanted  in  light  was  made  up  in 
company,  as  it  had  three  beds  and  thrice  as  ma¬ 
ny  lodgers.  Those  gentry  liad  one  night,  in  a. 
drunken  frolic,  broken  down  the  door,  which, 
happily  had  never  been  replaced  ;  for,  since  that 
time,  the  lodgers  had  died  much  seldomer  of  in¬ 
fectious  distempers,  tlian  when  they  were  close 
shut  in.  For  this  lodging  Betty  paid  twice  as 
much  to  her  good  friend  as  she  would  have  done 
to  a  stranger.  Thus  she  continued  with  great 
industry  and  a  thriving  trade,  as  poor  as  on  the 
first  day,  and  not  a  bit  nearer  to  saving  money 
enough  to  buy  her  even  a  pair  of  shoes,  though 
her  feet  were  nearly  on  the  ground. 

One  day,  as  Betty  was  driving  her  barrow 
through  a  street  near  Ilolborn,  a  lady  from  a. 

♦  For  an  authentic  account  of  nnmt)erles.s  frauds  of 
this  kind,  see  that  very  useful  work  of  Mr.  Colqahouik 
on  the  ‘  Police  of  tlie  Metropolis  of  Jjondon.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


249 


wiiidow  called  out  to  her  that  she  wanted  some 
oranges.  While  the  servant  went  to  fetch  a 
plate,  the  lady  entered  into  some  talk  with  Bet¬ 
ty,  having  been  struck  with  her  honest  counte¬ 
nance  and  civil  manner  She  questioned  her  as 
to  her  way  of  life,  and  the  profits  of  her  trade  ; 
and  Betty,  who  had  never  been  so  kindly  treated 
before  by  ^o  genteel  a  person,  was  very  commu¬ 
nicative.  She  told  her  little  history  as  far  as  she 
knew  it,  and  dwelt  much  on  the  generosity  of 
Mrs.  Sponge,  in  keeping  her  in  her  house,  and 
trusting  her  with  so  large  a  capital  as  five  shil¬ 
lings.  At  first  it  sounded  like  a  very  good-na¬ 
tured  thing ;  but  the  lady,  whose  husband  was 
one  of  the  justices  of  the  new  police,  happened 
to  know  more  of  Mrs.  Sponge  than  was  good, 
which  led  her  to  inquire  still  further.  Betty 
owned,  that  to  be  sure  it  was  not  all  clear  profit, 
for  that  besides  that  the  high  price  of  the  sup¬ 
per  and  bed  ran  away  with  all  she  got,  she  paid 
sixpence  a-day  for  the  use  of  the  five  shillings.’ 
‘  And  how  long  have  you  done  this  ?’  said  the 
lady.  ‘  About  a  year,  madam.’ 

The  lady’s  eyes  were  at  once  opened.  ‘  My 
poor  girl,’  said  she,  ‘  do  you  know  that  you  have 
already  paid  for  that  single  five  shillings  the 
enormous  sum  of  11.  10s.?  I  believe  it  is  the 
most  profitable  five  shillings  Mrs.  Sponge  ever 
laid  out.’ — ‘  O  no,  madam,’  said  the  girl,  ‘  that 
good  gentlewoman  does  the  same  kindness  to 
ten  or  twelve  other  poor  friendless  creatures  like 
me.’ — ‘  Does  she  so  ?’  said  the  lady  ;  ‘  then  I 
never  heard  of  a  more  lucrative  trade  than  this 
woman  carries  on,  under  the  mask  of  charity, 
at  the  expense  of  her  poor  deluded  fellow  crea¬ 
tures.’ 

‘  But,  madam,’  said  Betty,  who  did  not  com¬ 
prehend  this  lady’s  arithmetic,  ‘  what  can  I  do? 
I  now  contrive  to  pick  up  a  morsel  of  bread 
without  begging  or  stealing.  Mrs.  Sponge  has 
been  very  good  to  me  ;  and  I  don’t  see  how  I  can 
help  myself.’ 

‘  I  will  tell  you,’  said  the  lady  :  ‘  if  you  will 
follow  my  advice,  you  may  not  only  maintain 
yourself  honestly  but  independently.  Only  ob¬ 
lige  yourself  to  live  hard  for  a  little  time,  till 
you  have  saved  five  shillings  out  of  your  own 
earnings.  Give  up  that  expensive  supper  at 
night,  drink  only  one  pint  of  porter,  and  no  gin 
at  all.  As  soon  as  you  have  scraped  together 
the  five  shillings,  carry  it  back  to  your  false 
friend  ;  and  if  you  are  industrious,  you  will,  at 
the  end  of  the  year,  have  saved  11.  10s.  If  you 
can  make  a  shift  to  live  now,  when  you  have 
this  heavy  interest  to  pay,  judge  how  things  will 
mend  when  your  capital  becomes  your  own. 
You  will  put  some  clothes  on  your  back;  and, 
by  leaving  the  use  of  spirits,  and  the  company 
in  which  you  drink  them,  your  health,  your  mo¬ 
rals,  and  your  condition  will  mend.’ 

The  lady  did  not  talk  thus  to  save  her  money. 
She  would  willingly  have  given  the  girl  the  five 
shillings ;  but  she  thought  it  was  beginning  at 
the  wrong  end.  She  wanted  to  try  her.  Be¬ 
sides,  she  knew  there  was  more  pleasure,  as 
welt  as  honour,  in  possessing  five  shillings  of 
one’s  own  saving,  than  of  another’s  giving. 
Betty  promised  to  obey.  She  owned  slie  had 
got  no  good  by  the  company  or  the  liquor  at 
Mrs.  Sponge’s.  She  promised  that  very  night 
VoL.  I. 


to  begin  saving  the  expense  of  the  supper  :  antt 
that  she  would  not  taste  a  drop  of  gin  till  she 
had  the  five  shillings  beforehand.  The  lady, 
who  knew  the  power  of  good  habits,  was  con¬ 
tented  with  this,  thinking,  that  if  the  girl  could 
abstain  for  a  certain  time,  it  would  become  easy 
to  her.  She  therefore,  at  present,  said  little 
about  the  sin  of  drinking,  and  only  insisted  on 
the  expense  of  it. 

In  a  very  few  weeks  Betty  had  saved  up  the 
five  shillings.  She  went  to  carry  back  this 
money  ^with  great  gratitude  to  Mrs.  Sponge. 
This  kind  friend  began  to  abuse  her  most  un¬ 
mercifully.  She  called  her  many  hard  names, 
not  fit  to  repeat,  for  having  forsaken  the  supper, 
by  which  she  swore  she  herself  got  nothing  at 
all;  but  as  she  had  the  charity  to  dress  it  for, 
such  beggarly  wretches,  she  insisted  they  should 
pay  for  it,  whether  they  eat  it  or  not.'  She  also 
brought  in  a  heavy  score  for  lodging,  though 
Betty  had  paid  for  it  every  night,  and  had  given 
notice  of  her  intending  to  quit  her.  By  all  these 
false  pretences,  she  got  from  her,  not  only  her 
own  five  shillings,  but  all  the  little  capital  with 
which  Betty  was  going  to  set  up  for  herself! 
All  was  not  sufficient  to  answer  her  demands — 
she  declared  she  would  send  her  to  prison  :  but 
while  she  went  to  call  a  constable,  Betty  con¬ 
trived  to  make  off. 

With  a  light  pocket  and  a  heavy  heart  she 
went  back  to  the  lady ;  and  with  many  tears 
fold  her  sad  story.  The  lady’s  husband,  the 
justice,  condescended  to  listen  to  Betty’s  tale. 
He  said  Mrs.  Sponge  had  long  been  upon  his 
books  as  a  receiver  of  stolen  .goods.  Betty’s  evi¬ 
dence  strengthened  his  bad  opinion  of  her.  ‘This 
petty  system  of  usury,’  said  the  magistrate, 

‘  may  be  thought  trifling  ;  but  it  will  no  longer 
appear  so,  when  you  reflect,  that  if  one  of  these 
female  sharpers  possesses  a  capital  of  seventy 
shillings,  or  3Z.  lOs.  with  fourteen  steady  regu¬ 
lar  customers,  she  can  realize  a  fixed  income  of 
one  hundred  guineas  a  year.  Add  to  this  the 
influence  such  a  loan  gives  her  over  these  friend¬ 
less  creatures,  by  compelling  them  to  eat  at  her 
house,  or  lodge,  or  buy  liquors,  or  by  taking 
their  pawns,  and  you  will  see  the  extent  of  the 
evil.  I  pity  these  poor  victims :  you,  Betty, 
shall  point  out  some  of  them  to  me,  I  will  en¬ 
deavour  to  open  their  eyes  on  their  own  bad 
management.  It  is  not  by  giving  to  the  impor¬ 
tunate  shillings  and  half  crowns,  and  turning 
them  adrift  to  wait  for  the  next  accidental  re¬ 
lief,  that  much  good  is  done.  It  saves  trouble, 
indeed,  but  that  trouble  being  the  most  valuable 
part  of  charity,  ought  not  to  be  spared  ;  at  least 
by  those  who  have  leisure  as  well  as  affluence. 
It  is  one  of  the  greatest  acts  of  kindness  to  the 
poor  to  mend  their  economy,  and  to  give  them 
right  views  of  laying  out  their  little  money  to 
advantage.  These  poor  blinded  creatures  look, 
no  flirther  than  to  be  able  to  pay  this  heavy  in¬ 
terest  every  night,  and  to  obtain  the  same  loan 
on  the  same  hard  terms  the  next  day.  Thus 
they  are  kept  in  poverty  and  bondage  all  their 
lives  ;  but  I  hope  as  many  as  hear  of  Ibis  will 
go  on  a  better  plan,  and  1  shall  be  ready  to  help 
any  who  are  willing  to  help  themselves.’  This 
worthy  magistrate  went  directly  to  Mrs.  Sponge’s 
with  proper  officers ;  and  he  soon  got  to  the  bot. 


250 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


tom  of  many  iniquities.  He  not  only  made  her 
refund  poor  Betty’s  money,  but  committed  her 
to  prison  for  receiving  stolen  goods,  and  various 
other  otfences,  which  may,  perhaps,  make  the 
subject  of  another  history. 

Betty  was  now  set  up  in  trade  to  her  heart’s 
content.  She  had  found  the  benefit  of  leaving 
off  spirits,  and  she  resolved  to  drink  them  no 
more.  The  first  fruits  of  this  resolution  was, 
that  in  a  fortnight  she  bought  her  a  pair  of  new 
shoes  ;  and  as  there  was  now  no  deduction  for 
interest,  or  for  gin,  her  earnings  became  con¬ 
siderable.  The  lady  made  her  a  present  of  a 
g^own  and  a  hat,  on  the  easy  condition  that  she 
should  go  to  church.  She  accepted  the  terms, 
at  first  rather  as  an  act  of  obedience  to  the  lady 
than  from  a  sense  of  higher  duty.  But  she  soon 
began  to  go  from  a  better  motive.  This  constant 
attendance  at  church,  joined  to  the  instructions 
of  the  lady,  opened  a  new  world  to  Betty.  She 
now  heard,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  was  a  sin¬ 
ner  ;  that  God  had  given  a  law  which  was  holy, 
just,-  and  good  ;  that  she  had  broken  this  law, 
had  been  a  swearer,  a  Sabbath-breaker,  and  had 
lived  without  God  in  the  world.  All  this  was 
sad  news  to  Betty ;  she  knew,  indeed,  before, 
that  there  were  sinners,  but  she  thought  they 
were  only  to  be  found  in  the  prisons,  or  at  Bo¬ 
tany  Bay,  or  in  those  mournful  carts  which  she 
had  sometimes  followed  with  her  barrow,  with 
the  unthinking  crowd,  to  Tyburn. — She  was 
deeply  struck  with  the  great  truths  revealed  in 
the  Scripture,  which  were  quite  new  to  her ; 
her  heart  smote  her,  and  she  became  anxious  to 
Jlee  from  the  wrath  to  come.  She  was  desirous 
of  improvement,  and  said,  ‘  she  would  give  up 
all  the  profits  of  her  barrow,  and  go  into  the 
hardest  service,  rather  than  live  in  sin  and  ig¬ 
norance.’ 

‘  Betty,’  said  the  lady,  ‘  I  am  glad  to  see  you 
so  well  disposed,  and  will  do  what  I  can  for  you. 
Your  present  way  of  life,  to  be  sure,  exposes 
you  to  much  danger ;  but  the  trade  is  not  un¬ 
lawful  in  itself,  and  we  may  please  God  in  any 
calling,  provided  it  be  not  a  dishonest  one.  In 
this  great  town  there  must  be  barrow-women  to 
sell  fruit.  Do  you,  then,  instead  of  forsaking 
your  business,  set  a  good  example  to  those  in  it, 
and  show  them,  that  though  a  dangerous  trade, 
it  need  not  be  a  wicked  one.  Till  Providence 
points  out  some  safer  way  of  getting  your  bread, 
let  your  companions  see,  that  it  is  possible  to  be 
good  even  in  this.  Your  trade  being  carried 
on  in  the  open  street,  and  your  fruit  bought  in 
an  open  shop,  you  are  not  so  much  obliged  to 
keep  sinful  company  as  may  be  thought.  Take 
a  garret  in  an  honest  house,  to  whicii  you  may 
go  home  in  safety  at  night.  I  will  give  you  a 
bed,  and  a  few  necessaries  to  furnish  your  room  ; 
and  I  will  also  give  you  a  constant  Sunday’s 
dinner.  A  barrow  woman,  blessed  be  God  and 


our  good  laws,  is  as  much  her  own  mistress  on 
Sundays  as  a  diiehess  ;  and  the  church  and  the 
Bible  are  as  much  open  to  her.  You  may  soon 
learn  as  much  of  religion  as  you  are  expected 
to  know.  A  barrow -woman  may  pray  as  hearti¬ 
ly  morning  and  night,  and  serve  God  as  accepta¬ 
bly  all  day,  while  she  is  carrying  on  her  little 
trade,  as  if  she  had  her  whole  time  to  spare.’ 

‘  To  do  this  well,  you  must  mind  the  following 

‘  Rules  for  Retail  Dealers. 

‘  Resist  every  temptation  to  cheat. 

‘  Never  impose  bad  goods  on  false  pretences. 

‘  Never  put  off  bad  money  for  good. 

‘  Never  use  profane  or  uncivil  language.- 

‘  Never  swear  your  goods  cost  so  much,  when 
you  know  it  is  false.  By  so  doing  you  are  guilty 
of  two  sins  in  one  breath,  a  lie  antf  an  oath. 

‘  To  break  these  rules  will  be  your  chief 
temptation.  God  will  mark  how  you  behave 
under  them,  and  will  reward  or  punish  you  ac¬ 
cordingly.  Tliese  temptations  will  be  as  great 
to  you,  as  higher  trials  are  to  higher  people ; 
but  you  have  the  same  God  to  look  to  for  strength 
to  resist  them  as  they  have. — You  must  pray  to 
him  to  give  you  this  strength.  You  shall  attend 
a  Sunday-school,  where  you  will  be  taught  these 
good  things ;  and  I  will  promote  you  as  you 
shall  be  found  to  deserve.’ 

Poor  Betty  here  burst  into  tears  of  joy  and 
gratitude,  crying  out,  ‘  What !  shall  such  a  poor 
friendless  creature  as  I  be  treated  so  kindly,  and 
learn  to  read  the  word  of  God  too  ?  Oh,  madam, 
what  a  lucky  chance  brought  me  to  your  door ." 
— ‘  Betty,’ said  the  lady,  ‘  what  you  have  just 
said  shows  the  need  you  have  of  being  bettei 
taught ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  chance  ;  and 
we  offend  God  when  we  call  that  luck  or  chance 
which  is  brought  about  by  his  will  and  pleasure. 
— None  of  the  events  of  your  life  have  happen¬ 
ed  by  chance  ;  but  all  have  been  under  the  di¬ 
rection  of  a  good  and  kind  Providence. — He  has 
permitted  you  to  experience  want  and  distress, 
that  you  might  acknowledge  His  hand  in  your 
present  comfort  and  prosperity.  Above  all,  you 
must  bless  his  goodness  in  sending  you  to  me, 
not  only  because  I  have  been  of  use  to  you  in 
your  worldly  affairs,  but  because  he  has  enabled 
me  to  show  you  the  danger  of  your  state  from 
sin  and  ignorance,  and  to  put  you  in  a  way  to 
know  his  will  and  to  keep  his  commandments, 
which  is  eternal  life. 

How  Betty,  by  industry  and  piety,  rose  in  the 
world,  till  at  length  she  came  to  keep  that  hand¬ 
some  sausage  shop  near  the  Seven  Dials,  and 
was  married  to  that  very  hackney-coachman, 
whose  history  and  honest  character  may  be 
learned  from  that  ballad  of  the  Cheap  Reposito¬ 
ry  which  bears  his  name,  may  be  shown  here¬ 
after 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


251 


BLACK  GILES  THE  POACHER  : 


CfONTArNING  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  A  FAMILY  WHO  HAD  RATHER  LIVE  BY  THEIR  WITS  THAN  THEIR 

WORK. 


PART  I. 

Poaching  Giles  lives  on  the  borders  of  those 
great  moors  in  Somersetshire.  Giles,  to  be  sure, 
has  been  a  sad  fellow  in  his  time  ;  and  it  is  none 
of  his  fault  if  his  wliole  family  do  not  end  their 
career,  either  at  the  gallows  or  Botany  Bay.  He 
lives  at  that  mud  cottage  with  the  broken  win¬ 
dows,  stuffed  with  dirty  rags,  just  beyond  the 
gate  which  divides  the  upper  from  the  lower 
/noor.  You  may  know  the  house  at  a  good  dis¬ 
tance  by  the  ragged  tiles  on  the  roof,  and  the 
loose  stones  which  are  ready  to  drop  out  from 
the  chimney ;  though  a  short  ladder,  a  hod  of 
mortar,  and  half  an  hour’s  leisure  time,  would 
have  prevented  all  this,  and  made  the  little 
dwelling  tight  enough.  But  as  Giles  had  never 
learnt  any  thing  that  was  good,  so  he  did  not 
know  the  value  of  such  useful  sayings,  as,  that 
‘a  tile  in  time  saves  nine.’ 

Besides  this,  Giles  fell  into  that  common  mis¬ 
take,  that  a  beggarly  looking  cottage,  and  filthy 
ragged  children,  raised  most  compassion,  and  of 
course  ^rew  most  charity.  But  as  cunning  as 
he  was  in  other  things,  he  was  out  in  his  reck¬ 
oning  here ;  for  it  is  neatness,  housewifery,  and 
a  decent  appearance,  which  draw  the  kindness 
of  the  rich  and  charitable,  while  they  turn  away 
disgusted  from  filth  and  laziness ;  not  out  of 
pride,  but  because  they  see  that  it  is  next  to  im¬ 
possible  to  mend  the  condition  of  those  who  de¬ 
grade  themselves  by  dirt  and  sloth  ;  and  few  peo¬ 
ple  care  to  help  those  who  will  not  help  them¬ 
selves. 

The  common  on  which  Giles’s  hovel  stands, 
is  quite  a  deep  marsh  in  a  wet  winter  :  but  in 
summer  it  looks  green  and  pretty  enough.  To 
be  sure  it  would  be  rather  convenient  when  one 
passes  that  way  in  a  carriage,  if  one  of  the  chil¬ 
dren  would  run  out  and  open  the  gate  :  but  in¬ 
stead  of  any  one  of  them  running  out  as  soon  as 
they  heard  the  wheels,  which  would  be  quite 
time  enough,  what  does  Giles  do,  but  set  all  his 
ragged  brats,  with  dirty  faces,  matted  locks,  and 
naked  feet  and  legs,  to  lie  all  day  upon  a  sand 
bank  hard  by  the  gate,  waiting  for  the  slender 
chance  of  what  may  be  picked  up  from  travellers. 
At  the  sound  of  a  carriage,  a  whole  covey  of  tliese 
little  scare-crows  start  up,  rush  to  the  gate,  and 
all  at  once  tlirust  out  their  hats  and  aprons  ;  and 
for  fear  this,  together  with  the  noise  of  their 
clamorous  begging,  should  not  sufficiently 
frighten  the  horses,  they  are  very  apt  to  let  the 
gate  slap  full  against  you,  before  you  are  half 
way  through,  in  their  eager  scuffle  to  snatch 
from  each  other  the  halfpence  which  you  have 
thrown  out  to  tliem.  I  know  two  ladies  wlio 
were  one  day  very  near  being  killed  by  these 
abominable  tricks. 

Thus  five  or  six  little  idle  creatures,  who 
might  be  earning  n  trifle  by  knitting  at  home, 
who  miglit  be  useful  to  the  public  by  working  in 
the  field,  and  wiio  might  assist  their  families  by 


learning  to  get  their  bread  twenty  honest  ways, 
are  suffered  to  lie  about  all  day,  in  the  hope  of 
a  few  chance  halfpence,  which  after  all,  they  are 
by  no  means  sure  of  getting.  Indeed,  when  the 
neighbouring  gentlemen  found  out  that  opening 
the  gate  was  a  family  trade,  they  soon  left  off 
giving  any  thing.  And  I  myself,  though  I  used 
to  take  out  a  penny  ready  to  give,  had  there 
been  only  one  to  receive  it,  when  I  see  a  whole 
family  established  in  so  beggarly  a  trade,  quietly 
put  it  back  again  in  my  pocket,  and  give  no¬ 
thing  at  all.  And  so  few  travellers  pass  that 
way,  that  sometimes  after  the  whole  family 
have  lost  a  day,  their  gains  do  not  amount  to 
two-pence. 

As  Giles  had  a  far  greater  taste  for  living  by 
his  wits  than  his  work,  he  was  at  one  time  in 
hopes  that  his  children  might  have  got  a  pretty 
penny  by  tumhling  for  the  diversion  of  travel¬ 
lers,  and  he  set  about  training  them  in  that  in¬ 
decent  practice  ;  but  unluckily  the  moors  being 
level,  the  carriage  travelled  faster  than  the  chil¬ 
dren  tumbled.  He  envied  those  parents  who 
lived  on  the  London  road,  over  the  Wiltshire 
downs,  which  downs  being  very  hilly,  it  enables 
the  tumbler  to  keep  pace  with  the  traveller,  till 
he  sometimes  extorts  from  the  light  and  unthink¬ 
ing,  a  reward  instead  of  a  reproof.  I  beg  leave, 
however,  to  put  all  gentlemen  and  ladies  in  mind, 
that  such  tricks  are  a  kind  of  apprenticeship  to 
the  trades  of  begging  and  thieving  ;  and  that 
nothing  is  more  injurious  to  good  morals  than, 
to  encourage  the  poor  in  any  habits  which 
may  lead  them  to  live  upon  chance. 

Giles,  to  be  sure,  as  his  children  grew  older, 
began  to  train  them  to  such  other  employments, 
as  the  idle  habits  they  had  learned  at  the  gate 
very  properly  qualified  them  for.  The  right  of 
common,  which  some  of  the  poor  cottagers  have 
in  that  part  of  the  country,  and  which  is  doubt¬ 
less  a  considerable  advantage  to  many,  was 
converted  by  Giles,  into  the  means  of  corrupting 
his  whole  family;  for  his  cliildren,  as  soon  as 
they  grew  too  big  for  the  trade  of  begging  at  the 
gate,  were  promoted  to  the  dignity  of  thieves  on 
the  moor.  Here  he  kept  two  or  three  asses, 
miserable  beings,  which  if  they  had  the  good 
fortune  to  escape  an  untimely  death  by  starving, 
did  not  fail  to  meet  with  it  by  beating.  Somo 
of  the  biggest  boys  were  sent  out  with  tliese 
lean  and  galled  animals  to  carry  sand  or  coals 
about  the  neighbouring  towns.  Botli  sand  and 
coals  were  often  stolen  before  they  got  them  to 
sell ;  or  if  not,  they  always  took  care  to  cheat  in 
selling  them.  By  long  practice  in  this  art,  they 
grew  so  dexterous,  that  they  could  give  a  pretty 
good  guess  how  large  a  coal  they  could  crib  out 
of  every  bag  before  the  buyer  would  be  likely  to 
miss  it. 

All  their  odd  time  was  taken  up  under  the 
pretence  of  watching  their  asses  on  the  moor, 
or  running  after  five  or  six  half-starved  geese  ; 
but  the  truth  is  these  bovs  were  only  watching 


252 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


for  an  opportunity  to  steal  an  odd  goose  of  their 
neighbour’s,  while  they  pretended  to  look  after 
their  own.  They  used  also  to  pluck  the  quills 
or  the  down  from  these  poor  live  creatures,  or 
half  milk  a  cow  before  the  farmer’s  maid  came 
with  her  pail.  They  all  knew  how  to  calculate 
to  a  minute  what  time  to  be  down  in  a  morning 
to  let  out  their  lank  hungry  beasts,  which  they 
had  turned  over  night  into  the  farmer’s  field  to 
steal  a  little  good  pasture.  They  contrived  to 
get  there  just  time  enough  to  escape  being 
caught  replacing  the  stakes  they  had  pulled  out 
for  the  cattle  to  get  over.  For  Giles  was  a  pru¬ 
dent  long-headed  fellow  ;  and  whenever  he  stole 
food  for  his  colts,  took  care  never  to  steal  stakes 
from  the  hedges  at  the  same  place.  He  had  sense 
enough  to  know  that  the  gain  did  not  make  up 
for  the  danger ;  he  knew  that  a  loose  faggot, 
pulled  from  a  neighbour’s  pile  of  wood  after  the 
family  were  gone  to  bed,  answered  the  end 
better,  and  was  not  half  the  trouble. 

Among  the  many  trades  which  Giles  pro¬ 
fessed,  he  sometimes  practised  that  of  a  rat¬ 
catcher  ;  but  "he  was  addicted  to  so  many  tricks, 
that  he  never  followed  the  same  trade  long; 'for 
detection  will,  sooner  or  later,  follow  the  best 
concerted  villan}'.  Whenever  he  was  sent  for 
to  a  farm  house,  his  custom  was  to  kill  a  few 
of  the  old  rats,  always  taking  care  to  leave  a 
little  stock  of  young  ones  alive,  sufficient  to 
keep  up  the  breed  ;  ‘  for,’  said  he,  ‘  if  I  were  to 
be  such  a  fool  as  to  clear  a  house  or  a  barn  at 
once,  how  would  my  trade  be  carried  on  ?’ 
And  where  any  barn  was  over-stocked,  he  used 
to  borrow  a  few  rats  from  thence,  just  to  people 
a  neighbouring  granary  which  had  none;  and 
he  might  have  gone  on  till  now,  had  he  not 
unluckily  been  caught  one  evening  emptying 
his  cage  of  rats  under  parson  Wilson’s  barn 
door. 

This  worthy  minister,  Mr.  Wilson,  used  to 
pity  the  neglected  children  of  Giles,  as  much  as 
he  blamed  the  wicked  parents.  He  one  day 
picked  up  Dick,  who  was  far  the  best  of  Gile’s 
bad  boys.  Dick  was  loitering  about  in  a  field 
behind  the  parson’s  garden  in  search  of  a  hen’s 
nest,  his  mother  having  ordered  him  to  bring 
home  a  few  eggs  that  night,  by  hook  or  by 
crook,  as  Giles  was  resolved  to  have  some  pan¬ 
cakes  for  supper,  though  he  knew  that  eggs 
were  a  penny  a-piece.  Mr.  Wilson  had  long 
been  desirous  of  snatching  some  of  this  vagrant 
family  from  ruin  ;  and  his  chief  hopes  were 
bent  on  Dick,  as  the  least  hackneyed  in  knavery. 
He  had  once  given  him  a  new  pair  of  shoes,  on 
his  promising  to  go  to  school  next  Sunday  ;  but 
no  sooner  had  Rachel,  the  boy’s  mother,  got  the 
shoes  into  her  clutches,  than  she  pawned  them 
for  a  bottle  of  gin  ;  and  ordered  the  boy  to  keep 
out  of  the  parson’s  sight,  and  to  be  sure  to  play 
his  marbles  on  Sunday  for  the  future,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  parish,  and  not  near  the  church¬ 
yard.  Mr.  Wilson,  however,  picked  up  the  boy 
once  more,  for  it  was  not  his  way  to  despair  of 
any  body.  Dick  was  just  going  to  take  to  his 
heels,  as  usual,  for  fear  the  old  story  of  the  shoes 
should  be  brought  forward ;  but  finding  he  could 
not  get  off,  what  does  he  do  but  run  into  a  little 
puddle  of  muddy  water  which  lay  between  him 
and  the  parson,  that  the  siglit  of  his  naked  feet 


might  not  bring  on  the  dreaded  subject.  Now 
it  happened  that  Mr.  Wilson  was  planting  a 
little  field  of  beans,  so  he  thought  this  a  good 
opportunity  to  employ  Dick,  and  he  told  him  he 
had  got  some  pretty  easy  work  for  him.  Dick 
did  as  he  was  bid ;  he  willingly  went  to  work, 
and  readily  began  to  plant  his  beans  with  des¬ 
patch  and  regularity  according  to  the  directions 
given  him. 

While  the  boy  was  busily  at  work  by  himself, 
Giles  happened  to  come  by,  having  been  skulk¬ 
ing  round  the  back  way  to  look  over  the  parson’s 
garden  wall,  to  see  if  there  was  any  thing  worth 
climbing  over  for  on  the  ensuing  night.  He 
spied  Dick,  and  began  to  scold  him  for  working 
for  the  stingy  old  parson,  for  Giles  had  a  natural 
antipathy  to  whatever  belonged  to  the  church. 
‘  what  has  he  promised  thee  a-day  ?’  said  he  ; 
‘  little  enough  I  dare  say.’  ‘  He  is  not  to  pay 
me  by  the  day,’  said  Dick,  ‘  but  says  he  will 
give  me  so  much  when  I  have  planted  this  peck, 
and  so  much  for  the  next.’  ‘  Oh,  oh  !  that  alters 
the  case,’  said  Giles.  ‘  One  may,  indeed,  get  a 
trifle  by  this  sort  of  work.  I  hate  your  regular 
day -jobs,  where  one  can’t  well  avoid  doing  one’s 
work  for  one’s  money.  Come,  give  me  a  hand¬ 
ful  of  beans,  I  will  teach  thee  how  to  plant  when 
tliou  art  paid  for  planting  by  the  peck.  All  we 
have  to  tlo  in  that  case  is  to  despatch  the  work  as 
fast  as  we  can,  and  get  rid  of  the  beans  with  all 
speed;  and  as  to  the  seed  coming  up  or  not,  that 
is  no  business  of  our’s  ;  we  are  paid  for  planting 
not  for  growing..  At  the  rate  thou  goest  on  thou 
would’st  not  get  sixpence  to-night.  Come  along, 
bury  away.’  So  saying  he  took  his  hatful  of 
the  seed,  and  where Tfick  had  been  ordered  to 
set  one  bean,  Giles  buried  a  dozen  ;  of  course  the 
beans  were  soon  out.  But  though  the  peck  was 
emptied,  the  ground  was  unplanted.  But  cun¬ 
ning  Giles  knew  this  could  not  be  found  out  till 
the  time  when  the  beans  might  be  expected  to 
come  up,  ‘and  then  Dick,’  says  he,  ‘the  snails 
and  the  mice  may  go  shares  in  the  blame,  or 
we  can  lay  the  fault  on  the  rooks  or  the  black¬ 
birds.’  So  saying  he  sent  the  boy  into  tbe  par¬ 
sonage  to  receive  his  pay,  taking  care  to  secure 
about  a  quarter  of  the  peck  of  beans  for  his  own 
colt.  He  put  both  bag  and  beans  into  his  own 
pocket  to  carry  home,  bidding  Dick  tell  Mr. 
Wilson  that  he  had  planted  the  beans  and  lost 
the  bag. 

In  the  meantime  Giles’s  other  boys  were  busy 
in  emptying  the  ponds  and  trout-streams  in  the 
the  neighbouring  manor.  They  would  steal 
away  the  carp  and  tench  when  they  were  no 
bigger  than  gudgeons.  By  this  untimely  de¬ 
predation  they  plundered  the  owner  of  his  pro¬ 
perty,  without  enriching  themselves.  But  the 
pleasure  of  mischief  was  reward  enough.  These, 
and  a  hundred  other  little  thieveries,  they  com¬ 
mitted  with  such  dexterity,  that  old  Tim  Crib, 
whose  son  was  transported  last  assizes  for  sheep 
stealing,  used  to  bo  often  reproaching  his  boys 
that  Giles’s  sons  were  worth  a  hundred  of  such 
blockheads,  as  he  had  ;  for  scarce  a  night  pass¬ 
ed  but  Giles  had  some  little  comfortable  thing 
for  supper  which  his  boys  had  pilfered  in  the 
day,  while  his  undutiful  dogs  never  stole  any 
thing  worth  having.  Giles,  in  the  meantime, 
was  busy  in  his  way,  but  as  busy  as  he  was 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


253 


in  laying  his  nets,  starting  coveys,  and  training 
dogs,  he  always  took  care  that  his  depredations 
should  not  be  confined  merely  to  game. 

Gile’s  boys  had  never  seen  the  inside  of  a 
church  since  they  were  christened,  and  the  fa¬ 
ther  thought  he  knew  his  own  interest  better 
than  to  force  them  to  it;  for  church-time  was 
the  season  of  their  harvest.  Then  the  hen’s 
nests  were  searched,  a  stray  duck  was  clapped 
under  the  smock  frock,  the  tools  which  might 
have  been  left  by  chance  in  a  farm-yard  were 
picked  up,and  all  the  neighbouringpigeon-houses 
were  thinned,  so  that  Giles  used  to  boast  to 
tawny  Rachel  his  wife,  that  Sunday  was  to 
them  the  most  profitable  day  in  the  week.  With 
her  it  was  certainly  the  most  laborious  day,  as 
she  always  did  her  washing  and  ironing  on  the 
Sunday  morning,  it  being,  as  she  said,  the  only 
leisure  day  she  had,  for  on  the  other  days  she 
went  about  the  country  telling  fortunes,  and 
selling  dream-books  and  wicked  songs.  Neither 
her  husband’s  nor  her  children’s  clothes  were 
ever  mended,  and  if  Sunday,  her  idle  day,  had 
not  come  about  once  in  every  week,  it  is  likely 
they  would  never  have  been  washed  neither. 
You  might  however  see  her  as  you  were  going 
to  church  smoothing  her  own  rags  on  her  best 
red  cloak,  which  she  always  used  for  her  iron¬ 
ing-cloth  on  Sundays,  for  her  cloak  when  she 
travelled,  and  for  her  blanket  at  night;  such  a 
wretched  manager  was  Rachel !  Among  her 
other  articles  of  trade,  one  was  to  make  and  sell 
pepper-mint,  and  other  distilled  waters.  These 
she  had  tire  cheap  art  of  making  without  trouble 
and  without  expense,  for  she  made  them  with¬ 
out  herbs  and  without  a  still.  Her  way  was,  to 
fill  so  many  quart  bottles  with  plain  water,  put¬ 
ting  a  spoonful  of  mint  water  in  the  mouth  of 
each  ;  these  she  corked  down  with  rosin,  carry¬ 
ing  to  each  customer  a  phial  of  real  distilled 
water  to  taste  by  way  of  sample.  This  was  so 
good  that  her  bottles  were  commonly  bought  up 
without  being  opened ;  but  if  any  suspicion 
arose,  and  she  was  forced  to  uncork  a  bottle,  by 
the  few  drops  of  distilled  water  lying  at  top,  she 
even  then  escaped  detection,  and  took  care  to 
get  out  of  reach  before  the  bottle  was  opened  a 
second  time.  She  was  too  prudent  ever  to  go 
twice  to  the  same  house. 

The  upright  Magistrate, 

There  is  hardly  any  petty  mischief  that  is  not 
connected  with  the  life  of  a  poacher.  Mr.  Wil¬ 
son  was  aware  of  this  ;  he  was  not  only  a  pious 
clergyman,  but  an  upright  justice.  He  used  to 
say,  that  people  who  were  truly  conscientious, 
must  be  so  in  small  things  as  well  as  in  great 
ones,  or  they  would  destroy  the  effect  of  their 
own  precepts,  and  their  example  would  not  be 
of  general  use.  For  this  reason  he  never  would 
accept  of  a  hare  or  a  partridge  from  any  unqua¬ 
lified  person  in  the  parish  :  He  did  not  content 
himself  with  shulTling  the  thing  off  by  asking 
questions,  and  pretending  to  take  it  for  granted 
in  a  general  way  that  the  game  was  fairly  come 
at ;  but  he  used  to  say,  that  by  receiving  the 
booty  ho  connived  at  a  crime,  made  himself  a 
sharer  in  it ;  and  if  he  gave  a  present  to  the 
man  who  brought  it,  he  even  tempted  him  to 
repeat  the  fault. 


One  day  poor  Jack  Weston,  an  honest  fellow 
in  the  neighbourhood,  whom  Mr.  Wilson  had 
kindly  visited  and  relieved  in  a  long  sickness, 
from  which  he  was  but  just  recovered,  was 
brought  before  him  as  he  was  sitting  on  the  jus¬ 
tice’s  bench  ;  Jack  was  accused  of  having  knock¬ 
ed  down  a  hare  ;  and  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air 
who  should  the  informer  be  but  black  Giles  the 
poacher  ?  Mr.  Wilson  was  grieved  at  the  charge; 
he  had  a  great  regard  for  Jack,  but  he  had  still 
a  greater  regard  for  the  law.  The  poor  fellow 
pleaded  guilty.  He  did  not  deny  the  fact,  but 
said  he  did  not  consider  it  as  a  crime,  for  he  did 
not  think  game  was  private  property,  and  he 
owned  he  had  a  strong  temptation  for  doing 
what  he  had  done,  which  he  hoped  would  plead 
his  excuse.  The  justice  desired  to  know  what 
this  temptation  was. — ‘  Sir,’  said  the  poor  fellow, 

‘  you  know  I  was  given  over  this  spring  in  a 
bad  fever.  I  had  no  friend  in  the  world  but  you, 
sir.  Under  God  you  saved  my  life  by  your  cha¬ 
ritable  relief;  and  I  trust  also  you  may  have 
helped  to  save  my  soul  by  your  prayers  and 
your  good  advice ;  for,  by  the  grace  of  God,  I 
have  turned  over  a  new  leaf  since  that  sickness. 

‘  I  know  I  can  never  make  you  amends  for 
all  your  goodness,  but  I  thought  it  would  be 
some  comfort  to  my  full  heart  if  I  could  but 
once  give  you  some  little  token  of  my  gratitude. 
So  I  had  trained  a  pair  of  nice  turtle  doves  for 
madam  Wilson,  but  they  were  stolen  from  me, 
sir,  and  I  do  suspect  black  Giles  stole  them. 
Yesterday  morning,  sir,  as  I  was  crawling  out 
to  my  work,  for  I  am  still  but  very  weak,  a  fine 
hare  ran  across  my  path.  I  did  not  stay  to  con¬ 
sider  whether  it  was  wrong  to  kill  a  hare,  but  I 
felt  it  was  right  to  show  my  gratitude ;  so,  sir, 
without  a  moment’s  thought  I  did  knock  down 
the  hare,  which  I  was  going  to  carry  to  your 
worship,  because  I  knew  madam  was  fond  of 
hare.  I  am  truly  sorry  for  my  fault,  and  will 
submit  to  whatever  punishment  your  worship 
may  please  to  inflict.’ 

Mr.  Wilson  was  much  moved  with  this  ho- 
nest  confession,  and  touched  with  the  poor  fel¬ 
low’s  gratitude.  What  added  to  the  effect  of  the 
story,  was  the  weak  condition  and  pale  sickly 
looks  of  the  offender.  But  this  worthy  magis¬ 
trate  never  suffered  his  feeling  to  bias  his  inte¬ 
grity  ;  he  knew  that  he  did  not  sit  on  that  bench 
to  indulge  pity,  but  to  administer  justice;  and 
while  he  was  sorry  for  the  offender,  he  would 
never  justify  the  offence.  ‘  John,’  said  he,  *  I 
am  surprised  that  you  could  for  a  moment  for¬ 
get  that  I  never  accept  any  gift  which  causes 
the  giver  to  break  a  law.  On  Sunday  I  teach 
you  from  the  pulpit  the  laws  of  God,  whose  mi¬ 
nister  I  am.  At  present  I  fill  the  chair  of  the 
magistrate,  to  enforce  and  execute  the  laws  of 
the  land.  Between  those  and  the  others  there 
is  more  connexion  than  you  are  aware.  I  thank 
you,  John,  for  your  affection  to  me,  and  I  ad¬ 
mire  your  gratitude  ;  but  I  must  not  allow  either 
affection  or  gratitude  to  be  brought  as  a  plea 
for  a  wrong  action.  It  is  not  your  business  nor 
mine,  John,  to  settle  whotlier  the  game  laws  are 
good  or  had.  ’I’ill  they  are  repealed  we  must 
obey  them.  Many,  I  doubt  not,  break  these  laws 
through  ignorance,  and  many,  I  am  certain, 
who  would  not  dare  to  steal  a  goose  or  a  turkey, 


254 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


make  no  scruple  of  knocking^  down  a  hare  or  a 
partridg^e.  You  will  hereafter  think  yourself 
happy  that  this  your  first  attempt  has  proved 
unsuccessful,  as  I  trust  you  are  too  honest  a  fel¬ 
low  ever  to  intend  to  turn  poacher.  With  poach¬ 
ing'  much  moral  evil  is  connected  ;  a  habit  of 
nightly  depredation ;  a  custom  of  prpwling  in 
the  dark  for  prey  produces  in  time  a  disrelish 
for  honest  labour.  He  whose  first  offence  was 
committed  without  much  thought  or  evil  inten¬ 
tion,  if  he  happens  to  succeed  a  few  times  in  car¬ 
rying  off  his  booty  undiscovered,  grows  bolder 
and  bolder :  and  when  he  fancies  there  is  no 
shame  attending  it,  he  very  soon  gets  to  per¬ 
suade  himself  that  there  is  also  no  sin.  While 
some  people  pretend  a  scruple  about  stealing  a 
sheep,  they  partly  live  by  plundering  of  war¬ 
rens.  But  remember  that  the  warrener  pays  a 
high  rent,  and  that  therefore  his  rabbits  are  as 
much  his  property  as  his  sheep.  Do  not  then 
deceive  yourselves  with  these  false  distinctions. 
All  property  is  sacred,  and  as  the  laws  of  the 
land  are  intended  to  fence  in  that  property,  he 
who  brings  up  his  children  to  break  down  any 
of  these  fences,  brings  them  up  to  certain  sin 
and  ruin.  He  who  begins  with  robbing  orchards, 
rabbit-warrens,  and  fish-ponds,  will  probably 
end  with  horse-stealing  or  high-way  robbery. 
Poaching  is  a  regular  apprenticeship  to  bolder 
crimes.  Ha  whom  I  may  commit  as  a  boy  to 
sit  in  the  stocks  for  killing  a  partridge,  may  be 
likely  to  end  at  the  gallows  for  killing  a  man. 

‘  Observe,  you  who  now  hear  me,  the  strict¬ 
ness  and  impartiality  of  justice.  I  know  Giles 
to  be  a  worthless  fellow,  yet  it  is  my  duty  to 
take  his  information;  I  know  Jack  Weston  to 
be  an  honest  youth,  yet  I  must  be  obliged  to 
make  him  pay  the  penalty.  Giles  is  a  bad  man, 
but  he  can  prove  this  fact ;  Jack  is  a  worthy 
lad,  but  he  has  committed  this  fault.  I  am  sorry 
for  you.  Jack  ;  but  do  not  let  it  grieve  you  that 
Giles  has  played  worse  tricks  a  hundred  times, 
and  yet  got  off,  while  you  were  detected  in  the 
very  first  offence,  for  that  would  be  grieving  be- 
cause  you  are  not  as  great  a  rogue  as  Giles.  At 
this  moment  you  think  your  good  luck  is  very 
unequal;  but  all  this  will  one  day  turn  out  in 
your  favour.  Giles  is  not  the  more  a  favourite 
of  Heaven  because  he  has  hitherto  escaped  Bo¬ 
tany  Bay,  or  the  hulks  ;  nor  is  it  any  mark  of 
God’s  displeasure  against  you,  John,  that  you 
were  found  out  in  your  very  first  attempt.’ 

Here  the  good  justice  left  off  speaking,  and 
no  one  could  contradict  the  truth  of  what  he  had 
said.  Weston  humbly  submitted  to  his  sentence, 
but  he  was  very  poor,  and  knew  not  where  to 
raise  the  money  to  pay  his  fine.  His  character 
had  always  been  so  fair,  that  several  farmers 
present  kindly  agreed  to  advance  a  trifle  each 
to  prevent  his  being  sent  to  prison,  and  he  thank¬ 
fully  promised  to  work  out  the  debt.  The  jus¬ 
tice  himself,  though  he  could  not  soften  the  law, 
yet  showed  Weston  so  much  kindness  that  he 
was  enabled  before  the  year  was  out,  to  get  out 
of  tliis  difficulty.  He  began  to  think  more  se¬ 
riously  than  he  had  ever  yet  done,  and  grew  to 
abhor  poaching,  not  merely  from  fear,  but  from 
principle. 

We  shall  soon  see  whether  poaching  Giles  al¬ 
ways  got  off  so  successfully.  Here  we  have 


seen  that  worldly  prosperity  is  no  sure  sign  of 
goodness.  Next  month  we  may,  perhaps,  see 
that  the  *  triumph  of  the  wicked  is  short ;’  for  I 
then  promise  to  give  the  second  part  of  the 
Poacher,  together  with  the  entertaining  story 
of  the  Widow  Brown’s  Apple-tree. 


PART  II. 

History  of  Widow  Brown's  Apple-tree. 

I  think  my  readers  got  so  well  acquainted 
last  month  with  black  Giles  the  poacher,  that 
they  will  not  expect  this  month  to  hear  any 
great  good,  either  of  Giles  himself,  his  wife  Ra¬ 
chel,  or  any  of  their  family.  I  am  sorry  to  ex¬ 
pose  their  tricks,  but  it  is  their  fault,  not  mine. 
If  I  pretend  to  speak  about  people  at  all,  I  must 
tell  the  truth.  I  am  sure,  if  folks  would  but  turn 
about  and  mend,  it  would  be  a  thousand  times 
pleasanter  to  me  to  write  their  histories  ;  for  it 
is  no  comfort  to  tell  of  any  body’s  faults.  If  the 
world  would  but  grow  good,  I  should  be  glad 
enough  to  publish  it ;  but  till  it  really  becomes 
so,  I  must  go  on  describing  it  as  it  is ;  other¬ 
wise,  I  should  only  mislead  my  readers,  instead 
of  instructing  them.  It  is  the  duty  of  a  faithful 
historian  to  relate  the  evil  with  the  good. 

As  to  Giles  and  his  boys,  I  am  sure  old  widow 
Brown  has  good  reason  to  remember  their  dex¬ 
terity,  Poor  woman !  she  had  a  fine  little  bed 
of  onions  in  her  neat  and  well-kept  garden  ;  she 
was  very  fond  of  her  onions,  and  many  a  rheu¬ 
matism  has  she  caught  by  kneeling  down  to 
weed  thetn  in  a  damp  day,  notwithstanding  the 
little  flannel  cloak  and  the  bit  of  an  old  mat 
which  madam  Wilson  gave  her,  because  the  old 
woman  would  needs  weed  in  wet  weather.  Her 
onions  she  always  carefully  treasured  up  for  her 
winter’s  store ;  for  an  onion  makes  a  little  broth 
very  relishing,  and  is  indeed  the  only  savoury 
thing. poor  people  are  used  to  get.  She  had  also 
a  small  orchard,  containing  about  a  dozen  apple- 
trees,  with  which  in  a  good  year  she  had  been 
known  to  make  a  couple  of  barrels  of  cider, 
which  she  sold  to  her  landlord  towards  paying 
her  rent,  besides  having  a  little  keg  which  she 
was  able  to  keep  back  for  her  own  drinking. 
Well !  would  you  believe  it,  Giles  and  his  boys 
marked  both  onions  and  apples  for  their  own; 
indeed,  a  man  who  stole  so  many  rabbits  from 
the  warrener,  was  likely  enough  to  steal  onions 
for  sauce.  One  day,  when  the  widow  was 
abroad  on  a  little  business,  Giles  and  his  boys 
made  a  clear  riddance  of  the  onion  bed ;  and 
when  they  had  pulled  up  every  single  onion, 
they  then  turned  a  couple  of  pigs  into  the  gar¬ 
den,  who,  allured  by  the  smell,  tore  up  the  bed 
in  such  a  manner,  that  the  widow,  when  she 
came  home,  had  not  the  least  doubt  but  the  pigs 
had  been  the  thieves.  To  confirm  this  opinion, 
they  took  care  to  leave  the  latch  half  open  at 
one  end  of  the  garden,  and  to  break  down  a 
slight  fence  at  the  other  end. 

I  wonder  how  any  body  can  find  in  his  heart 
not  to  pity  and  respect  poor  old  widows.  There 
is  something  so  forlorn  and  helpless  in  their 
condition,  that  methinks  it  is  a  call  on  every 
body,  men,  women,  and  children,  to  do  them  all 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


255 


the  kind  services  that  fall  in  their  way.  Surely 
their  having  no  one  to  take  their  part,  is  an  ad- 
ditional  reason  for  kind-hearted  people  not  to 
hurt  and  oppress  them.  But  it  was  this  very 
reason  which  led  Giles  to  do  this  woman  an  in- 
jurv.  With  what  a  touching  simplicity  is  it 
recorded  in  Scripture,  of  the  youth  whom  our 
blessed  Saviour  raised  from  the  dead,  that  he 
Was  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  a  widow  ! 

It  happened  unluckily  for  poor  widow  Brown 
that  her  cottage  stood  quite  alone.  On  several 
mornings  together,  (for  roguery  gets  up  much 
earlier  than  industry,)  Giles  and  his  boys  stole 
regularly  into  her  orchard,  followed  by  their 
jack-asses.  She  was  so  deaf  that  she  could  not 
hear  the  asses  if  they  had  brayed  ever  so  loud, 
and  to  this  Giles  trusted ;  for  he  was  very  cau¬ 
tious  in  his  rogueries  ;  since  he  could  not  other¬ 
wise  have  contrived  so  long  to  keep  out  of  prison ; 
for  though  he  was  almost  always  suspected,  he 
had  seldom  been  taken  up,  and  never  convicted. 
The  boys  used  to  fill  their  bags,  load  their  asses, 
and  then  march  off ;  and  if  in  their  way  to  the 
town  where  the  apples  were  to  be  sold  they 
chanced  to  pass  by  one  of  their  neighbours  who 
miglrt  be  likely  to  suspect  them,  they  then  all 
at  once  began  to  scream  out,  ‘  Buy  my  coal ! — 
buy  my  sand !’ 

Besides  the  trees  in  her  orchard,  poor  widow 
Brown  had  in  her  small  garden,  one  apple-tree 
particularly  fine  ;  it  was  a  red-streak,  so  tempt¬ 
ing  and  so  lovely,  that  Giles’s  family  had  watch¬ 
ed  it  with  longing  eyes,  till  at  last  they  resolved 
.on  a  plan  for  carrying  off  all  this  fine  fruit  in 
their  bags.  But  it  was  a  nice  point  to  manage. 
The  tree  stood  directly  under  her  chamber  win¬ 
dow,  so  that  there  was  some  danger  that  she 
might  spy  them  at  the  work.  They  therefore 
determined  to  wait  till  the  next  Sunday  morn¬ 
ing  when  they  knew  she  would  not  fail  to  be  at 
church.  Sunday  came,  and  during  service  Giles 
attended.  It  was  a  lone  house,  as  I  said  before, 
and  the  rest  of  the  parish  were  safe  at  church. 
In  a  trice  the  tree  was  cleared,  the  bags  were 
filled,  the  asses  were  whipped,  the  thieves  were 
off,  the  coast  was  clear,  and  all  was  safe  and 
quiet  by  the  time  the  sermon  was  over. 

Unluckily,  however,  it  happened,  that  this 
tree  was  so  beautiful,  and  the  fruit  so  fine,  that 
the  people,  as  they  used  to  pass  to  and  from  the 
church,  were  very  apt  to  stop  and  admire  widow 
Brown’s  red-streaks :  and'  some  of  the  farmers 
rather  envied  her  that  in  that  scarce  season, 
when  they  hardly  expected  to  make  a  pye  out 
of  a  large  orchard,  she  was  likely  to  make  a 
cask  of  cider  from  a  single  tree.  I  am  afraid, 
indeed,  if  I  must  speak  out,  she  herself  rather 
set  her  heart  too  much  upon  this  fruit,  and  had 
felt  as  much  pride  in  her  tree  as  gratitude  to  a 
good  Providence  for  it ;  but  this  failing  of  hors 
was  no  excuse  for  Giles.  The  covetousness  of 
this  thief  had  for  once  got  the  better  of  his  cau¬ 
tion  ;  the  tree  was  too  completely  stripped, 
though  the  youngest  boy  Dick  did  beg  hard  that 
his  fkther  would  leave  the  poor  old  woman 
enough  for  a  few  dumplings ;  and  when  Giles 
ordered  Dick  in  his  turn  to  shake  the  tree,  the 
boy  did  it  so  gently  that  hardly  any  apples  fell, 
for  which  he  got  a  good  stroke  of  the  stick  with 
which  the  old  man  was  beating  down  the  apples. 


The  neighbours  on  their  return  from  church 
stopped  as  usual,  but  it  was  not,  alas  !  to  admire 
the  apples,  for  apples  there  were  none  left,  but 
'to  lament  the  robbery,  and  console  the  widow  ; 
meantime  the  red-streaks  were  safely  lodged  in 
Gile.s’s  hovel  under  a  few  bundles  of  new  hay 
which  he  had  contrived  to  pull  from  the  farmer’s 
mow  the  night  before,  for  the  use  of  his  jack¬ 
asses.  Such  a  stir,  however,  began  to  be  made 
about  the  widow’s  apple-tree,  that  Giles,  who 
knew  how  much  his  character  had  laid  him  open 
to  suspicion,  as  soon  as  he  saw  the  people  safe 
in  church  again  in  the  afternoon,  ordered  his 
boys  to  carry  each  a  hatful  of  the  apples  and 
thrust  them  in  a  little  casement  window  which 
happened  to  be  open  in  the  house  of  Samuel 
Price,  a  very  honest  carpenter  in  that  parish, 
who  was  at  church  with  his  whole  family. 
Giles’s  plan,  by  this  contrivanee,  was  to  lay  the 
theft  on  Priee’s  sons  in  case  the  thing  should 
come  to  be  further  inquired  into.  Here  Diek 
put  in  a  word,  and  begged  and  prayed  his  father 
not  to  force  them  to  carry  the  apples  to  Price’s. 
But  all  that  he  got  by  his  begging  was  such  a 
knock  as  had  nearly  laid  him  on  the  earth. 

‘  What,  you  cowardly  rascal,’  said  Giles,  ‘  you 
will  go  aud  'peach,  I  suppose,  and  get  your 
father  sent  to  gaol.’ 

Poor  widow  Brown,  though  her  trouble  had 
mode  her  still  weaker  than  she  was,  went  to 
church  again  in  the  afternoon :  indeed  she 
rightly  thought  that  her  being  in  trouble  was  a 
new  reason  why  she  ought  to  go.  During  the 
service  she  tried  with  all  her  might  not  to  think 
of  her  red-streaks,  and  whenever  they  would 
come  into  her  head,  she  took  up  her  praypr-book 
directly,  and  so  she  forgot  them  a  little  ;  and  in¬ 
deed  she  found  herself  much  easier  when  she 
came  out  of  the  church  than  when  she  went  in  ; 
an  effect  so  commonly  produced  by  prayer,  that 
methinks  it  is  a  pity  people  do  not  try  it  oftener. 
Now  it  happened  oddly  enough,  that  on  that 
Sunday,  of  all  the  Sundays  in  the  year,  the  wi¬ 
dow  should  call  in  to  rest  a  little  at  Samuel 
Price’s,  to  tell  over  again  the  lamentable  story 
of  the  apples,  and  to  consult  with  him  how  the 
thief  might  be  brought  to  justice.  But  O,  reader ! 
guess  if  you  can,  for  I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell  you, 
what  was  her  surprise,  when,  on  going  into 
Samuel  Price’s  kitchen,  she  saw  her  own  red 
streaks  lying  on  the  window!  The  apples  were 
of  a  sort  too  remarkable,  for  colour,  shape,  and 
size,  to  be  mistaken.  There  was  not  such  an 
other  tree  in  the  parish.  Widow  Brown  imme¬ 
diately  screamed  out,  ‘  Alas-a-day !  as  sure  as 
can  be,  here  are  my  red-streakes ;  I  could  swear 
to  them  in  any  court.’  Samuel  Price,  who  be¬ 
lieved  his  sons  to  be  as  honest  as  himself,  was 
shocked  and  troubled  at  the  sight.  He  knew  ho 
had  no  red-streaks  of  his  own,  he  knew  there 
were  no  apples  in  the  window  when  he  went  to 
church  :  ho  did  verily  believe  these  apples  to  be 
the  widow’s.  But  how  they  came  there  he  could 
not  possibly  guess.  He  called  for  Tom,  the  only 
one  of  his  sons  who  now  lived  at  home.  Tom 
was  at  the  Sunday-school,  which  he  had  never 
once  missed  since  Mr.  Wilson  the  minister  had 
set  up  one  in  the  parish.  Was  such  a  boy  likely 
to  do  such  a  deed  ! 

A  crowd  was  by  this  time  got  about  PricoV 


256 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


3oor,  among  which  were  Giles  and  his  boys, 
who  had  already  taken  care  to  spread  the  news 
that  Tom  Price  was  the  thief.  Most  people 
were  unwilling  to  believe  it.  His  character 
was  very  good,  but  appearances  were  strongly 
against  him.  Mr.  Wilson,  who  had  staid  to 
christen  a  child,  now  came  in.  He  was  much 
concerned  that  Tom  Price,  the  best  boy  in  his 
school,  should  stand  accused  of  such  a  crime. 
He  sent  for  the  boy,  examined,  and  cross-ex¬ 
amined  him. — No  marks  of  guilt  appeared. 
But  still  though  he,  pleaded  not  guilty,  there  lay 
the  red-streaks  in  his  father’s  window.  All  the 
idle  fellows  in  the  place,  who  were  most  likely 
to  have  committed  such  a  theft  themselves,  were 
the  very  people  who  fell  with  vengeance  on  poor 
Tom.  The  wicked  seldom  give  any  quarter. 

*  This  is  one  of  your  sanctified  ones  !’  cried  they. 

*  This  was  all  the  good  that  Sunday-schools  did  ! 
For  their  parts  they  never  saw  any  good  come 
by  religion.  Sunday  was  the  only  day  for  a 
little  pastime,  and  if  poor  boys  must  be  shut  up 
with  their  godly  books,  when  they  ought  to  be 
out  taking  a  little  pleasure,  it  was  no  wonder 
they  made  themselves  amends  by  such  tricks.’ 
Another  said  he  should  like  to  see  parson  Wil¬ 
son’s  righteous  one  welt  whipped.  A  third 
hoped  he  would  be  clapped  in  the  stocks  for  a 
young  hypocrite  as  he  was  ;  while  old  Giles, 
who  thought  the  only  way  to  avoid  suspicion 
was  by  being  more  violent  than  the  rest,  de¬ 
clared,  ‘  that  he  hoped  the  young  dog  would  be 
transported  for  life.’ 

Mr.  Wilson  was  too  wise  and  too  just  to  pro¬ 
ceed  against  Tom  without  full  proof. — He  de¬ 
clared  fhe  crime  was  a  very  heavy  one,  and  he 
feared  that  heavy  must  be  the  punishment. 
Tom,  who  knew  his  own  innocence,  earnestly 
prayed  to  God  that  it  might  be  made  to  appear 
as  clear  as  the  noon-day  ;  and  very  fervent  were 
his  secret  devotions  on  that  night. 

Black  Giles  passed  his  night  in  a  very  differ¬ 
ent  manner.  He  set  off  as  soon  as  it  was  dark, 
with  his  sons  and  their  jack-asses,  laden  with 
their  stolen  goods.  As  such  a  cry  was  raised 
about  the  apples,  he  did  not  think  it  safe  to  keep 
them  longer  at  home,  but  resolved  to  go  and  sell 
thorn  at  the  next  town  ;  borrowing  without  leave 
a  lame  colt  out  of  the  moor  to  assist  in  carrying 
off  his  booty. 

Giles  and  his  eldest  sons  had  rare  sport  all  the 
way  in  thinking,  that  while  they  were  enjoying 
the  profit  of  their  plunder,  Tom  Price  would  be 
whipt  round  the  market  place  at  least,  if  not 
sent  beyond  sea.  But  the  younger  boy  Dick, 
who  had  naturally  a  tender  heart,  though  hard¬ 
ened  by  his  long  familiarity  with  sin,  could  not 
help  crying,  when  he  thought  that  Tom  Price 
might,  perhaps,  be  transported  for  a  crime  which 
he  himself  had  helped  to  commit.  He  had  had 
no  compuction  about  the  robbery,  for  he  had  not 
been  instructed  in  the  great  principles  of  truth 
and  justice ;  nor  would  he  therefore,  perhaps, 
have  had  much  remorse  about  accusing  an  in¬ 
nocent  boy.  But  though  utterly  devoid  of  prin¬ 
ciple,  he  had  some  remains  of  natural  feeling 
and  of  gratitude.  Tom  Price  had  often  given 
him  a  bit  of  his  own  bread  and  cheese ;  and  once, 
when  Dick  was  like  to  be  drowned,  Tom  had 
jumped  into  the  pond  with  his  clothes  on,  and 


saved  his  life  when  he  was  just  sinking  ;  the  le- 
membrance  of  all  this  made  his  heart  heavy. 
He  said  nothing ;  but  as  he  trotted  barefoot 
after  the  asses,  l^e  heard  his  father  and  bro- 
thers  laugh  at  having  outwitted  the  godly  ones  ; 
and  he  grieved  to  think  how  poor  Tom  would 
suffer  for  his  wickedness,  yet  fear  kept  him  si¬ 
lent  ;  they  called  him  a  sulky  dog,  and  lashed 
the  asses  till  they  bled. 

In  the  mean  time  Tom  Price  kept  up  his 
spirits  as  well  as  he  could.  He  worked  hard 
all  day,  and  prayed  heartily  night  and  morning. 
It  is  true,  said  he  to  himself,  I  am  not  guilty  of 
this  sin  ;  but  let  this  accusation  set  me  on  ex¬ 
amining  myself,  and  truly  repenting  of  all  my 
other  sins  ;  for  I  find  enough  to  repent  of,  though 
I  thank  God  I  did  not  steal  the  widow’s  ap 
pies. 

At  length  Sunday  came,  and  Tom  went  to 
school  as  usual.  As  soon  as  he  walked  in  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  whispering  and  laughing 
among  the  worst  of  the  boys ;  and  he  overheard 
them  say,  ‘  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  This 
is  master’s  favourite  ! — This  is  parson  Wilson’s 
sober  Tommy  !  We  shan’t  have  Tommy  thrown 
in  our  teeth  again  if  we  go  to  get  a  bird’s  nest, 
or  gather  a  few  nuts  on  a  Sunday.’  ‘  Your  de 
mure  ones  are  always  hypocrites,’  says  another. 
— ‘  The  still  sow  sucks  all  the  milk,’  says  a 
third. 

Giles’s  family  had  always  kept  clear  of  the 
school.  Dick,  indeed,  had  sometimes  wished  to 
go ;  not  that  he  had  much  sense  of  sin,  or  de- 
sire  after  goodness,  but  he  thought  if  he  could 
once  read,  he  might  rise  in  the  world,  and  not 
be  forced  to  drive  asses  all  his  life.  Through 
this  whole  Saturday  night  he  could  not  sleep. 
He  longed  to  know  what  would  be  done  to  Tom. 
He  began  to  wish  to  go  to  school,  but  he  had  not 
courage  ;  sin  is  very  cowardly.  So  on  the  Sun¬ 
day  morning  he  went  and  sat  himself  down  un¬ 
der  the  church  wall.  Mr.  Wilson  passed  by.  It 
was  not  his  way  to  reject  the  most  wicked,  till 
he  had  tried  every  means  to  bring  them  over ; 
and  even  then  he  pitied  and  prayed  for  them. — 
He  had,  indeed,  long  left  off  talking  to  Giles’s 
sons  ;  but  seeing  Dick  sitting  by  himself,  he  once 
more  spoke  to  him,  desired  him  to  leave  off  his 
vagabond  life,  and  go  with  him  into  the  school 
The  boy  hung  down  his  head,  but  made  no  an¬ 
swer.  He  did  not,  however,  either  rise  up  and 
run  away,  or  look  sulky,  as  he  used  to  do.  The 
minister  desired  him  once  more  to  go.  ‘Sir,’ 
said  the  boy,  ‘  I  can’t  go ;  I  am  so  big  I  am 
ashamed.’  ‘The  hieger  you  are  the  less  time 
you  have  to  lose.’  But,  sir,  I  can’t  read.’  ‘  Then 
it  is  high  time  you  should  learn.’  ‘  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  begin  to  learn  my  letters.’  *  The 
shame  is  not  in  beginning  to  learn  them,  but  in 
being  contented  never  to  know  them.’ — ‘  But, 
sir,  I  am  so  ragged  !’  ‘  God  looks  at  the  heart, 

and  not  at  the  coat.’  ‘  But,  sir,  I  have  no  shoes 
and  stockings.’  ‘So  much  the  worse.  I  re¬ 
member  who  gave  you  both — (Here  Dick  co¬ 
loured.)  It  is  bad  to  want  shoes  and  stockings, 
but  still  if  you  can  drive  your  asses  a  dozen 
miles  without  them,  you  may  certainly  walk  a 
hundred  yards  to  school  without  them.’  ‘  But, 
Sir,  the  good  boys  will  hate  me,  and  won’t  speak 
to  me  ’ — ‘  Good  boys  hate  nobody  •  and  as  to  not 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


257 


speaking  to  you,  to  be  sure  they  will  not  keep 
your  company  while  you  go  on  in  your  present 
evil  courses,  but  as  soon  as  they  see  you  wish  to 
reform,  they  will  help  you,  and  pity  you,  and 
teach  you  ;  and  so  come  along.’ — Here  Mr.  Wil¬ 
son  took  this  dirty  boy  by  the  hand,  and  gently 
pulled  him  forward,  kindly  talking  to  him  all 
the  way,  in  the  most  condescending  manner. 

How  the  whole  school  stared  to  see  Dick  Giles 
come  in !  No  one  however,  dared  to  say  ^hat 
he  thought.  The  business  went  on,  and  Dick 
slunk  into  a  corner,  partly  to  hide  his  rags,  and 
partly  to  hide  his  sin ;  for  last  Sunday’s  trans¬ 
action  sat  heavy  on  his  heart,  not  because  he 
had  stolen  tlie  apples,  but  because  Tom  Price 
had  been  accused.  Tliis,  I  say,  made  him  slink 
behind.  Poor  boy  !  he  little  thought  there  was 
One  saw  him  who  sees  ail  things,  and  from 
whose  eye  no  hole  nor  corner  can  hide  the  sin¬ 
ner  :  ‘  for  he  is  about  our  bed,  and  about  our 
path,  and  spieth  out  all  our  ways.’ 

It  was  the  custom  in  that  school,  and  an  ex¬ 
cellent  custom  it  is,  for  the  master,  who  was  a 
good  and  wise  man,  to  mark  down  in  his  pocket- 
book  all  the  events  of  the  week,  that  he  might 
turn  them  to  some  account  in  his  Sunday  even¬ 
ing  instructions  ;  such  as  any  useful  story  in  the 
newspaper,  any  account  of  hoys  being  drowned 
as  they  were  out  in  a  pleasure  boat  on  Sundays, 
any  sudden  death  in  the  parish,  or  any  other  re¬ 
markable  visitation  of  Providence;  insomuch, 
that  many  young  people  in  the  place,  who  did 
not  belong  to  the  school,  and  many  parents  also, 
used  to  drop  in  for  an  hour  on  a  Sunday  even¬ 
ing,  when  they  were  sure  to  hear  something 
profitable.  The  minister  greatly  approved  this 
practice,  and  often  called  in  himself,  which  was 
a  great  support  to  the  master,  and  encourage¬ 
ment  to  the  people  who  attended. 

The  master  had  taken  a  deep  concern  in  the 
story  of  widow  Brown’s  apple  tree.  He  could 
not  believe  Tom  Price  was  guilty,  nor  dared  he 
pronounce  him  innocent ;  but  he  resolved  to  turn 
the  instructions  of  the  present  evening  to  this 
subject.  He  began  thus  :  ‘  My  dear  boys,  how¬ 
ever  light  some  of  you  may  make  of  robbing  an 
orchard,  yet  I  have  often  told  you  there  is  no 
such  thing  as  a  little  sin,  if  it  be  wilful  or  habi¬ 
tual.  I  wish  now  to  explain  to  you,  also,  that 
there  is  hardly  such  a  thing  as  a  single  solitary 
sin.  You  know  I  teach  you  not  merely  to  re¬ 
peat  the  commandments  as  an  exercise  for  your 
memory,  but  as  a  rule  for  your  conduct.  If  you 
were  to  come  here  only  to  learn  to  read  and  spell 
on  a  Sunday,  I  should  think  that  was  not  em¬ 
ploying  God’s  day  for  God’s  work;  but  I  teach 
you  to  read  that  you  may,  by  this  means,  come 
so  to  understand  the  Bible  and  the  Catechism, 
as  to  make  every  text  in  the  one,  and  every 
question  and  answer  in  the  other,  to  be  so  fixed 
in  your  hearts,  that  they  may  bring  forth  in  you 
the  fruits  of  good  living.’ 

Master.  How  many  commandments  are  there  ? 

Boy.  'I’en. 

Master.  How  many  commandments  did  that 
boy  break  who  stole  widow  Brown’s  apples  ? 

Boy.  Only  one,  master ;  the  eighth. 

Master.  What  is  the  eighth  ? 

Boy.  Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

Master.  And  you  are  very  sure  that  this  was 

R 


the  only  one  he  broke  ?  Now  suppose  I  could 
prove  to  you  that  he  probably  broke  not  less 
than  six  out  of  those  ten  commandments,  which 
the  great  Lord  of  heaven  himself  stooped  down 
from  his  eternal  glory  to  deliver  to  men,  would 
you  not,  then,  think  it  a  terrible  thing  to  steal, 
whether  apples  or  guineas  ? 

Boy.  Yes,  master. 

Master.  I  will  put  the  case.  Some  wicked  boy 
has  robbed  widow  Brown’s  orchard.  (Here  the 
eyes  of  every  one  were  turned  on  poor  Tom 
Price,  except  those  of  Dick  •iles,  who  fixed  his 
on  the  ground.)  I  accuse  no  one,  continued  the 
master,  Tom  Price  is  a  good  boy,  and  was  not 
missing  at  the  time  of  tbe  robbery  ;  these  are 
two  reasons  why  I  presume  that  he  is  innocent; 
but  whoever  it  was,  you  allow  that  by  stealing 
these  apples  he  broke  the  eighth  commandment  ? 

Boy.  Yes,  master. 

Master.  On  what  day  were  these  apples 
stolen  ? 

Boy.  On  Sunday. 

Master.  What  is  the  fourth  commandment  ? 

Boy.  Thou  shalt  keep  holy  the  Sabbath-day 

Master.  Does  that  person  keep  holy  the  Sab 
bath-day  who  loiters  in  an  orchard  on  Sunday, 
when  he  should  be  at  church,  and  steals  apples 
when  he  ought  to  be  saying  his  prayers  ? 

Boy.  No,  master. 

Master.  What  command  does  he  break  ? 

Boy.  The  fourth. 

Master.  Suppose  this  boy  had  parents  who 
had  sent  him  to  church,  and  that  he  had  dis¬ 
obeyed  them  by  not  going,  would  that  be  keep¬ 
ing  the  fifth  commandment  ? 

Boy.  No,  master  ;  for  the  fifth  commandmen  t 
says.  Thou  shalt  honour  thy  father  and  thy  mo¬ 
ther. 

This  was  the  only  part  of  the  case  in  which 
poor  Dick  Giles’s  heart  did  not  smite  him  ;  he 
knew  he  had  disobeyed  no  father  ;  for  his  father, 
alas !  was  still  wickeder  than  himself,  and  had 
brought  him  up  to  commit  the  sin.  But  what  a 
wretched  comfort  was  this !  The  master  went  on. 

Master.  Suppose  this  boy  earnestly  coveted 
this  fruit,  though  it  belonged  to  another  person, 
would  that  be  right  ? 

Boy.  No,  master;  for  the  tenth  command¬ 
ment  says,  thou  shalt  not  covet. 

Master.  Very  well.  Here  are  four  of  God’s 
positive  commands  already  broken.  Now  do 
you  think  thieves  ever  scruple  to  use  wicked 
words  ? 

Boy.  I  am  afraid  not,  master. 

Here  Dick  Giles  was  not  so  hardened  but  that 
he  remembered  how  many  curses  had  passed 
between  him  and  his  father  while  they  were 
filling  the  bags,  and  he  was  afraid  to  look  up. 
The  master  went  on. 

I  will  now  go  one  step  further.  If  the  thief, 
to  all  his  other  sins,  has  added  that  of  accusing 
the  innocent  to  save  himself,  if  he  should  break 
the  ninth  commandment,  by  hearing  false  wit. 
ness  against  a  harmless  neighbour,  then  six  corn- 
mandmorits  are  broken  for  an  apple  !  But  if  it  be 
otherwise,  if  Tom  Price  should  be  found  guilty, 
it  is  not  his  good  character  shall  save  him.  I  shall 
shed  tears  over  him,  but  punish  him  I  must, 
and  that  severely.  ‘  No,  that  you  shan’t,’  roared 
out  Dick  Giles,  who  sprung  from  his  hiding 


258 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


place,  fell  on  his  knees,  and  burst  out  a  crying, 
*  Tom  Price  i^  as  good  a  boy  as  ever  lived ;  it 
was  father  and  I  who  stole  the  apples  !’ 

It  wevuld  have  done  your  heart  good  to  have 
seen  the  joy  of  the  master,  the  modest  blushes 
of  Tom  Price,  and  the  satisfaction  of  every  ho¬ 
nest  boy  in  the  school.  All  shook  hands  with 
Tom,  and  even  Dick  got  some  portion  of  pity.  I 
wish  I  had  room  to  give  my  readers  the  moving 
exhortation  which  the  master  gave.  But  while 
Mr.  Wilson  left  the  guilty  boy  to  the  manage¬ 
ment  of  the  maste^  he  thought  it  became  hi.m, 
as  a  minister  and  a  magistrate,  to  go  to  the  ex¬ 
tent  of  the  law  in  punishing  the  father.  Early 
on  the  Monday  moriiing  he  sent  to  apprehend 
Giles.  In  the  meantime  Mr.  Wilson  was  sent 
for  to  a  gardener’s  house  two  miles  distant,  to 
attend  a  man  who  was  dying.  This  was  a  duty 
to  whieh  all  others  gave  way  in  his  mind.  He 
set  out  directly  ;  but  what  was  his  surprise,  on 
his  arrival,  to  see,  on  a  little  bed  on  the  floor, 
poaching  Giles  lying  in  all  the  agonies  of  death  ! 
Jack  Weston,  the  same  poor  young  man  against 
whom  Giles  had  informed  for  killing  a  hare, 
was  kneeling  by  him,  offering  him  some  broth, 
and  talking  to  him  in  the  kindest  manner.  Mr. 
Wilson  begged  to  know  the  meaning  of  all  this ; 
and  Jack  Weston  spoke  as  follows ; 

‘  At  four  in  the  morning,  as  I  was  going  out 
to  mow,  passing  under  the  high  wall  of  this  gar¬ 
den,  I  heard  a  most  dismal  moaning.  The 
nearer  I  came  the  more  dismal  it  grew.  At  last, 
who  should  I  see  but  poor  Giles  groaning,  and 
struggling  under  a  quantity  of  bricks  and  stones, 
but  not  able  to  stir.  The  day  before  he  had 
marked  a  fine  large  net  on  this  old  wall,  and  re¬ 
solved  to  steal  it,  for  he  thought  it  might  do  as 
well  to  catch  partridges  as  to  preserve  cherries  ; 
so,  sir,  standing  on  the  very  top  of  this  wall,  and 
tugging  with  all  his  might  to  loosen  the  net 
from  the  hooks  which  fastened  it,  down  came 
Giles,  net,  wall,  and  all ;  for  the  wall  was  gone 
to  decay.  It  was  very  high  indeed,  and  poor 
Giles  not  only  broke  his  thigh,  but  has  got  a 
terrible  blow  on  his  head,  and  is  bruised  all  over 
like  a  mummy.  On  seeing  me,  sir,  poor  Giles 
cried  out,  ‘  Oh,  Jack  !  I  did  try  to  ruin  thee  by 
lodging  that  information,  and  now  thou  wilt  be 


revenged  by  letting  me  lie  here  and  perish. 

‘  God  forbid,  Giles  !  cried  I  ;  thou  shaft  see  what 
sort  of  revenge  a  Christian  takes.’  So  sir,  I 
sent  off  the  gardener’s  boy  to  fetch  a  surgeon, 
while  I~  scampered  home  and  brought  on  my 
back  this  bit  of  a  hammock,  which  is  indeed  my 
own  bed,  and  put  Giles  upon  it :  we  then  lifted 
him  up,  bed  and  all,  as  tenderly  as  if  he  had 
been  a  gentleman,  and  brought  him  in  here. 
My  wife  has  just  brought  him  a  drop  of  nice 
broth ;  and  now,  sir,  as  I  have  done  what  I 
could  for  this  poor  perishing  body,  it  was  I  who 
took  the  liberty  to  send  to  you  to  come  to  try  to 
help  his  poor  soul,  for  the  doctor  says  he  can’t 
live. 

Mr.  Wilson  could  not  help  saying  to  himself^ 
Such  an  action  as  this  is  worth  a  whole  volume 
of  comments  on  that  precept  of  our  blessed  Mas¬ 
ter,  Love  your  enemies  ;  do  good  to  them  that 
hate  you.  Giles’s  dying  groans  confirmed  the 
sad  account  Weston  had  just  given.  The  poor 
wretch  could  neither  pray  himselfnor  attend  tO' 
the  minister.  He  could  only  cry  out,  *  Oh  !  sir, 
what  will  become  of  me  ?  I  don’t  know  how  k) 
repent,  p  my  poor  wicked  children !  Sir,  I 
have  bred  them  all  up  in  sin  and  ignorance. 
Have  mercy  on  them,  sir  ;  let  me  not  meet  them 
in  the  place  of  torment  to  which  I  am  going. 
Lord  grant  them  that  time  for  repentance  which 
I  have  thrown  away  !’  He  languished  a  few 
days,  and  died  in  great  misery  ; — a  fresh  and 
sad  instance  that  people  who  abuse  the  grace 
of  God  and  resist  his  Spirit,  find  it  difficult  to 
repent  when  they  will. 

Except  the  minister  and  Jack  Weston,  no  one- 
came  to  see  poor  Giles,  besides  Tommy  Price, 
who  had  been  so  sadly  wronged  by  him.  Tom 
often  brought  him  his  own  rice-milk  or  apple¬ 
dumpling  ;  and  Giles,  ignorant  and  depraved  as 
he  was,  often  cried  out,  ‘  That  he  thought  now 
there  must  be  some  truth  in  religion,  since  it 
taught  even  a  boy  to  deny  himself ,  and  to  for¬ 
give  an  injury.  Mr.  Wilson  the  next  Sunday, 
made  a  moving  discourse  on  the  danger  of  what 
are  called  petty  offences.  This,  together  with  the 
awful  death  of  Giles,  produced  such  an  effect 
that  no  poacher  has  been  able  to  show  his  head 
in  that  parish  ever  since. 


TAWNEY  RACHEL; 


OR,  THE  FORTUNE  TELLER; 

WITH  SOME  ACCOUNT  OF  DREAMS,  OMENS,  AND  CONJURORS. 


Tawney  Rachel  was  the  wife  of  poaching 
Giles.  There  seemed  to  be  a  conspiracy  in 
Giles's  whole  family  k)  maintain  themselves  by 
tricks  and  pilfering.  Regular  labour  and  honest 
industry  did  not  suit  their  idle  habits.  They 
had  a  sort  of  genius  at  finding  out  every  unlaw¬ 
ful  means  to  support  a  vagabond  life.  Rachel 
travelled  the  country  w'ith  a  basket  on  her  arm. 
She  pretended  to  get  her  bread  by  selling  laces, 
cabbage-nets,  ballads,  and  history  books,  and 
used  to  buy  old  rags  and  rabbit  skins.  Many 
honest  people  trade  in  these  things,  and  I 
am  sure  I  do  not  mean  to  say  a  word  against 


honest  people,  let  them  trade  in  what  they  will 
But  Rachel  only  made  this  traffic  a  pretence  for 
getting  admittance  into  farmers’  kitchens  in 
order  to  tell  fortunes. 

She  was  continually  practising  on  the  credu¬ 
lity  of  silly  girls  ;  and  took  advantage  of  their 
ignorance  to  cheat  and  deceive  them.  Many 
an  innocent  servant  has  she  caused  to  be  sus¬ 
pected  of  a  robbery,  while  she  herself,  perhaps, 
was  in  league  with  the  thief.  Many  a  harmless 
maid  has  she  brought  to  ruin  by  first  contriving 
plots  and  events  herself,  and  then  pretending  to 
foretel  tiiein.  She  had  not,  to  be  sure,  the  power 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


259 


of  really  foretelling  things,  because  she  had  no 
power  of  seeing  into  futurity  :  but  she  had  the 
art  sometimes  to  bring  them  about  according  as 
she  foretold  them.  So  she  got  that  credit  for 
her  wisdom  which  really  belonged  to  her  wick*- 
edp^ss. 

Rachel  was  also  a  famous  interpreter  of 
dreams,  and  could  distinguish  exactly  between 
the  fate  of  any  two  persons  who  happened  to 
have  a  mole  on  the  right  or  the  left  cheek.  She 
had  a  cunning  way  of  getting  herself  off  when 
any  of  her  prophecies  failed.  When  she  ex¬ 
plained  a  dream  according  to  the  natural  ap- 
pearance  of  things,  and  it  did  not  come  to  pass  ; 
then  she  would  get  out  of  that  scrape  by  saying, 
that  this  sort  of  dreams  went  by  contraries.  Now 
of  two  very  opposite  things,  the  chance  always 
is  that  one  of  them  may  turn  out  to  be  true ;  so 
in  either  case  she  kept  up  the  cheat. 

Rachel,  in  one  of  her  rambles,  stopped  at  the 
house  of  farmer  Jenkins.  She  contrived  to  call 
when  she  knew  the  master  of  the  house  was 
from  home,  which  indeed  was  her  usual  way. 
She  knocked  at  the  door ;  the  maids  being  in 
the  field  haymaking,  Mrs.  Jenkins  went  to  open 
it  herself.  Rachel  asked  her  if  she  would  please 
to  let  her  light  her  pipe  ?  This  was  a  common 
pretence,  when  she  could  find  no  other  way  of 
getting  into  a  house.  While  she  was  filling  her 
pipe,  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Jenkins,  and  said,  she 
could  tell  her  some  good  fortune.  The  farmer’s 
wife,  who  was  a  very  inoffensive,  but  a  weak 
and  superstitious  woman,  was  curious  to  know 
what  she  meant.  Rachel  then  looked  about 
carefully,  and  shutting  the  door  with  a  myste¬ 
rious  air,  asked  her  if  she  was  sure  nobody  would 
hear  them.  This  appearance  of  mystery  was 
at  once  (^elightful  and  terrifying  to  Mrs.  Jen¬ 
kins,  who,  with  trembling  agitation,  bid  the 
cunning  woman  speak  out.  ‘  Then,’  said  Ra¬ 
chel  in  a  solemn  whisper,  ‘  there  is  to  my  certain 
knowledge  a  pot  of  money  hid  under  one  of  the 
stones  in  your  cellar.’ — ‘  Indeed  !’  said  Mrs. 
Jenkins,  ‘  it  is  impossible,  for  now  I  think  of  it, 
I  dreamt  last  night  I  was  in  prison  for  debt.’ 
‘  Did  you  really  ?’  said  Rachel ;  ‘  that  is  quite 
surprising.  Did  you  dream  this  before  twelve 
o’clock  or  after  ?’ — ‘  O  it  was  this  morning,  just 
’Dcfore  I  awoke.’ — ‘  Then  I  am  sure  it  is  true, 
for  morning  dreams  always  go  by  contraries,’ 
cried  Rachel.  ‘  How  lucky  it  was  you  dreamt 
it  so  late.’ — Mrs.  Jenkins  could  hardly  contain 
her  joy,  and  asked  how  the  money  was  to  be 
come  at.  ‘  There  is  but  one  way,’  said  Rachel ; 

‘  I  must  go  into  the  cellar.  I  know  by  my  art 
under  which  stone  it  lies,  but  I  must  not  tell.’ 
Then  they  both  went  down  into  the  cellar,  but 
Rachel  refused  to  point  at  the  stone  unless  Mrs. 
Jenkins  would  put  five  pieces  of  gold  into  a  ba¬ 
sin  and  do  as  she  directed.  The  simple  woman, 
instead  of  turning  her  out  of  doors  for  a  cheat, 
did  as  she  was  bid.  She  put  the  guineas  into  a 
basin  which  she  gave  into  Rachel’s  hand.  Ra¬ 
chel  strewed  some  white  powder  over  the  gold, 
muttered  some  barbarous  words,  and  pretended 
to  perform  the  black  art.  She  then  told  Mrs. 
Jenkins  to  put  the  basin  quietly  down  within 
the  cellar  ;  teling  her  that  if  she  offered  to  look 
into  it,  or  even  to  speak  a  word,  the  charm  would 
bo  broken  She  also  directed  her  to  lock  the 


cellar  door,  and  on  no  pretence  to  open  it  in  less 
than  forty-eight  hours.  ‘If,’  added  she, ‘you 
closely  follow  these  directions,  then,  by  the  power 
of  my  art,  you  will  find  the  basin  conveyed  to 
the  very  stone  under  which  the  money  lies  hid, 
and  a  fine  treasure  it  be  !’  Mrs.  Jenkins,  who 
firmly  believed  every  word  the  woman  said,  did 
exactly  as  she  was  told,  and  Rachel  took  her 
leave  with  a  handsome  reward. 

When  farmer  Jenkins  came  home  he  desired 
his  wife  to  draw  him  a  cup  of  cider ;  this  she 
put  off  so  long  that  he  began  to  be  displeased. 
At  last  she  begged  he  would  be  so  good  as  to 
drink  a  little  beer  instead.  He  insisted  on  know¬ 
ing  the  reason,  and  when  at  last  he  grew  angry, 
she  told  him  all  tliat  had  passed ;  and  owned 
that  as  the  pot  of  gold  happened  to  be  in  the  ci¬ 
der  cellar,  she  did  not  dare  open  the  door,  as  she 
was  sure  it  would  break  the  charm.  ‘  And  it 
would  be  a  pity  you  know,’  said  she,  ‘  to  lose  a 
good  fortune  for  the  sake  of  a  draught  of  cider.’ 
The  farmer,  who  was  not  so  easily  imposed 
upon,  suspected  a  trick.  He  demanded  the  key, 
and  went  and  opened  the  cellar  door  ;  there  he 
found  the  basin,  and  in  it  five  round  pieces  of 
tin  covered  with  powder.  Mrs.  Jenkins  burst 
out  a-crying  ;  but  the  farmer  thought  of  nothing 
but  of  getting  a  warrant  to  apprehend  the  cun¬ 
ning  woman.  Indeed  she  well  proved  her  claim 
to  that  name,  when  she  insisted  that  the  cellar 
door  might  be  kept  locked  till  she  had  time  to 
get  out  of  the  read)  of  all  pursuit. 

Poor  Sally  Evans !  I  am  sure  she  rued  the 
day  that  ever  she  listened  to  a  fortune-teller. 
Sally  was  as  harmless  a  girl  as  ever  churned  a 
pound  of  butter  ;  but  Sally  was  credulous,  igno¬ 
rant  and  superstitious.  She  delighted  in  dream 
books,  and  had  consulted  all  the  cunning  women 
in  the  country  to  tell  her  whether  the  two  moles 
on  her  cheek  denoted  that  she  was  to  have  two 
husbands,  or  two  children.  If  she  picked  up  an 
old  horse-shoe  going  to  church,  she  was  sure 
that  would  be  a  lucky  week.  She  never  made 
a  black  pudding  without  borrowing  one  of  the 
parson’s  old  wigs  to  hang  in  the  chimney,  firmly 
believing  there  was  no  other  means  to  preserve 
them  from  burning.  She  would  never  go  to  bed 
on  Midsummer  eve  without  sticking  up  in  her 
room  the  well-known  plant  called  Midsummer- 
men,  as  the  bending  of  the  leaves  to  the  right 
or  to  the  left,  would  not  fail  to  tell  her  whether 
Jacob,  of  whom  we  shall  speak  presently,  was 
true  or  false.  She  would  rather  go  five  miles 
about  than  pass  near  a  church-yard  at  night. 
Every  seventh  year  she  would  not  eat  beans  be¬ 
cause  they  grew  downward  in  the  pod,  instead 
of  upward  ;  and,  though  a  very  neat  girl,  she 
would  rather  have  gone  with  her  gown  open 
than  have  taken  a  pin  from  an  old  woman,  for 
fear  of  being  bewitched.  Poor  Sally  had  so  ma¬ 
ny  unlucky  days  in  her  calender,  that  a  large 
portion  of  her  time  became  of  little  use,  because 
on  these  da3’’s  she  did  not  dare  set  about  any 
new  work.  And  she  would  have  refused  the 
best  offer  in  the  country  if  made  to  her  on  a 
Friday,  which  she  thought  so  unlucky  a  day  that 
she  often  said  what  a  pity  it  was  that  there  were 
any  Friday  in  the  week.  Sally  had  twenty 
pounds  l^fl  her  by  her  grandmother.  She  had 
long  been  courted  by  .lacob,  a  sober  lad,  with 


260 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


whom  she  lived  fellow  servant  at  a  creditable 
farmer’s.  Honest  Jacob,  like  his  namesake  of 
old,  thought  it  little  to  wait  seven  years  to  get 
this  damsel  to  wife,  because  of  the  love  he  bore 
her,  for  Sally  had  promised  to  marry  him  when 
he  could  match  her  twenty  pounds  with  another 
of  his  own. 

Now  there  was  one  Robert,  a  rambling  idle 
young  gardener,  who,  instead  of  sitting  down 
steadily  in  one  place,  used  to  roam  about  the 
country,  and  do  odd  jobs  where  he  could  get 
them.  No  one  understood  any  thing  about  him, 
except  that  he  was  a  down-looking  fellow,  who 
came  nobody  knew  whence,  and  got  his  bread 
nobody  knew  how,  and  never  had  a  penny  in 
his  pocket.  Robert,  who  was  now  in  the  neigh¬ 
bourhood,  happened  to  hear  of  Sally  Evans  and 
her  twenty  pounds.  He  immediately  conceived 
a  long  desire  for  the  latter.  So  he  went  to  his 
old  friend  Rachel  the  fortune-teller,  told  her  all 
he  had  heard  of  Sally,  and  promised  if  she  could 
bring  about  a  marriage  between  them,  she  should 
go  shares  in  the  money. 

Rachel  undertook  the  business.  She  set  off 
to  the  farm-house,  and  fell  to  singing  one  of  her 
most  enticing  songs  just  under  the  dairy  win¬ 
dow.  Sally  was  so  struck  with  the  pretty  tune, 
which  was  unhappily  used,  as  is  too  often  the 
case,  to  set  off  some  very  loose  words,  that  she 
jumped  up,  dropped  the  skimming  dish  into  the 
cream  and  ran  out  to  buy  the  song.  While  she 
stooped  down  to  rummage  the  basket  for  those 
songs  winch  had  the  most  tragical  pictures  (for 
Sally  had  a  tender  heart,  and  delighted  in  what¬ 
ever  was  mournful)  Rachel  looked  stedfastly  in 
her  face,  and  told  her  she  knew  by  art  that  she 
was  born  to  good  fortune,  but  advised  her  not 
to  throw  herself  away.  ‘  These  two  moles  on 
vour  cheek,’  added  she,  ‘  show  you  are  in  some 
danger.’  ‘  Do  they  denote  husbands  or  chil¬ 
dren  ?’  cried  Sally,  starting  up,  and  letting  fall 
the  song  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood — ‘  Hus¬ 
bands,’  muttered  Rachel — ‘  Alas !  poor  Jacob  !’ 
said  Sally,  mournfully,  ‘  then  he  will  die  first, 
won’t  he  V  ‘  Mum  for  that,’  quoth  the  fortune 
teller,  ‘  I  will  say  no  more.’  Sally  was  impa¬ 
tient,  but  the  more  curiosity  she  discovered,  the 
more  mystery  Rachel  affected.  At  last,  she 
said,  ‘  if  you  will  cross  my  hand  with  a  piece  of 
silver,  I  will  tell  your  fortune.  ‘  By  the  power 
of  my  art  I  can  do  this  three  ways  ;  first  by 
cards,  next  by  the  lines  on  your  hand,  or  by 
turning  a  cup  of  tea  grounds  ;  which  will  you 
fiave  ?’  ‘  O,  all !  all !’  cried  Sally,  looking  up 

with  reverence  to  this  sun-burnt  oracle  of  wis¬ 
dom,  who  was  possessed  of  no  less  than  three 
different  ways  of  diving  into  the  secrets  of  futu¬ 
rity.  Alas  !  persons  of  better  sense  than  Sally 
have  been  so  taken  in ;  the  more  is  the  pity. 
The  poor  girl  said  she  would  run  up  stairs  to 
her  little  box  where  she  kept  her  money  tied  up 
in  a  bit  of  an  old  glove,  and  would  bring  down 
a  bright  queen  Ann’s  sixpence  very  crooked. 

‘  I  am  sure,’  added  she,  ‘  it  is  a  lucky  one,  for  it 
cured  me  of  a  very  bad  ague  last  spring,  by 
only  laying  it  nine  nights  under  my  pillow  with¬ 
out  speaking  a  word.  But  then  you  must  know 
what  gave  the  virtue  to  this  sixpence  was,  that 
it  had  belonged  to  three  young  men  of  the  name 
of  John ;  I  am  sure  I  had  work  enough  to  get 


it.  But  true  it  is,  it  certainly  cured  me.  It 
must  be  the  sixpence  you  know,  for  I  am  sure  I 
did  nothing  else  for  my  ague,  except  indeed 
taking  some  bitter  stuff  every  three  hours  which 
the  doctor  called  bark.  To  be  sure  I  lost  my 
ague  soon  after  I  took  it,  but  I  am  certain  it 
was  owing  to  the  crooked  sixpence,  and  not  to 
the  bark.  And  so,  good  woman,  you  may  come 
in,  if  you  will,  for  there  is  not  a  sCul  in  the 
house  but  me.’  This  was  the  very  thing  Ra¬ 
chel  wanted  to  know,  and  very  glad  she  was  to 
learn  it. 

While  Sally  was  above  stairs  untying  her 
glove,  Rachel  slipped  in  to  the  parlour,  took  a 
small  silver  cup  from  the  beaufet,  and  clapped 
it  into  her  pocket.  Sally  ran  down,  lamenting 
that  she  had  lost  her  sixpence,  which  she  verily 
believed  was  owing  to  her  having  put  it  into 
a  left  glove,  instead  of  a  right  one.  Rachel 
comforted  her  by  saying,  that  if  she  gave  her 
two  plain  ones  instead,  the  charm  would  work 
just  as  well.  Simple  Sally  thought  herself  hap. 
py  to  be  let  off  so  easily,  never  cUlculating  that 
a  smooth  shilling  was  worth  two  crooked  six¬ 
pences.  But  this  skill  was  a  part  of  the  black 
art  in  which  Rachel,  excelled.  She  took  the 
money  and  began  to  examine  the  lines  of  Sally’s 
left  hand.  She  bit  her  withered  lip,  shook  her 
head,  and  bade  her  poor  dupe  beware  of  a  young 
man  who  had  black  hair.  ‘  No,  indeed,’  cried 
Sally,  all  in  a  fright,  ‘  you  mean  black  eyes,  for 
our  Jacob  has  got  brown  hair,  ’tis  his  eyes  that 
are  black.’  ‘  That  is  the  very  thing  I  was  go¬ 
ing  to  say,’  muttered  Rachel,  ‘  I  meant  eyes, 
though  I  said  hair,  for  I  know  his  hair  is  as 
brown  as  a  chesnut,  atid  his  eyes  as  black  as  a 
sloe.’  ‘  So  they  are,  sure  enougli,’  cried  Sally, 

‘  how  in  the  world  could  you  know  that  ?’  for¬ 
getting  that  she  herself  had  just  told  her  so. 
And  it  is  thus  that  the.se  Bags  pick  out  of  the 
credulous  all  which  they  afterwards  pretend  to 
reveal  to  them.  ‘  O,  I  know  a  pretty  deal  more 
than  that,’  said  Rachel,  ‘  but  you  must  beware 
of  this  man.’  *  Why  so,’  cried  Sally,  with  great 
quickness:  ‘Because,’  answered  Rachel, ‘you 
are  fated  to  marry  a  man  worth  a  hundred  of 
him,  who  has  blue  eyes,  light  hair,  and  a  stoop 
in  the  shoulders.’  ‘  No,  indeed,  but  I  can’t,’ 
said  Sally  ;  ‘  I  have  promised  Jacob,  and  Jacob 
I  will  marry.’  ‘You  cannot,  child,’  returned 
Rachel  in  a  solemn  tone  ;  ‘  it  is  out  of  your  pow¬ 
er,  you  are  fated  to  marry  the  gray  eyes  and 
light  hair.’  ‘  Nay,  indeed,’  said  Sally,  sighing 
deeply,  ‘if  I  am  fated,  I  must;  I  know  there’s 
no  resisting  one’s  fate.’  This  is  a  co.nmon  cant 
with  poor  deluded  girls,  who  are  not  aware  that 
they  themselves  make  their  fate  by  their  folly, 
and  then  complain  there  is  no  resisting  it. 

‘  What  can  I  do  ?’  said  Sally.  ‘  I  will  tell  you 
that,  too,’  said  Rachel.  ‘  You  must  take  a  walk 
next  Sunday  afternoon  to  the  church-yard,  and 
the  first  man  you  meet  in  a  blue  coat,  with  a 
large  posy  of  pinks  and  southern-wood  in  his 
bosom,  sitting  on  the  church-yard  wall,  about 
seven  o’clock,  he  will  be  tlie  man.’  ‘  Provided,’ 
said  Sally,  much  disturbed,  ‘  that  he  has  grey 
eyes  and  stoops.’  ‘  Cl,  to  be  sure,’  said  Rachel, 

‘  otherwise  it  is  not  the  right  man.’  ‘  But  if  I 
should  mistake,’  said  Sally,  ‘  for  two  men  may 
happen  to  have  a  coat  and  eyes  of  the  same  co- 


I'HE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


26£ 


lour?’  ‘  To  prevent  that,’  replied  Rachel, ‘if  it 
is  the  right  man,  the  two  first  letters  of  his  name 
will  be  R.  P.  This  man  has  got  money  beyond 
sea.’  ‘  O,  I  do  not  value  his  money,’  said  Sally, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  ‘for  I  love  Jacob  better 
than  house  or  land  ;  but  if  I  am  fated  to  marry 
another,  I  can’t  help  it ;  you  know  there  is  no 
struggling  against  my  fate.’ 

Poor  Sally  thought  of  nothing,  and  dreamt 
of  nothing  all  the  week  but  the  blue  coat  and  the 
gray  eyes.  She  made  a  hundred  blunders  at 
her  work.  She  put  her  rennet  into  the  butter- 
pan,  and  her  skimming-dish  into  the  cheese- 
tub.  She  gave  the  curds  to  the  hogs,  and  put 
the  whey  into  the  vats.  She  put  her  little  knife 
out  of  her  pocket  for  fear  it  should  cut  love,  and 
would  not  stay  in  the  kitchen  if  there  was  not 
an  even  number  of  people,  lest  it  should  break 
the  charm.  She  grew  cold  and  ipysterious  in 
her  behaviour  to  faithful  Jacob,  whom  she  truly 
loved. — But  the  more  she  thought  of  the  fortune¬ 
teller,  the  more  sha  was  convinced  that  brown 
hair  and  black  eyes  were  not  what  she  was 
fated  to  marry,  and  therefore,  though  she  trem¬ 
bled  to  think  it,  Jacob  could  not  be  the  man. 

On  Sunday  she  was  too  uneasy  to  go  to 
church;  for  poor  Sally  had  never  been  taught 
that  her  being  uneasy  was  only  a  fresh  reason 
why  she  ought  to  go  thither.  She  spent  the 
whole  afternoon  in  ner  little  garret,  dressing  in 
all  her  best.  First  she  put  on  her  red  riband, 
which  she  had  bought  at  last  Lammas  fair  :  then 
she  recollected  that  red  was  an  unlucky  colour, 
and  changed  it  for  a  blue  riband,  tied  in  a  true 
lover’s  knot ;  but  suddenly  calling  to  mind  that 
poor  Jacob  had  bought  this  knot  for  her  of  a 
pedlar  at  the  door,  and  that  she  had  promised  to 
wear  it  for  his  sake,  her  heart  smote  her,  and 
she  laid  it  by,  sighing  to  think  she  was  not  fated 
to  marry  the  man  who  had  given  it  to  her. — 
When  she  had  looked  at  herself  twenty  times 
in  the  glass  (for  one  vain  action  always  brings 
on  another)  she  set  off,  trembling  and  shaking 
every  step  she  went.  She  walked  eagerly  to¬ 
wards  the  church-yard,  not  daring  to  look  to  the 
right  or  left,  for  fear  she  should  spy  Jacob,  who 
would  have  offered  to  walk  with  her,  and  so 
have  spoilt  all.  As  soon  as  she  came  within 
sight  of  the  wall,  she  spied  a  man  sitting  upon 
it :  Her  heart  beat  violently.  She  looked  again  ; 
but  alas  !  the  stranger  not  only  had  on  a  black 
coat,  but  neither  hair  nor  eyes  answered  the 
description.  She  now  happened  to  cast  her 
eyes  on  the  church-clock,  and  found  she  was 
two  hours  before  her  time.  This  was  some 
comfort.  She  walked  away  apd  got  rid  of  the 
two  hours  as  well  as  she  could,  paying  great  at¬ 
tention  not  to  walk  over  any  straws  which  lay 
across,  and  carefully  looking  to  see  if  there  were 
never  an  old  horse-shoe  in  the  way,  that  infal¬ 
lible  symptom  of  good  fortune.  While  the  clock 
was  striking  seven,  she  returned  to  the  church¬ 
yard,  and  O  !  the  wonderful  power  of  fortune¬ 
tellers  !  there  she  saw  him  I  there  sat  the  very 
man  !  his  hair  as  light  as  flax,  his  eyes  as  blue 
as  butter-milk,  and  his  shoulders  as  round  as  a 
tub.  Every  tittle  agreed  to  the  very  nosegay  in 
his  waistcoat  button-hole.  At  first,  indeed,  she 
thought  it  had  been  sweetbriar,  and  glad  to  catch 
at  a  straw,  whispered  to  herself,  it  is  not  he, 


and  I  shall  marry  Jacob  still ;  but  on  looking 
again,  she  saw  it  was  southern-wood  plain 
enough,  and  that  of  course  all  was  over.  The 
man  accosted  her  with  some  very  nonsensical, 
but  too  acceptable,  compliments.  She  was  na¬ 
turally  a  modest  girl,  and  but  for  Rachel’s  wick¬ 
ed  arts,  would  not  have  had  courage  to  talk  with 
a  strange  man  ;  but  how  could  she  resist  her 
fate  you  know  ?  After  a  little  discourse,  she 
asked  him,  with  a  trembling  heart,  what  might 
be  his  name  ?  Robert  Price,  at  your  service,  w’as 
the  answer.  ‘  Robert  Price  !  that  is  R.  P.  as 
sure  as  I  am  alive,  and  the  fortune-tellbr  was  a 
witch  !  It  is  all  out '  O  the  wonderful  art  of  for¬ 
tune-tellers  !’ 

The  little  sleep  she  had  that  night  was  dis¬ 
turbed  with  dreams  of  graves,  and  ghosts,  and  fu¬ 
nerals,  but  as  they  were  morning  dreams,  she 
knew  those  always  went  by  contraries,  and  that  a 
funeral  denoted  a  wedding.  Still  a  sigh  would 
now  and  then  heave,  to  think  that  in  that  wed¬ 
ding  Jacob  would  have  no  part.  Such  of  my 
readers  as  know  the  power  which  superstition 
has  over  the  weak  and  credulous  mind,  scarcely 
need  be  told,  that  poor  Sally’s  unhappiness  was 
soon  completed.  She  forgot  all  ,her  vows  to 
Jaeob;  she  at  once  forsook  an  honest  man  whom 
she  loved,  and  consented  to  marry  a  stranger, 
of  whom  she  knew  nothing,  from  a  ridiculous 
notion  that  she  was  compelled  to  do  so  by  a  de¬ 
cree  which  she  had  it  not  in  her  power  to  resist. 
She  married  this  Richard  Price,  the  strange 
gardener,  whom  she  soon  found  to  be  very 
worthless,  and  very  much  in  debt.  He  had  no 
such  thing  as  ‘  money  beyond  sea,’  as  the  for¬ 
tune-teller  had  told  her ;  but  alas !  he  had  an 
other  wife  there.— ;He_got  immediate  possession 
of  Sally’s  twenty  pounds.  Rachel  put  in  for 
her  share,  but  he  refused  to  give  her  a  farthing_ 
and  bid  her  get  away  or  he  would  have  her 
taken  up  on  the  vagrant  act.  He  soon  ran 
away  from  Sally,  leaving  her  to  bewail  her  own 
weakness  ;  for  it  was  that  indeed,  and  not  any 
irresistible  fate,  which  had  been  the  cause  of 
her  ruin.  To  complete  her  misery,  she  herself 
was  suspected  of  having  stole  the  silver  cup 
which  Rachel  had  pocketed.  Her  master,  how¬ 
ever,  would  not  prosecute  her,  as  she  was  fall 
ing  into  a  deep  decline,  and  she  died  in  a  few 
months  of  a  broken  heart,  a  sad  warning  to  all 
credulous  girls. 

Rachel,  whenever  she  got  near  home,  used  to 
drop  her  trade  of  fortune-telling,  and  only  dealt 
in  the  wares  of  her  basket.  Mr.  Wilson,  the 
clergyman,  found  her  one  day  dealing  out  some 
very  wicked  ballads  to  some  children.  He  went 
up  with  a  view  to  give  her  a  reprimand  ;  but  had 
no  sooner  begun  his  exhortation  than  up  came 
a  constable,  followed  by  several  people. — ‘  There 
she  is,  that  is  the  old  witch  who  tricked  my 
wife  out  of  the  five  guineas,’  said  one  of  them, 

‘  Do  your  office  constable,  seize  that  old  hag. 
She  may  tell  fortunes  and  find  pots  of  gold  in 
Taunton  jail,  for  there  she  will  have  nothing 
else  to  do!’  This  was  that  very  farm^jr  Jenkins, 
whose  wife  had  been  cheated  by  Rachael  of  the 
five  guineas.  He  had  taken  ])ains  to  trace  her 
to  her  own  parish :  he  did  not  so  miieh  value 
the  loss  of  the  money,  as  he  thought  it  was  a 
duty  he  owed  the  public  to  clear  the  country  of 


262 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


such  vermin.  Mr.  Wilson  immediately  com¬ 
mitted  her.  She  took  her  trial  at  tlie  next  as¬ 
sizes,  when  she  was  sentenced  to  a  year’s  im¬ 
prisonment.  In  the  mean  time,  the  pawn¬ 
broker  to  whom  she  had  sold  the  silver  cup, 
which  she  had  stolen  from  poor  Sally’s  master,  im¬ 
peached  her;  and  as  the  robbery  was  fully  proved 
upon  Rachel,  she  was  sentenced  for  this  crime 
to  Botany  Bay  ;  and  a  happy  day  it  was  for  the 
county  of  Somerset,  when  such  a  nuisance  was 
sent  out  of  it.  She  was  transported  much  about 
the  same  time  that  her  husband  Giles  lost  his 
life  in  stealing  the  net  from  the  garden  wall,  as 
related  in  the  second  part  of  poaching  Giles. 

I  have  thought  it  my  duty  to  print  this  little 
history,  as  a  kind  of  warning  to  all  young  tnen 
and  maidens  not  to  have  any  thing  to  say  to 
cheats,  impostors,  cunning-women,  fortune-tel¬ 
lers,  conjurors,  and  interpreters  of  dreams.  Lis¬ 
ten  to  me,  your  true  friend,  when  I  assure  you 
that  God  never  reveals  to  weak  and  wicked  wo¬ 
men  those  secret  designs  of  his  providence, 
which  no  human  wisdom  is  able  to  foresee.  To 
consult  these  false  oracles  is  not  only  foolish, 
but  sinful.  It  is  foolish,  because  they  are  them¬ 


selves  as  ignorant  as  those  whom  they  pretend 
to  teach  :  and  is  sinful,  because  it  is  prying  into 
that  futurity  which  God,  in  mercy  as  well  as 
wisdom,  hides  from  men.  God  indeed  orders 
all  things ;  but  when  you  have  a  mind  to  do  a 
foolish  thing,  do  not  faticy  you  are  fated  to  do 
it.  This  is  tempting  Providence,  and  not  trust¬ 
ing  him.  It  is  indeed  charging  God  with  folly-. 
Prudence  is  his  gift,  and  you  obey  him  better 
when  you  make  use  of  prudence,  under  the  di¬ 
rection  of  prayer,  than  when  you  madly  run 
into  ruin,  aud  think  you  are  only  submitting  to 
your  fate.  Never  fancy  that  you  are  compelled 
to  undo  yourself,  or  to  rush  upon  your  own  de¬ 
struction,  in  compliance  with  any  supposed  fa¬ 
tality.  Never  believe  that  God  conceals  his  will 
from  a  sober  Christian  who  obeys  his  laws,  and 
reveals  it  to  a  vagabond  gypsy  who  runs  up  and 
down  breaking  the  laws  both  of  God  and  man 
King  Saul  never  consulted  the  witch  till  he  left 
off  serving  God.  The  Bible  will  direct  us  wha<. 
to  do  better  than  any  conjurer,  and  there  are  no 
days  unlucky  but  those  which  we  make  so  bv 
our  own  vanity,  sin,  and  folly. 


THOUGHTS 

ON  THE  IMPORTANCE  OE  THE  MANNERS  OF  THE  GREAT, 
TO  GENERAL  SOCIETY. 

‘You  are  the  makers  of  manners.’ — Shakspeare, 


To  a  large  and  honourable  class  of  the  com¬ 
munity,  to  persons  considerable  in  reputation, 
important  by  their  condition  in  life,  and  com¬ 
mendable  for  the  decency  of  general  conduct, 
these  slight  hints  are  respectfully  addressed. 
They  are  not  intended  as  a  satire  upon  vice,  or 
ridicule  upon  folly,  being  written  neither  for  the 
foolish  nor  the  vicious.  The  subject  is  too  se¬ 
rious  for  ridicule  ;  and  those  to  whom  it  is  ad¬ 
dressed  are  too  respectable  for  satire.  It  is  re¬ 
commended  to  the  consideration  of  those  who, 
filling  the  higher  ranks  of  life,  are  naturally 
regarded  as  patterns,  by  which  the  manners  of 
the  rest  of  the  world  are  to  bo  fashioned. 

The  mass  of  mankind,  in  most  places,  and 
especially  in  those  conditions  of  life  which  ex¬ 
empt  them  from  the  temptation  to  shameful 
rices,  is  perhaps  chiefly  composed  of  what  is 
commonly  termed  by  the  courtesy  of  the  world 
good  kind  of  people ;  for  persons  of  very  flagitious 
wickedness  are  almost  as  rare  as  those  of  very 
eminent  piety.  To  the  latter  of  these,  admoni¬ 
tion  were  impertinent ;  to  the  former  it  were 
sif^rfluous.  These  remarks,  therefore,  are 
principally  written  with  a  view  to  those  persons 
of  rank  and  fortune  who  live  within  the  re¬ 
straints  of  moral  obligation,  and  acknowledge 
the  truth,  of  the  Christian  religion  ;  and  who, 
if  in  certain  instances  they  allow  themselves 
in  practices  not  compatible  with  a  strict  pro¬ 
fession  of  Christianity,  seem  to  do  it  rather  from 
habit  and  want  of  reflection,  than  either  from 
disbelief  of  its  doctrines,  or  contempt  of  its  pre¬ 
cepts. 


Inconsideration,  fashion,  and  the  world,  are 
three  confederates  against  virtue,  with  whom 
even  good  kind  of  people  often  contrive  to  live 
on  excellent  terms ;  and  the  fair  reputation 
which  may  be  obtained  by  a  complaisant  con¬ 
formity  to  the  prevailing  practice,  and  by  mere 
decorum  of  manners  without  a  strict  attention 
to  religious  principle,  is  a  constant  source  of 
danger  to  the  rich  and  great.  There  is  some¬ 
thing  almost  irresistibly  seducing  in  the  conta¬ 
gion  of  general  example  ;  hence  the  necessity  of 
that  vigilance,  which  it  is  the  business  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  to  quicken  by  incessant  admonition,  and 
which  it  is  the  business  of  the  world,  to  lay 
asleep  by  the  perpetual  opiates  of  ease  and  plea¬ 
sure. 

A  fair  reputation  is  among  the  laudable  ob¬ 
jects  of  human  ambition;  yet  even  this  really 
valuable  blessing  is  sometimes  converted  into  a 
snare,  by  inducing  a  treacherous  security  as 
soon  as  it  is  obtained  ;  and  by  leading  him  who 
is  too  anxious  about  obtaining  it  to  stop  short 
without  aiming  at  a  higher  motive  of  action. 
A  fatal  indolence  is  apt  to  creep  in  upon  the 
soul  when  it  has  once  acquired  the  good  opinion 
of  mankind,  if  the  acquisition  of  that  good  opi¬ 
nion  was  the  ultimate  end  of  its  endeavours, 
Pursuit  is  at  an  end  when  the  object  is  in  pos¬ 
session  ;  for  he  is  not  likely  to  ‘  press  forward,’ 
who  thinks  he  has  already  ‘  attained.’  The 
love  of  worldly  reputation,  and  the  desire  of 
God’s  favour,  have  this  specific  difference,  that 
in  the  latter,  tlie  possession  always  augments 
the  desire ;  and  the  spiritual  mind  accounts 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


263 


nothing  done  while  any  thing  remains  un- 
<ione. 

But  after  all,  a  fair  fame,  the  support  of  num¬ 
bers,  and  the  flattering  concurrence  of  human 
opinion,  is  obviously  a  deceitful  dependence ;  for 
as  every  individual  must  die  for  himself,  and 
answer  for  himself,  both  these  imaginary  re¬ 
sources  will  fail,  just  at  the  moment  when  they 
could  have  been  of  any  use.  A  good  reputation, 
even  without  internal  piety,  would  be  worth  ob¬ 
taining,  if  the  tribunal  of  heaven  were  fashioned 
after  the  manner  of  human  courts  of  judicature. 
If  at  the  general  judgment  we  were  to  be  tried 
by  a  jury  of  our  fellow  mortals,  it  would  be  but 
common  prudence  to  secure  their  favour  at  any 
price.  But  it  can  stand  us  in  little  stead  in  the 
great  day  of  decision,  it  being  the  consummation 
of  infinite  goodness  not  to  abandon  us  to  the 
mercy  of  each  other’s  sentence;  but  to  reserve 
us  for  his  final  judgment  who  knows  every  mo¬ 
tive  of  every  action  :  who  will  make  strict  in¬ 
quisition  into  singleness  of  heart,  and  upright¬ 
ness  of  intention ;  in  whose  eyes  the  sincere 
■prayer  of  powerless  benevolence  will  outweigh 
the  most  splendid  profession  or  the  most  daz- 
zling  action. 

We  cannot  but  rejoice  in  every  degree  of  hu¬ 
man  virtue  which  operates  favourably  on  society, 
whatever  be  the  motive,  or  whoever  he  the  actor; 
and  we  should  gladly  commend  every  degree 
of  goodness,  though  it  be  not  exactly  squared  by 
our  own  rules  and  notions.  Even  the  good  ac¬ 
tions  of  such  persons  as  are  too  much  actuated 
by  a  regard  to  appearances,  are  not  without 
their  beneficial  eflTects.  The  righteousness  of 
those  who  occupy  this  middle  region  of  morality 
among  us,  certainly  exceed  the  righteousness 
of  the  Seribes  and  pharisees ;  for  they  are  not 
only  exact  in  ceremonials,  but  in  many  respects 
fulfil  the  weightier  matters  of  law  and  con- 
ecience.  Like  Herod,  they  often  ‘  hear  gladly,’ 
and  ‘do  many  things.’  Yet  I  am  afraid  I  shall 
be  thought  severe  in  remarking  that  in  general 
those  characters  in  the  New  Testament,  of 
whose  future  condition  no  very  comfortable  hope 
Is  given,  seem  to  have  been  taken,  not  from  the 
profligate,  the  abandoned,  and  the  dishonourable; 
but  from  that  decent  class  commonly  described 
by  the  term  good  sort  of  people,  that  mixed  kind 
of  character  in  which  virtue  appears,  if  it  do 
not  predominate.  The  young  ruler  was  certainly 
one  of  the  first  of  this  order  ;  and  yet  we  are 
left  in  dark  uncertainty  as  to  his  final  allotment. 
The  rich  man  who  built  him  barns  and  store¬ 
houses,  and  only  proposed  to  himself  the  full  en¬ 
joyment  of  that  fortune,  which  we  do  not  hear 
was  unfairly  acquired,  might  have  been  for  all 
that  appears  to  the  contrary,  a  very  good  sort  of 
man  ;  at  least  if  we  may  judge  of  him  by  mul¬ 
titudes  who  live  precisely  for  the  same  purposes, 
and  yet  enjoy  a  good  degree  of  credit,  and  who 
are  rather  considered  as  objects  of  respect,  than 
of  censure.  His  plan,  like  theirs,  was  ‘  to  take 
iiis  ease,  to  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry.’ 

But  the  most  alarming  instance  is  that  of  the 
splendid  epicure,  who  was  clothed  in  purple  and 
4ine  linen,  and  fared  sumptuously  every  day. 
He  committed  no  enormities  TOat  have  been 
transmitted  to  us ;  for  that  ho  dined  well  and 
dressed  well,  could  hardly  incur  the  bitter  pe¬ 


nalty  of  eternal  misery.  That  his  expenses 
were  suitable  to  his  station,  and  his  splendour 
proportioned  to  his  opulence,  does  not  exhibit 
one  objection  to  his  character.  Nor  are  we  told 
that  he  refused  the  crumbs  which  Lazarus  soli¬ 
cited.  And  yet  this  man  on  an  authority  which 
we  are  not  permitted  to  question,  is  represented, 
in  a  future  state,  as  lifting  up  his  eyes  being  in 
torments.  His  punishment  seems  to  have  been 
the  consequence  of  an  irreligious,  a  worldly 
spirit,  a  heart  corrupted  by  the  softness  and  de¬ 
lights  of  life.  It  was  not  because  he  was  rich, 
but  because  he  trusted  in  riches  ;  or,  if  even  he 
was  charitable,  his  charity  wanted  that  princi¬ 
ple  which  alone  could  sanctify  it.  His  views 
terminated  here ;  this  world’s  good,  and  this 
world’s  applause,  were  the  motives  and  the  end 
of  his  actions.  He  forgot  God  ;  he  was  destitute 
of  piety  ;  and  the  absence  of  this  great  and  first 
principle  of  human  actions  rendered  his  shining 
deeds,  however  they  might  be  admired  among 
men,  of  no  value  in  the  sight  of  God. 

There  is  no  error  more  common,  or  more  dan¬ 
gerous,  than  the  notion  that  an  unrestrained  in¬ 
dulgence  of  pleasure,  and  an  unbounded  grati¬ 
fication  of  the  appetites  is  generally  attended 
with  a  liberal,  humane,  and  merciful  temper. 
Nor  is  there  any  opinion  more  false  and  more 
fatal,  or  which  demands  to  be  more  steadily  con¬ 
troverted,  than  that  libertinism  and  good-nature 
are  natural  and  necessary  associates.  For  after 
all  that  corrupt  poets,  and  more  corrupt  philoso¬ 
phers,  have  told  us  of  the  blandishments  of  plea¬ 
sure,  and  of  its  tendency  to  soften  the  temper 
and  humanize  the  affections,  it  is  certain,  that 
nothing  hardens  the  heart  like  excessive  and  un¬ 
bounded  luxury  ;  and  he  who  refuses  the  fewest 
gratifications  to  his  own  voluptuousness,  will 
generally  bo  found  the  least  susceptible  of  ten¬ 
derness  for  the  wants  of  others.  In  one  reign 
the  cruelties  at  Rome  bore  an  exact  proportion 
to  the  dissoluteness  at  Caprese.  And  in  another 
it  is  not  less  notorious  :  that  the  imperial  fiddler 
became  more  barbarous,  as  he  grew  more  pro¬ 
fligate.  Prosperity,  says  the  Arabian  proverb, 
fills  the  heart  until  it  makes  it  hard ;  and  the 
most  dangerous  pits  and  snares  for  human  vir¬ 
tue  are  those,  which  are  so  covered  over  with 
the  flowers  of  prosperous  fortune,  that  it  requires 
a  cautious  foot,  and  a  vigilant  eye,  to  escape 
them. 

Ananias  and  Sapphira,  were,  perhaps,  well 
esteemed  in  society  ;  for  it  was  enough  to  esta¬ 
blish  a  very  considerable  reputation  to  sell  even 
part  of  their  possessions  for  religious  purposes ; 
but  what  an  alarm  does  it  sound  to  hypocrisy, 
that,  instead  of  being  rewarded  for  what  they 
brought,  they  were  punished  for  what  they  kept 
back !  And  it  is  to  he  feared,  that  this  deceitful 
pair  are  not  the  only  one,  upon  whom  a  good 
action,  without  a  pure  intention,  has  drawn  down 
a  righteous  retribution. 

Outward  actions  are  the  surest,  and,  indeed, 
to  hufrian  eyes  the  only  evidences  of  sincerity, 
but  Christianity  is  a  religion  oi’ motives  and  prin¬ 
ciples.  The  Gospel  is  continually  referring  to 
the  heart,  as  the  source  of  good  ;  it  is  to  the  [)oor 
in  spirit,  lo  the  pure  in  heart,  that  the  divine 
blessing  is  annexed.  A  man  may  correct  many 
improper  practices,  and  refrain  from  many  im- 


264 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


moral  actions,  from  merely  human  motives  ;  but 
thoug-li  this  partial  amendment  is  not  without 
its  uses,  yet  this  is  onl}'  attacking  symptoms, 
and  *eglecting  the  mortal  disease.  But  to  sub¬ 
due  a  worldly  temper,  to  controul  irregular  de¬ 
sires,  and  to  have  ‘  a  clean  heart,’  is  to  attack 
sin  in  its  strong  holds.  Totally  to  accomplish 
this,  is,  perhaps,  beyond  the  narrow  limits  of 
human  perfection,  the  best  men  being  constantly 
humbled  to  find,  that  when  they  ‘  would  do  good, 
evil  is  present  with  them  but  to  attempt  it, 
with  an  humble  reliance  on  superior  aid,  is  so 
far  from  being  an  extravagant  or  romantic  flight 
of  virtue,  that  it  is  but  the  common  duty  of  every 
ordinary  Christian.  And  this  perfection  is  not 
the  less  real,  because  it  is  a  point  which  seems 
constantly  to  recede  from  our  approaches,  just 
as  the  sensible  horizon  recedes  from  our  natural 
eye.  Our  highest  attainments,  instead  of  bring¬ 
ing  us  ‘  to  the  mark,’  only  teach  us  that  the 
mark  is  at  a  greater  distance,  by  giving  us  more 
humbling  views  of  ourselves,  and  more  exalted 
conceptions  of  the  state  after  which  we  are  la¬ 
bouring. — Though  the  progress  towards  perfec¬ 
tion  may  be  perpetual  in  this  world,  the  actual 
attainment  is  reserved  for  a  better.  And  this 
restless  desire  of  a  happiness  which  we  cannot 
reach,  and  this  lively  idea  of  a  perfection  which 
we  cannot  attain,  are  among  the  many  argu¬ 
ments  for  a  future  state,  which  seem  to  come 
little  short  of  demonstration.  The  humble  Chris¬ 
tian,  takes  refuge  under  the  deep  sense  of  his 
disappointments  and  defects,  in  this  consoling 
hope,  ‘  When  I  awake  up  after  thy  likeness  I 
shall  be  satisfied.’ 

Let  me  not  here  be  misunderstood  as  under¬ 
valuing  the  virtues  which  even  worldly  men 
may  possess.  I  am  charmed  with  humanity, 
generosity,  and  integrity,  in  whomsoever  they 
may  be  found.  But  one  virtue  must  not  intrench 
Upon  another.  Charity  must  not  supplant  faith. 
If  a  man  be  generous,  good-natured,  and  hu¬ 
mane,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  for  him  the 
tenderness  of  a  brother  ;  but  if,  at  the  same  time, 
he  be  irreligious,  intemperate,  or  profane,  who 
shall  dare  to  say  he  is  in  a  safe  state  ?  Good  hu¬ 
mour  and  generous  sentiments,  will  always 
make  a  man  a  pleasant  acquaintance ;  but  who 
shall  lower  the  doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  to  ac¬ 
commodate  them  to  the  conduct  of  men  ?  Who 
shall  bend  a  straight  rule  to  favour  a  crooked 
practice  7  Who  shall  controvert  that  authority 
which  has  said,  that  without  holiness  no  man 
shall  see  the  Lord  ? 

May  I  venture  to  be  a  little  paradoxical ;  and 
while  so  many  grave  persons  are  descanting  on 
the  mischiefs  of  vice,  may  I  be  permitted  to  say 
a  word  on  the  mischiefsj^f  virtue,  or,  rather,  of 
that  shining  counterfeit,  which,  while  it  wants 
the  specific  gravity,  has  much  of  the  brightness 
of  sterling  worth  ?  Never,  perhaps,  did  any 
age  produce  more  beautiful  declamations  in 
praise  of  virtue  than  the  present ;  never  were 
more  polished  periods  rounded  in  honour^f  hu¬ 
manity.  An  ancient  Pagan  would  imagine  that 
Astrea  had  returned  to  take  up  her  abode  in  our 
metropolis  ;  a  primitive  Christian  would  con¬ 
clude  that  ‘  righteousness  and  peace  had  there 
met  together.’  But  how  would  they  be  surprised 
to  find  that  the  obligation  to  these  duties  was 


not  always  thought  binding,  not  only  on  the- 
reader,  but  on  their  eloquent  encomiasts  them¬ 
selves.  How  would  they  be  surprised  to  find 
that  universal  benevolence  may  subsist  with 
partial  injustice,  and  boundless  liberality  with 
sordid  selfishness  !  that  a  man  may  seem  eager 
in  redressing  the  injuries  of  half  the  globe,  with¬ 
out  descending  to  the  petty  detail  of  private  vir¬ 
tues  ;  and  burn  with  zeal  for  the  good  of  mil¬ 
lions  he  never  saw,  while  he  is  spreading  vice 
and  ruin  through  the  little  circle  of  his  own  per¬ 
sonal  influence  ! 

When  the  general  texture  of  an  irregular  life 
is  spangled  over  with  some  constitutional  pleas- 
ing  qualities;  when  gayety,  good  humour,  and 
a  thoughtless  profusion  of  expense,  throw  a  lus¬ 
tre  round  the  faultiest  characters,  it  is  no  won¬ 
der  that  common  observers  are  blinded  into  ad¬ 
miration  ;  a  profuse  generosity  dazzles  them 
more  than  all  the  duties  of  the  decalogue.  But 
though  it  may  be  a  very  good  electioneering 
virtue,  yet  there  are  many  qualities  which  may 
obtain  popularity  among  men,  which  do  not  tend 
to  secure  the  favour  of  God.  It  is  somewhat 
strange  that  the  extravagance  of  the  great  should 
be  tl>e  criterion  of  their  goodness  with  those  very 
people  who  are  themselves  the  victims  to  this 
idol ;  for  the  prodigal  pays  no  debts  if  he  can 
help  it ;  and  it  is  a  notorious  instance  of  the 
danger  of  these  popular  virtues,  and  of  the  false 
judgments  of  men,  that  in  one  of  the  wittiest  and 
most  popular  comedies*  which  this  country  has 
ever  produced,  those  very  passages  which  exalt 
liberality,  and  turn  justice  into  ridicule,  were 
nightly  applauded  with  enthusiastic  rapture  by 
those  deluded  tradesmen,  whom,  perhaps  that 
very  sentiment  helped  to  keep  out  of  their 
money. 

There  is  another  sort  of  fashionable  charac¬ 
ter,  whose  false  brightness  is  still  more  perni¬ 
cious,  by  casting  a  splendour  over  the  most  de¬ 
structive  vices.  Corrupt  manners,  ruinous  ex¬ 
travagance,  and  the  most  fatal  passion  for  play, 
are  sometimes  gilded  over  with  many  engaging 
acts  of  charity,  and  a  general  attention  and  re¬ 
spect  to  the  ceremonials  of  religion.  But  this  is 
.degrading  the  venerable  image  and  superscrip¬ 
tion  of  Christianity,  by  stamping  them  on  a 
baser  metal  than  they  were  ever  intended  to  im¬ 
press.  The  young  and  gay  shelter  themselves 
under  such  examples,  and  scruple  the  less  to 
adopt  the  bad  parts  of  such  mixed  characters, 
when  they  see  that  a  loose  and  negligent,  not  to 
say  immoral  conduct,  is  so  compatible  with  a 
religious  profession. 

But  I  digress  from  my  intention  ;  for  it  is  not 
the  purpose  of  this  address  to  take  notice  of  any 
actions  which  the  common  consent  of  mankind 
has  determined  to  be  wrong  :  but  of  such  chiefly 
as  are  practised  by  the  sober,  the  decent,  and 
the  regular ;  and  to  drop  a  few  hints  on  such 
less  obvious  offences  as  are,  in  general. 

Safe  from  the  bar,  the  pulpit,  and  the  throne. 

Nor  will  the  bounds  which  I  have  prescribed 
myself  allow  of  my  wandering  into  a  wide  and 
general  field  of  observation. 

The  idea  of^he  present  slight  performance 
was  suggested  oy  reading  the  king’s  late  excel- 
•  The  School  for  Scandal. 


/ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


265 


lent  proclamation  against  irreligion  and  immo¬ 
rality.*  Under  the  shelter  of  so  high  a  sanction, 
It  may  not  be  unseasonable  to  press  on  the  hearts 
of  the  better  disposed,  such  observances  as  seem 
to  be  generally  overlooked,  and  to  remark  such 
offences  as  commonly  elude  censure,  because 
they  are  not  commonly  thought  censurable. 

It  is  obvious  to  all  pious  persons,  that  that 
branch  of  the  divine  law,  against  which  the  bet¬ 
ter  kind  of  people  trespass  with  the  least  scruple, 
is  the  fourth  commandment.  Many  who  would 
shudder  at  the  violation  of  the  other  nine,  seem 
without  ceremony  to  expunge  this  from  the  Di¬ 
vine  code  but  by  what  authority  they  do  this,  has 
never  been  explained.  The  Christian  legislator 
does  not  seem  to  have  abridged  the  command¬ 
ments  :  and  there  is  no  subsequent  authority  so 
much  as  pretended  to  by  Protestants. 

It  is  not  here  intended  to  take  notice  of  such 
flagrant  offences  as  lie  open  to  the  cognizance 
of  higher  tribunals  ;  or  to  pollute  this  paper  with 
descanting  on  the  holders  of  card  assemblies  on 
Sundays  ;  the  frequenters  of  taverns  and  gaming 
houses  ;  the  printers  of  Sunday  newspapers  ;  the 
proprietors  of  Sunday  Stage-coaches;  and  others 
who  openly  insult  the  laws  of  the  land ;  laws 
which  will  always  be  held  sacred  by  good  sub¬ 
jects,  even  were  not  the  law  of  God  antecedent 
to  them. 

Many  of  the  order  whom  I  here  address  are 
persons  of  the  tenderest  humanity,  and  not  only 
wish  well  to  the  interests  of  virtue,  but  are  fa¬ 
vourably  disposed  to  advance  the  cause  of  reli¬ 
gion  ;  nay,  would  be  extremely  startled  at  not 
being  thought  sincerely  religious  ;  yet  from  in¬ 
consideration,  want  of  time,  want  of  self-exami¬ 
nation,  want  of  a  just  sense  of  the  high  require¬ 
ments  of  the  Divine  law,  want  of  suspecting  the 
deceitfulness  of  the  human  heart,  sometimes 
allow  themselves  in  inattentions  and  negligences 
which  materially  affect  their  own  safety,  and 
the  comfort  of  others. — While  an  animated  spirit 
of  charity  seems  to  be  kindled  among  us  :  while 
there  is  a  general  disposition  to  instruct  the  ig¬ 
norant,  and  to  reform  the  vicious ;  we  cannot 
help  regretting  that  these  amiable  exertions 
should  be  counteracted,  in  some  degree,  by 
practices  of  a  directly  opposite  tendency ;  tri¬ 
fling  in  their  appearance,  but  serious  in  their 
effects. 

There  are  still  among  us  petty  domestic  evils, 
which  seemed  too  inconsiderable  to  claim  re¬ 
dress.  There  is  an  aggrieved  body  of  men  in 
our  very  capital,  whose  spiritual  hardships  seem 
scarcely  to  have  been  taken  into  consideration,  I 
mean  the  hair  dressers  on  whom 

The  Sunday  shines,  no  day  of  rest  to  them. 

Is  there  not  a  peculiar  degree  of  unkindness 
in  exercising  such  cruelty  on  the  souls  of  men, 
whose  whole  lives  are  employed  in  embellishing 
our  persons  ?  And  is  it  quite  conceivable  how 
a  lady’s  conscience  is  able  to  make  such  nice 
distinctions  that  she  would  be  shocked  at  the 
idea  of  sending  for  her  mantuamakert  or  milli- 

♦  This  tract  was  written  soon  after  the  institution  of 
the  society  for  enforcing  tlie  king's  proclamation  against 
vice  and  irreligion. 

t  ft  is  feareil  that  since  those  pages  were  written  the 
scruple  of  sending  fur  cither  is  much  dimiinslied. 

VoL.  I. 


ner,  her  carpenter  or  mason,  on  a  Sunday,  while 
she  makes  no  scruple  regularly  to  employ  a 
hair-dresser  ? 

Is  it  not  almost  ridiculous  to  observe  the  zeal 
we  have  for  doing  good  at  a  distance,  while  we 
neglect  the  little,  obvious,  every-day,  domestic 
duties  which  should  seem  to  solicit  our  imme¬ 
diate  attention  ?  But  an  action  ever  so  right 
and  praise-worthy  which  is  only  to  be  periodi¬ 
cally  performed,  at  distant  intervals,  is  less  bur- 
thensome  to  corrupt  nature,  than  an  undeviating 
attention  to  such  small,  constant  right  habits  as 
are  hostile  to  our  natural  indolence,  and  would 
be  perpetually  vexing  and  disturbing  our  self- 
love.  The  weak  heart  indulges  its  infirmity,  by 
allowing  itself  intermediate  omissions,  and  ha¬ 
bitual  neglects  of  duty  ;  reposing  itself  for  safety, 
on  regular  but  remote  returns  of  stated  perform¬ 
ances.  It  is  less  trouble  to  subscribe  to  the  pro¬ 
pagation  of  the  Gospel  in  foreign  parts,  than  to 
have  daily  prayers  in  our  own  families,  and  I  am 
persuaded  that  there  are  multitudes  of  well- 
meaning  people  who  would  gladly  contribute  to 
a  mission  of  Christianity  to  Japan  or  Otaheite, 
to  whom  it  never  occurred  that  the  hair-dresser, 
whom  they  are  every  Sunday  detaining  from 
church  has  a  soul  to  be  saved ;  that  the  law  of 
the  land  co-operates  with  the  law  of  God,  to  for¬ 
bid  their  employing  him  ;  and  that  they  have  no 
right,  either  legal  or  moral,  to  this  portion  of 
his  time.  The  poor  man,  himself,  perhaps,  dares 
not  remonstrate,  for  fear  he  should  be  deprived 
of  his  employment  for  the  rest  of  the  week.  If 
there  were  no  other  objection  to  a  pleasurable 
Sunday  among  the  great  and  affluent,  methinks 
this  single  one  might  operate  :  would  not  a  de¬ 
vout  heart  be  unwilling  to  rob  a  fellow  creature 
of  his  time  for  devotion,  or  a  humane  one  of  his 
hour  of  rest  ?  ‘  Love  worketh  no  ill  to  his  neigh¬ 
bour,  therefore  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law.’ 

It  is  strange  that  there  should  be  so  little  con¬ 
sistency  in  human  conduct,  that  the  same  per¬ 
sons  should  gladly  contribute  to  spread  the  light 
of  Christianity  in  another  hemisphere;  while,, 
by  their  example,  they  actually  obstruct  the  pro¬ 
gress  of  it  at  home.  But  it  is,  I  doubt  not,  much 
oftener  owing  to  the  imperceptible  influence  of 
custom  and  habit,  than  to  a  decided  ill  intention. 
Besides,  it  may  he  in  morals  as  it  is  in  optics, 
the  eye  and  the  object  may  come  too  close  to 
each  other,  to  answer  the  end  of  vision.  There 
are  certain  faults  which  press  too  near  our  self- 
love  to  be  even  perceptible  to  us. 

The  petty  mischief  of  what  is  called  card  mo¬ 
ney  is  so  assimilated  to  our  habits,  and  interwo¬ 
ven  with  our  family  arrangements,  that  even 
many  of  the  prudent  and  virtuous  no  longer 
consider  it  as  a  worm  which  is  feeding  on  the 
vitals  of  domestic  virtue.  How  many  poor 
youths,  after  having  been  trained  in  a  wholesome 
dread  of  idleness  and  gaming,  when  they  are 
sent  abroad  into  the  world,  are  astonished  to 
find  that  part  of  the  wages  of  the  servant  is  to 
be  paid  by  his  furnishing  the  imiilcments  of  di¬ 
version  for  the  guests  of  the  master.  Thus  good 
servants  are  a  commodity  which  has  long  been 
diminishing  by  an  elaborate  system.  The  more 
sober  the  family,  the  fewer  attractions  it  must' 
necessarily  have  ;  for  these  servants  will  natu¬ 
rally  quit  a  place,  however  excellent,  where  there 


26S 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


is  no  play,  for  one  where  there  is  some  ;  and  a 
family  where  there  is  but  little,  for  one  where 
there  is  much.  Thus  if  the  advantage  of  the 
dependent  is  to  increase  in  a  direct  ratio  to  the 
dissipation  of  his  employer,  what  encouragement 
is  left  for  valuable  servants,  or  what  prospect 
remains  of  securing  valuable  servants  for  sober 
minded  families  ? 

It  will  be  said  that  so  small  an  evil  is  scarcely 
worth  insisting  on.  But  a  small  fault  which  is 
"become  a  part  of  a  system,  in  time  establishes 
an  error  into  a  principle.  And  that  remon- 
ntrance  which  should  induce  people  to  abolish 
one  wrong  habit,  or  pluck  out  one  rooted  error, 
however  trifling,  would  be  of  more  real  use  than 
the  most  eloquent  declamation  against  vice  in 
general.  To  take  out  only  one  thorn  from  a 
suffering  patient,  is  more  beneficial  to  him  than 
the  most  elaborate  disquisition  on  the  pain  he  is 
Buffering  from  the  thorns  which  remain. 

It  should  be  held  as  an  eternal  truth,  that 
what  is  morally  wrong  can  never  be  politically 
Tight.  It  would  be  arguing  great  ignorance  of 
human  nature,  and  exacting  a  very  rigorous  de¬ 
gree  of  virtue  from  a  person  of  vulgar  sentiments 
to  expect  that  he  should  wish  well  to  the  inte¬ 
rests  of  sobriety,  or  heartily  desire  the  decrease 
of  dissipation,  while  the  growth  of  it  is  made  so 
profitable  to  himself.  It  is  requiring  too  much 
to  make  the  temptation  so  forcible  where  the 
power  of  resistance  is  so  weak.  To  hold  out  to 
a  poor  fellow  the  strong  seduction  of  interest, 
and  yet  to  expect  he  will  retain  the  same  in¬ 
flexible  principle,  is  to  expect  from  an  illiterate 
servant  an  elevation  of  virtue,  which  has  not 
always  been  found  even  in  statesmen  and  mi¬ 
nisters.  * 

It  is  not  here  intended  to  enter  into  any  ani¬ 
madversion  on  the  subject  of  play  itself.  But 
may  we  not  ask  without  offence,  if  it  be  per¬ 
fectly  right  to  introduce  any  money  arising  from 
or  connected  with  it,  into  a  part  of  regular  fa¬ 
mily  economy  ?  Is  it  not  giving  an  air  of  sys¬ 
tem  to  diversion,  which  does  not  seem  entirely 
of  a  piece  with  the  other  orderly  practices  of 
many  discreet  families  where  this  odd  traffic  is 
carried  on  ?  Would  not  our  ancestors,  who 
seem  to  have  understood  economy  and  magnifi¬ 
cence  too,  at  least  as  well  as  their  desc  ndants, 
have  been  scandalized  had  it  been  proposed  to 
them  to  incorporate  play  so  intimately  with  the 
texture  of  their  domestic  arrangements,  as  that 
it  should  make  part  of  their  plan  !  And  would 
they  have  thought  it  a  very  dignified  practice 
not  to  have  paid  themselves  for  the  amusements 
of  their  own  houses  ;  but  to  have  invited  their 
friends  to  an  entertainment  of  which  the  guests 
were  to.  defray  part  of  the  expense  ? 

Let  me  suppose  a  case :  what  appearance 
would  it  have,  if  every  gentleman  who  has  par¬ 
taken  of  the  social  entertainment  of  a  friend’s 
table,  were  after  dinner,  expected  by  the  butler, 
to  leave  a  piece  of  money  under  his  plate  to  pay 
for  his  wine  ?  Do  not  common  sense,  hospitality, 
friendship,  and  liberal  feelings  revolt  at  the  bare 
Buggestion  of  such  a  project  ?  Yet  there  is  in 
effect  as  little  hospitality,  as  little  friendship, 
and  as  little  liberality  in  being  obliged  to  pay 
for  the  cards  as  for  the  Vine  ;  both  equally  ma- 
lung  a  part  of  the  entertainment. 


It  is  hardly  too  ludierous  to  add,  that  seeing 
how  this  point  has  been  carried  in  favour  of  the 
groom  of  the  chambers  (and  it  descends  down 
to  the  lowest  footman,)  we  need  not  despair  of 
seeing  the  butler  insist  on  being  allowed  to  fur¬ 
nish  the  wine,  for  which  he  shall  compel  the 
guests  to  pay  with  the  same  high  interest  with 
which  they  now  pay  for  the  cards.  It  will  seem 
odd  at  first,  but  afterwards  we  shall  think  no 
more  about  it,  to  see  him,  during  dinner,  noting 
down  those  who  drink  the  more  costly  wines, 
that  they  may  be  taxed  double.  And  it  will 
sound  whimsical  at  first,  to  hear  the  butler  give 
his  master  notice  that  he  must  quit  his  place, 
because  the  company  have  drank  a  little  wine. 
This  only  sounds  ridiculous,  while  the  leaving 
a  place  through  deficiency  of  card  money  sounds 
reasonable,  because  we  are  accustomed  to  the 
one,  and  the  other  is  not  yet  become  fashionable. 

The  extinction  of  this  favourite  perquisite 
would  at  first  be  considered  as  a  violent  innova¬ 
tion.  All  reformations  seem  formidable  before 
they  are  attempted.  The  custom  of  vails,  ‘which 
gave  corruption  broader  wings  to  fly,’  was  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  invincible.  Yet  how  soon  did  a 
general  concurrence  exterminate  it  !  Had  any 
one  foretold  twenty  years  ago,  that  in  a  very 
short  space,  near  half  a  million  of  pilfering, 
swearing.  Sabbath-breaking  children,  should  be 
rescued  from  the  streets,  and  brought  into  ha¬ 
bits  of  sobriety  and  virtue,  should  we  not  have 
undertaken  that  the  cleansing  stream  of  reli- 
gious  instruction  should  thus  be  poured  through 
the  Augean  stable  of  ignorance  and  vice,  and 
in  some  measure  wash  away  its  grossest  impu. 
rities  ? 

The  servant  would  probably  complain  of  the 
annihilation  of  this  gainful  custom  :  but  the 
master  would  find  his  account  in  indemnifying 
the  loss  ;  for  he  in  his  turn  would  be  released 
from  the  preposterous  contribution  to  the  wages 
of  other  men’s  servants.  If  in  a  family  of  over¬ 
grown  dissipation  the  stated  addition  should  not 
be  found  equivalent  to  the  relinquished  perqui¬ 
site,  the  servant  must  heroically  submit  to  the 
disadvantageous  commutation  for  the  public 
good.  And  after  all  it  would  be  no  very  serious 
grievance  if  his  reduced  income  should  not  then 
exceed  that  of  the  chaplain.  It  will  still  at  least 
exceed  that  of  many  a  deserving  gentleman, 
bred  to  liberal  learning,  whose  feelings  that 
learning  has  refined  to  a  painful  acuteness,  anfl 
who  is  witnering  away  in  hopeless  penury  with 
a  large  family,  on  a  curacy,  but  little  surpassing 
the  wages  of  a  livery  servant. 

The  same  principle  in  human  nature  by  which 
the  nabob,  the  contractor,  and  others,  by  a  sud¬ 
den  influx  of  unaccustomed  wealth,  become  vo¬ 
luptuous,  extravagant,  and  insolent,  seldom  fails 
to  produce  the  same  effect  on  persons  in  these 
humbler  stations,  when  raised  from  inferior 
places,  to  the  sudden  affluence  of  these  gainful 
ones.  Increased  profligacy  on  a  sudden  swell 
of  fortune  is  commonly  followed  by  desperate 
methods  to  improve  the  circumstances  when  im¬ 
paired  by  the  improvidence  attending  unaccus¬ 
tomed  prosperity. 

There  is  another  domestic  practice  which  it 
is  almost  idle  to  mention,  because  it  is  so  diffi. 
cult  to  redress,  since  such  is  the  present  state 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


267 


•of  society,  that  even  the  conscientious  think 
themselves  obliged  to  concur  in  it.  That  inge¬ 
nuity  which  could  devise  some  effectual  substi¬ 
tute  for  the  daily  and  hourly  lie  of  Not  at  home., 
would  deserve  well  of  society.  Why  will  not 
some  of  those  illustrious  ladies  who  lead  in  the 
fashionable  world  invent  some  phrase  which 
shall  equally  rescue  from  destruction  the  time 
of  the  master  and  the  veracity  of  the  servant  ? 
Some  new  and  appropriate  expression,  the  not 
adopting  which  should  be  blended  with  the  stig¬ 
ma  of  vulgarity,  might  accomplish  that  which 
the  charge  of  its  being  immoral  has  failed  to 
accomplish. 

The  expediency  of  the  denial  itself,  no  one 
will  dispute,  who  has  a  just  idea  of  the  value  of 
time.  Some  scrupulous  persons  so  very  much 
dispute  the  lawfulness  of  making  their  servant’s 
tongue  the  medium  of  any  kind  of  falsehood,  as 
to  make  it  a  point  of  conscience  rather  to  lay 
themselves  open  to  the  irruption  of  every  idle 
invader,  who  sallies  out  on  morning  visits  bent 
on  the  destruction  of  business  and  the  annihila¬ 
tion  of  study.  People  of  very  strict  integrity 
lament  that  this  practice  induces  a  general  spi¬ 
rit  of  lying,  mixes  itself  with  the  habit,  and  by 
a  quality,  the  reverse  of  an  alterative,  gradually 
imdermines  the  moral  constitution.  Others  on 
the  contrary  assert,  that  it  is  one  of  those  lies 
of  convention,  no  more  intended  to  deceive  than 
the  dear  sir  at  the  beginning,  or  your  humble 
servant  at  the  close  of  a  letter  to  a  person  who 
is  not  dear  to  you,  and  to  whom  you  owe  no  sub¬ 
jection.  There  is,  however,  this  very  material 
difference,  that  if  the  first  be  a  falsehood,  you 
do  not  convey  it  by  proxy  :  You  use  it  yourself, 
and  you  use  it  to  one  who  sets  no  more  value  on 
your  words  than  you  intended  he  should  ;  and 
who  shows  you  he  does  not,  by  using  the  same 
stated  phrase  in  return,  in  addressing  you,  for 
whom  he  cares  as  little.  Here  the  words  pass 
for  no  more  than  they  are  worth. 

The  ill  effect  of  the  custom  we  are  lamenting 
may  be  traced  in  marking  the  gradual  initiation 
of  an  unpractised  country  servant.  And  who 
has  not  fblt  for  his  virtuous  distress,  when  he 
has  been  ordered  to  call  back  a  more  favoured 
visitant,  whom  he  had  just  sent  away  with  the 
assurance  that  his  lady  was  not  at  home  ?  Who 
has  not  seen  his  suppressed  indignation  at  being 
obliged  to  become  himself  the  detector  of  that 
falsehood  of  which  he  had  been  before  the  in¬ 
strument  ?  But  a  little  practice,  and  a  repetition 
of  reproof  for  even  daring  to  look  honest,  soon 
cures  this  fault,  especially  as  he  is  sure  to  be 
commended  in  proportion  to  the  increased  firm¬ 
ness  of  his  voice,  and  the  steadiness  of  his  coun¬ 
tenance. 

If  this  evil,  petty  as  it  may  seem  to  be,  be 
really  without  a  remedy ;  if  the  state  of  society 
bo  such  that  it  cannot  be  redressed,  let  us  not 
be  so  unreasonable  as  to  expect  that  a  servant 
will  equivocate  in  small  instances,  and  not  in 
great  ones.  To  hope  that  he  will  always  lie  for 
your  convenience,  a-nd  never  for  his  own,  is  per¬ 
haps  exi)ecting  more  from  human  nature  in  a 
low  and  uncultivated  state  than  wo  have  any 
right  to  expect.  Nor  should  the  master  look  for 
undeviating  and  fwrfect  rectitude  from  his  ser¬ 
vant,  in  whom  the  principle  of  veracity  is  daily 


and  hourly  weakened  in  conformity  to  his  own 
command. 

Let  us  bring  home  the  case  to  ourselves,  the 
only  fair-way  of  determining  in  all  cases  of  con¬ 
science.  Suppose  we  had  established  it  into  a 
system  to  allow  ourselves  regularly  to  lie  on  one 
certain  given  subject,  every  day  ;  while  we  con¬ 
tinued  to  value  ourselves  on  the  most  undeviat¬ 
ing  adherence  to  truth  on  every  other  point. 
Who  shall  say,  that  at  the  end  of  one  year’s  to¬ 
lerable  and  systematic  lying,  on  this  individual 
subject,  we  should  continue  to  look  upon  false¬ 
hood  in  general  with  the  same  abhorrence  we 
did,  when  we  first  entered  upon  this  partial  ex¬ 
ercise  of  it. 

There  is  an  evil  newly  crept  into  polished  so¬ 
ciety,  and  it  comes  under  a  mask  so  specious 
that  they  who  are  allured  by  it,  come  not  sel¬ 
dom  under  the  description  o?  good  sort  of  people, 
I  allude  to  Sunday-concerts.  Many  who  would 
be  startled  at  a  profane  or  even  a  light  amuse¬ 
ment,  allow  themselves  to  fancy  that  the  name 
of  sacred  music  sanctifies  the  diversion.  But  if 
those  more  favoured  beings,  whom  Providence 
enables  to  live  in  ease  .and  affluence,  do  not 
make  these  petty  renunciations  of  their  own 
ways,  and  their  own  pleasure,  what  criterion 
have  we  by  which  to  judge  of  their  sincerity  1 
For  as  the  goodness  of  Providence  has  exempted 
them  from  painful  occupations,  they  have  nei¬ 
ther  labour  from  which  to  rest,  nor  business 
from  which  to  refrain,  A  little  abstinence  from 
pleasure  is  the  only  valid  evidence  they  have  to 
give  of  their  obedience  to  the  divine  precept. 

I  know  with  what  indignant  scorn  this  re- 
mark  will,  by  many,  be  received :  I  know  that 
much  will  be  advanced  in  favour  of  the  sanctity 
of  this  amusement.  I  shall  be  told  that  the  words 
are,  man}'  of  them,  extracted  from  the  Bible, 
and  that  the  composition  is  the  divine  Handel’s. 
But  were  the  angel  Gabriel  the  poet,  the  arch¬ 
angel  Michael  the  composer,  and  the  song  of 
the  Lamb  the  subject,,  it  would  not  abrogate  that 
statute  of  the  Most  High,  which  has  said,  ‘  Thou 
shalt  keep  holy  the  Sabbath  day,  and  thy  servant, 
and  thy  cattle,  shall  do  no  manner  of  work.’ 
I  am  persuaded  that  the  hallelujahs  of  heaven 
would  make  no  moral  music  to  the  ear  of  a  con¬ 
scientious  person,  while  he  reflected  that  multi¬ 
tudes  of  servants  are  through  his  means  wait¬ 
ing  in  the  street,  exposed  to  every  temptation  ; 
engaged,  perhaps,  in  profane  swearing,  and  idle, 
if  not  dissolute  conversation,  and  the  very  cattle 
are  deprived  of  that  rest  which  the  tender  mercy 
of  God  was  graciously  pleased,  by  an  astonish¬ 
ing  condescension,  to  include  in  the  command¬ 
ment. 

But  I  will,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  so  far 
concede  as  to  allow  of  the  innocence  a-nd  even 
piety  of  Sunday-concerts  :  I  will  suppose  (what, 
however,  does  not  often  happen)  that  no  unhal- 
lowed  strains  are  ever  introduced  ;  I  will  aJm'* 
that  some  attend  these  concerts  with  a  view  to 
cultivate  devout  affections  ;  that  they  cherish  the 
serious  impressions  excited  by  the  music,  and 
retire  in  such  a  frame  of  spirit  as  convinces 
them  that  the  heart  was  touched  while  the  ear 
was  gratified  :  nay,  I  would  grant,  if  such  a 
concession  would  be  accepted,  that  the  intervals 
were  filled  up  with  conversation,  ‘  whereby  one 


268 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


may  edify  another  yet  all  these  good  effects, 
allowing  them  really  to  have  been  produced, 
will  not  remove  the  invincible  objection  of  an 
Evil  example  ;  and  what  liberal  spirit  would  re¬ 
fuse  any  reasonable  sacrifice  of  its  own  pleasure 
to  so  important  a  motive  ?  Your  servants  have 
been  accustomed  to  consider  a  concert  as  a  se¬ 
cular  diversion;  if  you,  therefore,  continue  it 
on  a  Sunday,  will  not  they  also  expect  to  be  in¬ 
dulged  on  that  day  with  their  common  amuse¬ 
ments  ?  Saint  Paul,  who  was  a  very  liberal 
thinker,  believed  it  prudent  to  make  frequent 
sacrifices  of  things  indifferent  in  themselves. 
He  was  willing  to  deny  himself  a  harmless  and 
lawful  gratification,  even  as  long  as  the  world 
stood,  rather  than  shock  the  tender  consciences 
of  men  of  less  understanding.  Where  a  prac¬ 
tice  is  neither  good  nor  evil  in  itself,  it  is  both 
discreet  and  generous  to  avoid  it,  if  it  can  be  at¬ 
tended  with  any  possible  danger  to  minds  less 
enlightened,  and  to  faith  less  confirmed. 

But  religion  apart,  I  have  sometimes  wonder¬ 
ed  that  people  do'  not  yield  to  the  temptation  that 
is  held  out  to  them,  of  abstaining  from  diver¬ 
sions  one  day  in  seven,  upon  motives  of  mere 
human  policy  ;  as  voluptuaries  sometimes  fast, 
to  give  a  keener  relish  to  the  delights  of  the 
next  repast :  for  pleasure,  like  an  over-fed  lamp, 
is  extinguished  by  the  excess  of  its  own  ali¬ 
ment  :  not  to  say  that  the  instrument  of  our 
gratification  is  often  converted  into  our  bane. 
Anacreon  was  choaked  by  a  grape  stone.  The 
lovers  of  pleasure  are  not  always, prudent,  even 
upon  their  own  principles  ;  for  I  am  persuaded 
that  this  world  would  afford  much  more  real  sa¬ 
tisfaction  than  it  does,  if  w'e  did  not  press,  and 
torture,  and  strain  it,  in  order  to  make  it  yield 
what  it  does  not  contain.  Much  good,  and 
much  pleasure,  it  does  liberally  bestow  ;  but  no 
labour  or  art,  can  extract  from  it  that  elixir  of 
peace,  that  divine  essence  of  content,  which  it  is 
not  in  Its  nature  to  produce.  There  is  good 
sense  in  searching  into  every  blessing  for  its 
hidden  properties ;  but  it  is  folly  to  ransack  and 
plunder  it  for  such  properties  as  the  experience 
of  all  ages  tells  us  are  foreign  to  it-  We  ex¬ 
haust  the  world  of  its  pleasures,  and  then  la¬ 
ment  that  it  is  empty  :  we  wring  those  pleasures 
to  the  very  dregs,  and  then  complain  that  they 
arc  vapid.  We  erroneously  seek  in  the  world 
for  that  peace  which  we  .are  repeatedly  told  is 
not  to  be  found  in  it.  While  we  neglect  to  seek 
it  in  Him  who  has  expressly  told  us  that  our 
happiness  depends  on  his  having  overcome  the 
world. — ‘  Peace  I  leave  with  you,  my  peace  I 
give  unto  you ;  not  as  the  world  giveth  give  I 
unto  you.' 

I  shall,  probably,  be  accused  of  a  very  narrow 
and  fanatical  spirit  in  animadverting  on  a  prac¬ 
tice  so  little  suspected  of  harm  as  the  frequent¬ 
ing  of  public  walks  and  gardens  on  a  Sunday  ; 
and  certainly  there  cannot  be  an  amusement 
more  entirely  harmless  in  itself.  But  I  must 
appeal  to  the  honest  testimony  of  our  own  hearts, 
if  the  effect  be  favourable  to  seriousness.  Do 
we  commonly  retire  from  these  places  with  the 
impressions  which  were  made  on  us  at  church, 
in  their  full  force?  We  entered  tliese  sprightly 
scenes,  perhaps  with  a  strong  remaining  tinc¬ 
ture  of  that  devout  spirit  which  the  public  wor¬ 


ship  had  infused  into  the  mind :  but  have  w'e 
not  felt  it  gradually  diminish  ?  Have  not  our 
powers  of  resistance  grown  insensibly  weaker  T 
Has  not  the  gayety  of  the  scene  converted,  as  it 
were,  argument  into  allusion  ?  The  doctrinee, 
which  in  the  morning  appeared  the  sober  dic¬ 
tates  of  reason,  now  seem  unreasonably  rigid  , 
and  truths,  which  were  then  thought  incontro¬ 
vertible,  now  appear  impertinent.  To  answer 
objections  is  much  easier  than  to  withstand  al¬ 
lurements.  The  understanding  may  controvert 
a  startling  proposition  with  less  difficulty  than 
the  sliding  heart  can  resist  the  infection  of  se¬ 
ducing  gayety.  To  oppose  a  cold  and  specula¬ 
tive  faith  to  the  enchantment  of  present  plea¬ 
sure,  is  to  fight  with  inadequate  weapons;  it  is 
resisting  arms  with  rules  ;  it  is  combating  temp¬ 
tation  with  an  idea.  Whereas,  he  who  engages 
in  the  Christian  warfare,  will  find  that  his  chief 
strength  consists  in  knowing  that  he  is  very 
weak  ;  his  progress  will  depend  on  his  convic¬ 
tion  that  he  is  every  hour  liable  to  go  back ;  his 
success,  on  the  persuasion  of  his  fallibility  ;  his 
safety,  on  the  assurance  that  to  retreat  from 
danger  is  his  highest  glory,  and  to  decline  the 
combat  his  truest  courage. 

Whatever  indisposes  the  mind  for  the  duty 
of  any  particular  season,  though  it  assume  ever 
so  innocent  a  form,  cannot  be  perfectly  right. 
If  the  heart  be  laid  open  to  the  incursion  of 
vain  imaginations,  and  worldly  thoughts,  it 
matters  little  by  what  gate  the  enemy  entered. 
If  the  effect  bo  injurious,  the  cause  cannot  be 
quite  harmless.  It  is  the  perfidious  property  of 
certain  pleasures,  that  though  they  seem  not  to 
have  the  smallest  harm  in  themselves,  they  im¬ 
perceptibly  indispose  the  mind  to  every  thing 
that  is  good. 

Many  readers  will  be  apt  to  produce  against  all 
this  preciseness,  that  hackneyed  remark  which 
one  is  tired  of  hearing,  that  Sunday  diversions 
are  allowed  publicly  in  many  foreign  ooun 
tries,  as  well  in  those  professing  the  reform¬ 
ed  religion,  as  popery.  But  the  corruptions 
of  one  part  of  the  protestant  world  are  no 
reasonable  justification  of  the  evil  practices  of 
another.  Error  and  infirmity  can  never  be  pro¬ 
per  objects  of  imitation.  It  is  still  a  remnant 
of  the  old  leaven ;  and  as  to  pleading  the  prac¬ 
tice  ofRoman  catholic  countries,  one  blushes  to 
hear  an  enlightened  protestant  justifying  him¬ 
self  by  examples  drawn  from  that  benighted  re¬ 
ligion,  whose  sanctions  we  should  in  any  other 
instance  be  ashamed  to  plead. 

Besides,  though  I  am  far  from  vindicating 
the  amusements  permitted  on  Sundays  in  fo¬ 
reign  countries,  by  allowing  that  established 
custom  and  long  prescription  have  the  privilege 
of  conferring  right ;  yet  foreigners  may,  at  least, 
plead  the  sanction  of  custom,  and  the  conni¬ 
vance  of  the  law  :  while  in  this  country,  the  law 
of  the  land,  and  established  usage,  concurring 
with  still  higher  motives,  give  a  sort  of  venera¬ 
ble  sanction  to  religious  observances,  the  breach 
of  which  will  be  always  more  liable  to  miscon¬ 
struction  than  in  countries  where  so  many  raev 
lives  do  not  concur  in  its  support. 

I  do  not  assert  that  all  those  who  neglect  a 
strict  observation  of  the  Lord’s  day  are  remiss 
in  the  performance  of  all  their  other  duties 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


269 


thoug-h  they  should  bear  in  mind  that  the  ob¬ 
servance  of  their  other  duties  is  no  atonement 
for  the  neglect  of  this ;  I  will  however  venture 
to  affirm,  that  all  whom  I  have  remarked  con¬ 
scientiously  to  observe  this  day  from  right  mo¬ 
tives,  have  been  uniformly  attentive  to  their  ge¬ 
neral  conduct.  It  has  been  the  opinion  of  many 
wise  and  good  men,*  that  Christianity  will  stand 
or  fall,  as  this  day  is  neglected  or  observed. 
Sunday  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  Christian  Palla¬ 
dium  ;  and  the  city  of  God  will  never  be  totally 
taken  by  the  enemy  till  the  observance  of  that 
be  quite  lost.  Every  sincere  soldier  of  the  great 
Captain  of  our  Salvation  must,  therefore,  exert 
himself  in  its  defence,  if  ever  he  would  preserve 
the  divine  Fort  of  Revelation  against  the  con¬ 
federated  attacks  of  the  world  and  the  devil. 

I  shall  proceed  to  enumerate  a  few  of  the 
many  causes  which  seem  to  impede  well-dis¬ 
posed  people  in  the  progress  of  religion.  None 
perhaps  contributes  more  to  it  than  that  cold, 
prudential  caution  against  the  folly  of  aiming 
at  perfection,  so  frequent  in  the  mouths  of  the 
worldly  wise.  ‘  We  must  take  the  world,’  say 
they,  ‘  as  we  find  it,  reformation  is  not  our  busi¬ 
ness,  and  we  are  commanded  not  to  be  righte¬ 
ous  overmuch.’  A  text  by  the  way  entirely 
misunderstood  and  perverted  by  people  of  this 
sort.  But  these  admonitions  are  contrary  to 
every  maxim  in  human  affairs.  In  arts  and 
lettersf  the  most  consummate  models  are  held 
out  to  imitation.  We  never  hear  any  body 
cautioned  against  becoming  too  wise,  too  learn¬ 
ed,  or  too  rich.  Activity  in  business  is  account¬ 
ed  commendable  ;  in  friendship  it  is  amiable ; 
in  ambition  it  is  laudable.  The  highest  exer¬ 
tions  of  industry  are  commended ;  the  finest 
energies  of  genius  are  admired.  In  all  the 
perishing  concerns  of  earthly  things,  zeal  is  ex¬ 
tolled  as  exhibiting  marks  of  a  sprightly  temper 
and  a  vigorous  mind  !  Strange  !  that  to  be  ‘  fer¬ 
vent  in  spirit,’  should  only  be  dishonourable  in 
that  single  instance  which  should  seem  to  de¬ 
mand  unremitting  diligence,  and  unextinguish- 
able  warmth. 

But  after  all,  is  an  excessive  and  intemperate 
zeal  the  common  vice  of  the  times  Is  there  any 
very  imminent  danger  that  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  great  should  transport  them  to  dangerous 
and  inconvenient  excesses  ?  Are  our  young  men 
of  fashion  so  very  much  led  away  by  the  fer¬ 
vours  of  piety,  that  they  require  to  have  their 
imaginations  tamed  and  their  ardours  cooled 

*  The  testimony  of  one  lawyer,  will,  perhaps,  be  less 
siispected  than  tliat  of  many  piie.sts.  •  I  have  ever 
founil,’  says  the  great  lord  chief  justice  Hale,  ‘  by  a 
strict  and  diligent  observation,  that  a  due  observance  of 
the  duty  of  Sanday  has  ever  had  Joined  to  it  a  blessing 
upon  the  rest  of  iny  time  ;  and  the  week  that  has  beeii 
BO  begun  has  been  blessed  and  prosperous  to  me:  and, 
on  the  other  side,  when  I  have  been  negligent  of  the 
duties  of  this  day,  the  rest  of  the  week  has  been  unsuc¬ 
cessful  anil  unhappy  to  my  own  secular  employments. 
So  that  I  could  easily  make  an  estimate  of  my  successes 
the  week  following,  by  the  manner  of  my  passing  this 
day.  And  1  do  not  write  this  livhtly  but  by  long  and 
sound  experience.’ — Sir  Matthew  Hale's  IVorks. 

f  When  Pliny  the  younger  was  accused  of  despising 
the  degenerate  eloquence  of  his  own  age,  and  of  the  va¬ 
nity  of  aspiring  at  pirfection  in  oratory,  and  of  endea¬ 
vouring  to  become  the  rival  of  Cicero  ;  instead  of  deny- 
jtig  the  charge,  he  exclaimed  with  a  noble  spirit,  ‘  I 
think  it  the  height  of  folly  not  always  to  propose  to  my¬ 
self  the  most  perfect  object  of  imitation,’ 


by  the  freezing  maxims  of  worldly  wisdom  ? 
Is  the  spirit  of  the  age  so  very  much  inclined  to 
catch  and  communicate  the  fire  of  devotion,  as 
to  require  to  be  damped  by  admonition,  or  ex- 
tinguisned  by  ridicule  ?  When  the  inimitable 
Cervantes  attacked  the  wild  notions  and  rok 
mantic  ideas  which  misled  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  he  did  wisely,  because  he  combated  an 
actually  existing  evil :  but  in  this  latter  end  of 
the  18th  century,  there  seems  to  be  little  more 
occasion,  (among  persons  of  rank,  I  mean)  of 
cautions  against  enthusiasm  than  against  chival- 
ry ;  and  he  who  declaims  against  religious  ex¬ 
cesses  in  the  company  of  well-bred  people  shows 
himself  to  be  as  little  acquainted  with  the  man¬ 
ners  of  the  times  in  which  he  lives,  as  he 
would  do  who  should  think  it  a  point  of  duty  to 
write  another  Don  Quixotte. 

Among  the  devices  dangerous  to  our  moral 
safety,  certain  favourite  and  specious  maxims 
are  not  the  least  successful,  as  they  carry  with 
them  an  imposing  air  of  indulgent  candour,  and 
always  seem  to  be  on  the  popular  side  of  good 
nature.  Of  the  most  obvious  of  these  is,  that 
method  of  reconciling  the  conscience  to  prac- 
ticos  not  decidedly  wicked,  and  yet  not  scrupu¬ 
lously  right  by  the  qualifying  phrase,  that  there 
is  no  harm  in  it.  I  am  mistaken  if  more  inno¬ 
cent  persons  do  not  inflame  their  spiritual  reck¬ 
oning  by  this  treacherous  apology  than  by  al¬ 
most  any  other  means.  Few  are  systematically, 
or  premeditatedly  wicked,  or  propose  to  them¬ 
selves,  at  first,  more  than  such  small  indulgences 
as  they  are  persuaded  have  no  harm  in  them. 
But  this  latitude  is  gradually  and  imperceptibly 
enlarged.  As  the  expression  is  vague  and  in¬ 
determinate  ;  as  the  darkest  shade  of  virtue,  and 
the  brightest  shade  of  vice,  melt  into  no  very 
incongruous  colouring ;  as  the  bounds  between 
good  and  evil  are  not  always  so  precisely  defined 
but  that  he  who  ventures  to  the  confines  of  the 
one,  will  find  himself  on  the  borders  of  the 
other  ;  every  one  furnishes  his  own  definition ; 
every  one  extends  the  supposed  limits  a  little 
farther ;  till  the  bounds  which  fence  in,  per¬ 
mitted  from  unlawful  pleasures,  are  gradually 
broken  down  and  the  marks  which  separated 
them  imperceptibly  destroyed. 

It  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  alarming  symp¬ 
toms  of  the  degeneracy  of  morals  in  the  present 
day,  that  the  distinctions  of  right  and  wrong 
are  almost  swept  away  in  polite  conversation. 
The  most  grave  offences  are  often  named  with 
cool  indifference  ;  the  most  shameful  profligacy 
with  affected  tenderness  and  indulgent  tolera¬ 
tion.  The  substitution  of  the  word  gallantry 
for  that  crime  which  stabs  domestic  happiness 
and  conjugal  virtue,  is  one  of  the  most  danger¬ 
ous  of  all  the  modern  abuses  of  language.  Atro¬ 
cious  deeds  should  never  be  called  by  gentle 
names.  This  must  certainly  contribute  more 
than  any  thing  to  diminish  the  horror  of  vice  in 
the  rising  generation.  That  our  passions  should 
bo  too  often  engaged  on  the  side  of  error,  we 
may  look  for  the  cause,  though  not  for  tho  vin¬ 
dication,  in  the  unresisted  propensities  of  our 
constitution :  but  that  opr  reason  should  ever  be 
exerted  in  its  favour,  that  our  conversation 
should  ever  be  taught  to  palliate  it,  that  our 
judgment  should  ever  look  on  with  indifference, 


270 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  our  tongues  should  ever  be  employed  to 
eor.found  the  eternal  distinctions  of  right  and 
wrong  ;  this  has  no  shadow  of  excuse :  because 
this  can  pretend  to  no  foundation  in  nature,  no 
aoology  in  temptation,  no  palliative  in  passion. 

However  defective,  therefore,  our  practice 
may  be;  however  we  may  be  allured  by  seduc¬ 
tion  or  precipitated  by  passion,  let  us  beware  of 
lowering  the'STANDARO  of  r<ght.  This  induces 
an  imperceptible  corruption  into  the  heart,  stag¬ 
nates  the  noblest  principles  of  action,  irrecover¬ 
ably  debases  the  sense  of  moral  and  religious 
obligation,  and  prevents  us  from  living  up  to  the 
height  of  our  nature,  because  it  prevents  us  from 
Knowing  its  possible  elevation.  It  cuts  off  all 
communication  with  virtue,  and  almost  prevents 
the  possibility  of  a  return  to  it.  If  we  do  not 
rise  as  high  as  we  aim,  we  shall  rise  the  higher 
for  having  aimed  at  a  lofty  mark  :  but  where  the 
RULE  is  low,  the  practice  cannot  be  high,  though 
the  converse  of  the  proposition  is  not  proportion- 
abl}'  true. 

Nothing  more  benumbs  the  exertions  of  ar¬ 
dent  youthful  virtue  than  the  cruel  sneer  which 
worldly  prudence  bestows  on  active  goodness, 
and  the  cool  derision  it  expresses  at  the  defeat 
of  a  benevolent  scheme,  of  which  malice,  rather 
than  penetration,  had  foreseen  the  failure.  Alas! 
there  is  little  need  of  any  such  discouragements. 
The  world  is  a  climate  which  too  naturally  chills 
a  glowing  generosity,  and  contracts  an  expand¬ 
ed  heart.  The  zeal  of  the  most  sanguine  is  but 
too  apt  to  cool,  and  the  activity  of  the  most  dili¬ 
gent,  to  slacken  of  itself :  and  the  disappoint¬ 
ments  which  benevolence  encounters  in  the 
failure  of  her  best  concerted  projects,  and  the 
frequent  depravity  of  the  most  chosen  objects  of 
her,  bounty,  would  soon  dry  up  the  amplest 
streams  of  charity,  were  they  not  fed  by  the 
living  fountain  of  religious  principle. 

I  cannot  dismiss  this  part  of  my  subject  with¬ 
out  animadverting  on  the  too  prompt  alacrity, 
even  of  worthy  people,  to  disseminate,  in  public 
and  general  conversation,  instances  of  their  un¬ 
successful  attempts  to  do  good.  I  never  hear 
a  charity  sermon  begun  to  be  related  in  mixed 
company  that  I  do  not  tremble  for  the  catas- 
trophe,  lest  it  should  exhibit  some  mortifying 
disappointment,  which  may  deter  the  inexpe¬ 
rienced  from  running  any  generous  hazards,  and 
excite  harsh  suspicions,  at  an  ago  when  it  is 
less  dishonourable  to  meet  with  a  few  casual 
hurts,  and  transient  injuries,  than  to  go  cased 
in  the  cumbersome  and  impenetrable  armour  of 
distrust.  The  liberal  should  be  particularly 
cautious  how  they  furnish  the  avaricious  with 
creditable  pretences  for  saving  their  money, 
since  all  the  instances  of  the  mortifications  the  hu¬ 
mane  meet  with  are  carefully  treasured  up,  and 
added  to  the  armoury  of  the  covetous  man’s  ar¬ 
guments,  and  never  fail  to  be  produced  by  him 
as  defensive  weapons,  upon  every  fresh  attack 
on  his  heart  or  his  purse.  ^ 

But  I  am  willing  to  hope  that  that  ' uncharita¬ 
bleness  which  wo  so  often  meet  with  in  persons 
of  advanced  years,  is  not  always  the  effect  of  a 
heart  naturally  hard.  Misanthropy  is  very 
often  nothing  but  abused  sensibility.  Long  ha¬ 
bits  of  the  world,  and  a  melancholy  conviction 
how  little  good  he  lias  been  able  to  do  in  it,  har- 


Iden  many  a  tender-hearted  person.  The  milk, 
of  human  kindness  becomes  soured  by  repeated 
acts  of  ingratitude.  This  commonly  induces  an 
indifference  to  the  well-being  of  others,  from  a 
hopelessness  of  adding  to  the  stock  of  human 
virtue  and  human  happiness.  This  uncomfort¬ 
able  disease  is  very  fond  of  spreading  its  ciwn 
contagion,  which  is  a  cruelty  to  the  health  of 
young  and  uninfected  virtue.  For  this  distem¬ 
per,  generated  by  a  too  sanguine  disposition, 
and  grown  chronical  from  repeated  disappoint, 
ments,  from  having  rated  worldly  generosity  toa 
highly,  there  is  but  one  remedy,  or  rather  one 
prevention:  and  this  is  a  genuine  principle  of 
piety.  He  who  is  once  convinced  that  he  is  to 
assist  his  fellow  creatures,  because  it  is  the  will 
of  God ;  he  who  is  persuaded  that  his  forgiving 
his  fellow-servant  the  hundred  pence,  is  a  con¬ 
dition  annexed  to  the  remission  of  his  own  ten 
thousand  talents,  will  soon  get  above  all  uneasi 
ness  when  the  consequence  does  not  answer  his 
expectation.  He  will  soon  become  only  anxious 
to  do  his  duty,  humbly  committing  events  to 
higher  hands.  Disappointments  will  then  only 
serve  to  refine  his  motives,  and  purify  his  virtue- 
His  charity  will  then  become  a  sacrifice  with, 
which  God  is  well  pleased !  His  affections  will 
be  more  spiritualized,  and  his  devotions  more 
intense.  Nothing  short  of  such  a  courageous 
piety  growing  on  the  stock  of  Christian  princi¬ 
ple,  can  preserve  a  heart  hackneyed  in  the  world 
from  relaxed  diligence  or  criminal  despair. 

People  in  general  are  not  aware  of  the  mis¬ 
chief  of  judging  of  the  righteousness  of  any  ac¬ 
tion  by  its  prosperity,  or  of  the  excellence  of 
any  institution  by  the  abuse  of  it. 

We  must  never  proportion  our  exertions  to 
our  success,  but  to  our  duty.  If  every  laudable 
undertaking  were  to  be  dropped  because  it  failed 
in  some  cases,  or  was  abused  in  others,  there 
would  not  be  left  an  alms-house,  a  charity-school, 
or  an  hospital  in  the  land.  If  every  right  prac¬ 
tice  were  to  be  discontinued  because  it  had  been 
found  not  to  be  successful  in  every  instance,  and 
if  every  right  principle  were  rejected  because 
it  had  not  been  operative  in  all  cases,  this  false 
reasoning  pushed  to  the  extreme,  might  at  last 
be  brought  as  an  argument  for  shutting  up  our 
churches,  and  burning  our  Bibles. 

But  if,  on  the  one  hand,  there  is  a  proud  and 
arrogant  discretion  which  ridicules,  as  Utopian 
and  romantic,  every  generous  project  of  the  ac¬ 
tive  and  the  liberal ;  so  there  is  on  the  other,  a 
sort  of  popular  bounty  which  arrogates  to  itself 
the  exclusive  name  of  feeling,  and  rejects  with 
disdain  the  influence  of  an  higher  principle.  I 
am  far  from  intending  to  deprecate  this  humane 
and  exquisitely  tender  sentiment  which  the  be¬ 
neficent  Author  of  our  nature  gave  us,  as  a  sti¬ 
mulus  to  remove  the  distresses  of  the  others,  in 
order  to  get  rid  of  our  own  uneasiness.  I  would 
only  observe  that  where  not  strengthened  by 
superior  motives,  it  is  a  casual  and  precarious 
instrument  of  good,  and  ceases  to  operate,  ex¬ 
cept  in  the  immediate  presence,  and  within  the 
audible  cry  of  misery.  This  sort  of  feeling  for¬ 
gets  that  any  calamity  exists  which  is  out  of  its 
own  sight ;  and  though  it  would  empty  its  purse 
for  such  an  occasional  object  as  rouses  transient 
sensibility,  yet  it  seldom  makes  any  stated  pro- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


27J 


vision  for  miseries,  which  are  not  the  less  real 
because  they  do  not  obtrude  upon  the  sight,  and 
awaken  the  tenderness  of  immediate  sympathy. 
This  is  a  mechanical  charity,  which  requires 
springs  and  wheels  to  set  it  a  going  ;  whereas 
real  Christian  charity  does  not  wait  to  be  acted 
upon  by  impressions  and  impulses. 

'Another  cause  which  very  much  intimidates 
well-disposed  people,  is  iheir  terror  lest  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  piety  should  derogate  from  their  repu¬ 
tation  as  men  of  sense.  Every  man  of  the  world 
naturally  arrogates  to  himself  the  superiority  of 
understanding  over  every  religious  man.  He, 
tlierefore,  who  has  been  accustomed  to  set  a 
high  value  on  his  intellectual  powers,  must  have 
made  very  considerable  advanees  in  piety  be¬ 
fore  he  can  acquire  a  magnanimous  indifference 
to  this  usurped  superiority  of  another  :  before 
he  can  submit  to  the  parsimonious  allotment  of 
wit  and  learning,  which  is  assigned  him  by  the 
supercilious  hand  of  worldly  wisdom.  But  this 
attack  upon  his  pride  will  be  no  bad  touchstone 
of  his  sincerity.  If  his  advances  have  not  been 
so  considerable,  then  by  an  hypocrisy  of  the 
least  common  kind,  he  will  be  industrious  to 
appear  less  good  than  he  really  is,  lest  the  de¬ 
tection  of  his  serious  propensities  should  draw 
on  him  the  imputation  of  ordinary  pgrts  or  low 
attainments.  But  the  danger  is,  that  while  he 
IS  too  sedulously  intent  on  maintaining  his  pre- 
tensiofls  as  an  ingenious  man,  his  claims  to 
piety  should  daily  become  weaker.  That  which 
is  long  suppressed  is  too  frequently  extin¬ 
guished. 

Nothing,  perhaps,  more  plainly  discovers  the 
faint  impression  whieh  religion  has  really  made 
upon  our  hearts,  than  this  disinclination,  even 
of  good  people,  to  serious  conversation.  'Let  me 
not  be  misunderstood ;  I  do  not  mean  the  wran¬ 
gle  of  debate ;  I  do  not  mean  the  gall  of  contro¬ 
versy  ;  I  do  not  mean  the  fiery  strife  of  opnfons, 
than  whieh  nothing  can  be  less  favourable  to 
good  nature,  good  manners,  or  good  society. 
But  it  were  to  be  wished,  that  it  was  not  thought 
ill-bred  and  indiscreet  that  the  escapes  of  the 
tongue  should  now  and  then  betray  the  ‘  abun¬ 
dance  of  the  heart that  when  such  subjects 
are  casually  Introduced,  a  discouraging  cold¬ 
ness  did  not  instantly  take  place  of  that  sprightly 
animation  of  countenance  which  made  common 
topics  interesting.  If  these  ‘  outward  and  visi¬ 
ble  signs  were  unequivocal,  we  should  form  but 
moderate  ideas  of  the  ‘  inward  and  spiritual 
grace.’  It  were  to  be  wished,  that  such  sub¬ 
jects  were  not  thought  dull  merely  because  they 
are  good  ;  it  were  to  be  wished  that  they  had 
the  common  chance  of  fair  discussion  ;  and  that 
parts  and  learning  were  not  ashamed  to  exert 
themselves  on  occasions  where  both  might  ap¬ 
pear  to  so  much  advantage.  If  the  heart  were 
really  interested,  could  the  affections  forbear 
now  and  then  to  break  out  into  language  ?  Art- 
its,  physicians,  merchants,  lawyers,  and  scho¬ 
lars  keep  up  the  spirit  of  their  professions  by 
mutual  intercourse.  New  lights  are  struck  out, 
improvements  arc  suggested,  emulation  is  kin¬ 
dled,  love  of  the  object  is  inflamed,  mistakes  of 
the  judgment  are  rectified,  and  desire  of  excel¬ 
lence  is  e.xcited  by  communication.  And  is  piety 
alone  so  very  easy  of  acquisition,  so  very  natu¬ 


ral  to  our  corrupt  hearts,  as  to  require  none  of 
the  helps  which  are  indispensable  on  all  other 
subjects  ?  Travellers,  who  are  to  visit  any  par- 
ticular  country,  are  full  of  earnest  inquiry,  and 
diligent  research  ;  they  think  nothing  indiffer¬ 
ent  by  which  their  future  pleasure  or  advantage, 
may  be  affected.  Every  hint  which  may  pro¬ 
cure  them  any  information,  or  caution  them 
against  any  danger,  is  thankfully  received  ;  and 
all  this,  because  they  are  really  in  earnest  in. 
their  preparation  for  this  journey  ;  and  do  filly 
believe,  not  only  that  there  is  such  a  country,  but 
that  they  themselves  have  a  personal  individual 
interest  in  the  good  or  evil  which  may  be  found 
in  it. 

A  farther  danger  to  good  kind  of  people  seems 
to  arise  from  a  mistaken  idea,  that  only  great 
and  actual  sins  are  to  be  guarded  against. 
Whereas,  in  effect,  temptations  to  the  grosser 
sins  do  not  so  frequently  occur  to  those  who  are 
hedged  in  by  the  blessings  of  affluence,  by  a  re 
gard  to  reputation  and  the  care  of  health  ;  while 
sins  of  omission  make  up,  perhaps,  the  most  for¬ 
midable  part  of  their  catalogue  of  offenees.  These 
generally  supply  in  number  what  they  want  in 
weight,  and  are  the  more  dangerous  for  being 
little  ostensible.  They  continue  to  be  repeated 
with  less  regret,  because  the  remembrance  of 
their  predecessors  does  not,  like  the  remem¬ 
brance  of  formal,  actual  crimes,  assume  a  body 
and  a  shape,  and  terrify  by  the  impression  of 
particular  scenes  and  circumstances.  While 
the  memory  of  transacted  evil  haunts  a  tender 
conscience  by  perpetual  apparition ;  omitted 
duty,  having  no  local  or  personal  existence,  not. 
being  reeorded  by  standing  acts  and  deeds,  and 
dates,  and  having  no  distinct  image  to  which 
the  mind  may  recur,  sinks  into  quiet  oblivion, 
without  deeply  wounding  the  conscience,  or 
tormenting  the  imagination.  These  omissions 
were,  perhaps,  among  the  ‘  secret  sins,’  from 
which  the  royal  penitent  so  earnestly  desired  to 
be  cleansed  :  and  it  is  worthy  of  the  most  serious 
consideration,  that  these  are  the  offences  against 
which  the  Gospel  pronounces  some  of  its  very 
alarming  denunciations.  It  is  not  less  against 
negative  than  against  actual  evil,  that  affection¬ 
ate  exhortation,  lively  remonstrance,  and  point¬ 
ed  parable,  are  exhausted.  It  is  against  the 
tree  whieh  boro  no  fruit,  the  lamp  which  had  no 
oil,  the  unprofitable  servant  who  made  no  use  of 
his  talent,  that  the  severe  sentence  is  denounced; 
as  well  as  against  corrupt  fruit,  had  oil,  and  ta¬ 
lents  ill  employed.  We  are  led  to  believe,  from 
the  same  high  authority,  that  omitted  duties 
and  neglected  opportunities,  will  furnish  no  in- 
considerable  portion  of  our  future  condemnation.. 
A  very  awful  part  of  the  decision,  in  the  great 
day  of  account,  seems  to  be  reserved  merely  for 
carelessness,  omissions,  and  negatives.  Ye  gave 
me  NO  meat ;  ye  gave  me  no  drink  ;  ye  took  mo 
NOT  in  ;  ye  visited  me  not.  On  the  punishment 
attending  positive  crimes,  as  being  more  natu-- 
rally  obvious,  it  was  not,  perhaps,  thought  so 
necessary  to  insist. 

Another  cause,  which  still  further  impedes 
the  reception  of  Religion  even  among  the  well- 
disposed,  is,  that  garment  of  sadness  in  which 
people  delight  to  suppose  her  dressed  ;  and  that 
life  of  hard  austerity,  and  pining  abstinencCf 


272 


fHE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


which  they  pretend  she  enjoins  on  her  disciples. 
And  it  were  well  if  this  were  only  the  misre¬ 
presentation  of  her  declared  enemies ;  but  un¬ 
happily,  it  is  the  too  frequent  misconception  of 
her  injudicious  friends.  But  such  an  over¬ 
charged  picture  is  not  more  unamiable  than  it 
is  unlike ;  for  I  will  venture  to  affirm,  that  reli¬ 
gion,  with  all  her  beautiful  and  becoming  sancti- 
ty,iinposes  fewer  sacrifices,  notonly  of  rational, 
but  of  pleasurable  enjoyment,  than  the  uncon¬ 
trolled  dominion  of  any  one  vice.  Her  service 
is  not  only  safety  hereafter,  but  freedom  here. 
She  is  not  so  tyrannizing  as  appetite,  so  exact¬ 
ing  as  the  world,  nor  so  despotic  as  fashion.  Let 
us  try  the  case  by  a  parallel,  and  examine  it, 
not  as  affecting  our  virtue  but  our  pleasure. 
Does  Religion  forbid  the  cheerful  enjoyments  of 
life  as  rigorously  as  Avarice  forbids  them  ?  Does 
she  require  such  sacrifices  of  our  ease  as  Ambi¬ 
tion,  or  such  renunciation  of  our  quiet  as  Pride  ? 
Does  Devotion  murder  sleep  like  Dissipation  ? 
Does  she  destroy  health  like  Intemperance? 
Does  she  annihilate  Fortune  like  Gaming  ?  Does 
she  embitter  Life  like  Discord  ;  or  abridge  it 
like  Duelling  ?  Does  Religion  impose  more  vi¬ 
gilance  than  Suspicion  ?  or  inflict  half  as  many 
mortifications  as  Vanity  ?  Vice  has  her  mar¬ 
tyrs  :  and  the  most  austere  and  self-denying 
Ascetic  (who  mistakes  the  genius  of  Christianity 
almost  as  much  as  her  enemies  mistake  it)  never 
tormented  himself  with  such  cruel  and  causeless 
severity  as  that  with  which  Envy  lacerates  her 
unhappy  votaries.  Worldly  honour  obliges  us 
to  be  at  the  trouble  of  resenting  injuries  ;  and 
worldly  prudence  obliges  us  to  be  at  the  expense 
of  litigating  about  them  :  but  Religion  spares  us 
the  inconvenience  of  the  one,  and  the  cost  of  the 
other,  by  the  summary  command  to  forgive  ; 
and  by  this  injunction  she  consults  our  happi¬ 
ness  no  less  than  our  virtue,  for  the  torhient  of 
constantly  hating  any  one  must  be,  at  least, 
equal  to  the  sin  of  it.  And  resentment  is  an 
evil  so  costly  to  our  peace  that  we  should  find  it 
more  cheap  to  forgive  even  were  it  not  more 
right.  If  this  estimate  be  fairly  made,  then  is 
the  balance  clearly  on  the  side  of  Religion,  even 
in  the  article  of  pleasure. 

It  is  an  infirmiW  not  uncommon  io  good  kind 
of  people,  to  comfort  themselves  that  they  are 
living  in  the  exercise  of  some  one  natural  good 
quality,  and  to  make  a  religious  merit  of  a  con¬ 
stitutional  happiness.  They  have  also  a  strong 
propensity  to  separate  what  God  has  joined,  be¬ 
lief  and  practice ;  the  creed  and  the  command¬ 
ments  ;  actions  and  motives ;  moral  duty'  and 
religious  obedience.  Whereas,  you  will  hardly 
find,  in  all  the  new  Testament,  a  moral,  or  a  so¬ 
cial  virtue,  that  is  not  hedged  in  by  some  reli¬ 
gious  injunction  :  scarcely  a  good  action  enjoined 
towards  others,  but  it  is  connected  with  some 
e.xhortation  to  personal  purity.  All  the  charities 
of  benevolence  are,  in  general,  so  agreeable  to 
the  natural  make  of  the  heart,  that  it  is  a  very 
tender  mercy  of  God  to  have  made  that  a  duty, 
which,  to  finer  spirits  would  have  been  irresisti¬ 
ble  as  an  inclination,  and  to  have  annexed  the 
highest  future  reward  to  the  greatest  present 
pleasure.  But  in  order  to  give  a  religious  sanc¬ 
tion  to  a  social  virtue,  the  duty  of  ‘  visiting  the 
fatherless  and  widow  in  their  affliction,’  is  inse¬ 


parably  attached  to  the  difficult  and  self-denying 
injunction  of  ‘  keeping  ourselves  unsjjotted  from 
the  world.’  This  adjunct  is  the  more  needful, 
as  many  are  apt  to  make  a  kind  of  moral  com¬ 
mutation,  and  to  allow  themselves  so  much 
pleasure  in  exchange  for  so  much  charity.  But 
one  good  quality  can  never  stand  proxy  for  an- 
other.  The  Christian  virtues  derive  their  high¬ 
est  lustre  from  association  :  they  have  such  a 
spirit  of  society,  that  they  are  weak  and  imper¬ 
fect  when  solitary  ;  their  radiance  is  brightened 
by  an  intermingling  of  their  beams,  and  their 
natural  strength  multiplied  by  their  alliance 
with  each  other. 

It  cannot  be  denied  that  good  sort  of  people 
sometimes  use  religion  as  the  voluptuous  use 
physic.  As  the  latter  employ  medicine  to  make 
health  agree  with  luxury,  the  former  consider 
religion  as  a  medium  to  reconcile  peace  of  con¬ 
science  with  a  life  of  pleasure.  But  no  moral 
chemistry  can  blend  natural  contradictions.  In 
all  such  unnatural  mixtures  the  world  will  still 
be  uppermost,  and  religion  will  disdain  to  coa¬ 
lesce  with  its  antipathy. 

Let  me  not  be  suspected  of  intending  to  insi¬ 
nuate  that  religion  encourages  men  to  fly  from 
society,  and  hide  themselves  in  solitudes  ;  to  re¬ 
nounce  the  generous  and  important  duties  of 
active  life  for  the  visionary,  cold,  and  fruitless 
virtues  of  an  hermitage  or  a  cloister.  No:  the 
mischief  arises  not  from  our  living  in  the  world, 
but  from  the  world  living  in  us  ;  occupying  our 
hearts,  and  monopolizing  our  affections.  Action 
is  the  life  of  virtue  ;  and  the  w'orld  is  the  theatre 
of  action.  Perhaps  some  of  the  most  perfect 
patterns  of  human  conduct  maybe  found  in  the 
most  public  stations,  and  among  the  busiest  or¬ 
ders  of  mankind.  It  is,  indeed,  a  scene  of  trial, 
but  the  glory  of  the  triumph  is  proportioned 
to  the  peril  of  the  conflict.  A  sense  of  danger 
quickens  circumspection,  and  makes  virtue 
more  vigilant.  Lot,  perhaps,  is  not  the  only 
character,  who  maintained  his  integrity  in  a 
great  city,  proverbially  wicked,  and  forfeited  it 
in  the  bosom  of  retirement. 

It  has  been  said  that  worldly  good  sort  of 
people  are  a  greater  credit  to  their  profession, 
by  exhibiting  more  cheerfulness,  gayety,  and 
happiness,  than  are  visible  in  serious  Christians. 

If  this  assertion  be  true,  which  I  very  much 
suspect,  is  it  not  probable  that  the  apparent 
ease  and  gayety  of  the  former  may  be  derived  ' 

from  the  same  source  of  consolation  which  Mrs. 
Quickly  recommends  to  Falstaff,  in  Shaks-  , 

peare’s  admirable  picture  of  the  death-bed  scene  ' 

of  that  witty  profligate?  ‘Ho  wished  for  com¬ 
fort,  quoth  mine  hostess,  and  began  to  talk  of 
(Jod ;  now  I,  to  comfort  him,  begged  him  he  \ 

should  not  think  of  God  ;  it  was  time  enough  to 
trouble  himself  with  these  things.’  Do  not  ma¬ 
ny  deceive  themselves  by  drawing  water  from 
these  dry  wells  of  comfort?  and  pii^ch  up  a  pre- 
carious  and  imperfect  happiness  in  this  world, 
by  diverting  their  attention  from  the  concerns  * 

of  the  next. 

Another  obstruction  to  the  growth  of  piety, 
is  that  unhappy  prejudice  which  even  good  kind 
of  people  too  often  entertain  against  those  who 
differ  from  them  in  opinion.  Every  man  who 
is  sincerely  in  earnest  to  advance  the  interests  i 


I 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


27.3 


.of  religion,  will  have  acquired  such  a  degree  of 
candour,  as  to  become  indifferent  by  whom  good 
is  done,  or  who  has  the  reputation  of  doing  it, 
provided  it  be  actually  done.  He  will  be  anxi¬ 
ous  to  increase  the  stock  of  human  virtue  and 
of  happiness  by  every  possible  means.  He  will 
whet  and  sharpen  every  instrument  of  goodness, 
though  it  be  not  cast  in  his  own  mould,  or 
fasiiioned  after  his  own  pattern.  He  will  never 
consider  whether  the  form  suits  his  own  parti¬ 
cular  taste,  but  whether  the  instrument  itself 
be  calculated  to  accomplish  the  work  of  his 
master. 

I  shall  conclude  these  Isose  and  immethodi- 
cal  hints  with  a  plain  though  short  address  to 
those  who  content  themselves  with  a  decent  pro¬ 
fession  of  the  doctrines,  and  a  formal  attend¬ 
ance  on  the  offices,  instead  of  a  diligent  dis¬ 
charge  of  the  duties  of  Christianity.  Believe, 
and  forgive  me  ! — you  are  the  people  who  lower 
religion  in  the  eyes  of  its  enemies.  The  open¬ 
ly  profane,  the  avowed  enemies  to  God  and 
goodness,  serve  to  confirm  tlie  truths  they  mean 
to  oppose,  to  illustrate  the  doctrines  they  deny, 
and  to  accomplish  the  very  prediction  they  affect 
to  disbelieve.  But  you,  like  an  inadequate  and 
faitliless  prop,  overturn  the  edifice  which  you 
pretend  to  support. — When  an  acute  and  keen¬ 
eyed  infidel  measures  your  lives  with  the  rule 
by  which  you  profess  to  wjilk,  he  finds  so  little 
analogy  between  them,  the  copy  is  so  unlike  tlie 
pattern,  that  this  inconsistency  of  your’s  is  the 
pass  through  which  his  most  dangerous  attack 
is  made.  And  I  must  confess,  that,  of  all  the 
arguments,  which  the  malignant  industry  of  in¬ 
fidelity  has  been  able  to  muster,  the  negligent 
conduct  of  professing  Christians  seems  to  mo  to 
be  the  only  one  which  is  really  capable  of  stag¬ 
gering  a  man  of  sense. — He  hears  of  a  spiritual 
and  self-denying  religion  ;  he  reads  the  beati¬ 
tudes  ;  he  observes  that  the  grand  artillery  of 
the  gospel  is  planted  against  pride  and  sensu¬ 
ality.  He  then  turns  to  the  transcript  of  this 
perfect  original ;  to  the  lives  which  pretend  to 
be  fashioned  by  it.  There  he  sees,  with  tri¬ 
umphant  derision  that  pride,  self-love,  luxury, 
self-sufficiency,  unbounded  personal  expense, 
and  an  inordinate  appetite  for  pleasure,  are  re¬ 
putable  vices  in  the  eyes  of  many  of  those  who 
acknowledge  the  truth  of  the  Christian  doctrines. 
He  weighs  that  meekness  to  which  a  blessing 
is  promised,  with  that  arrogance  which  is  too 
common  to  be  very  dishonourable.  He  com¬ 
pares  that  non-conformity  to  the  world,  which 
the  Bible  makes  the  criterion  of  a  believer,  with 
that  rage  for  amusement  which  is  not  consider¬ 
ed  as  disreputable  in  a  Christian.  He  opposes 
the  self-denying  and  lowly  character  of  the  Au¬ 
thor  of  our  faith  with  the  sensual  practices  of 
his  followers.  Ho  finds  little  resemblance  be- 
tween  the  restraints  prescribed,  and  the  gratifi¬ 
cations  indulged  in.  What  conclusions  must  a 
speculative  reasoning  sceptic  draw  from  such 
premises  ?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  such  phrases 
as  ‘  a  broken  spirit,’  a  ‘  contrite  heart,’  ‘poverty 
of  spirit,’  ‘  refraining  tlie  soul,’  ‘  keeping  it  low,’ 
and ‘casting  down  high  imaginations,’  should 
be  to  tlie  unbeliever  ‘  fixilishness,’  when  such 
humiliating  doctrines  are  a  ‘  stumbling  block’  to 
professing  Christians  ;  to  Christians  who  cannot 
VoL.  I.  S 


cordially  relish  a  religion  which  professedly 
tells  them  it  was  sent  to  stain  the  pride  of  hu- 
man  glory,  and  ‘  to  exclude  boasting  ?’ 

But  though  the  passive  and  sell-denying  vir¬ 
tues  are  not  high  in  tlie  esteem  of  mere  good 
sort  of  people,  yet  they  are  peculiarly  the  evan 
gelical  virtues.  The  world  extols  brilliant  ac¬ 
tions  ;  the  Gospel  enjoins  good  habits  and  right 
motives :  it  seldom  inculcates  those  splendid 
deeds  which  make  heroes,  or  teaches  those  lolly 
sentiments  which  constitute  philosophers ;  but 
it  enjoins  the, harder  task  of  renouncing  self,  of 
living  uncorrupted  in  the  world,  of  subduing 
besetting  sins,  and  of  ‘not  thinking  of  ourselves 
more  highly  than  we  ought.’  Tiie  acquisition 
of  glory  was  the  precept  of  otiier  religions,  tlie 
contempt  of  it  is  the  perfection  of  Christianity. 

Let  us  then  be  consistent,  and  we  shall  never 
be  contemptible,  even  in  the  eyes  of  our  ene¬ 
mies.  Let  not  the  unbeliever  say  that  we  have 
one  set  of  opinions  for  our  theory,  and  another 
for  our  practice,  that  to  tlie  vulgar 

We  show  the  rough  and  thorny  way  to  heav’n. 

While  we  tho-prinirose  path  of  dalliance  tread. 

Would  it  not  become  the  character  of  a  man 
of  sense,  of  which  consistency  is  a  most  une¬ 
quivocal  proof,  to  choose  some  rule  and  abide  by 
it  ?  An  extempore  Christian  is  a  ridiculous 
character.  Fixed  principles,  if  they  be  really 
principles  of  the  heart,  and  not  merely  opinions 
of  the  understanding,  will  be  followed  by  a  con¬ 
sistent  course  of  action  ;  while  indecision  of 
spirit  will  produce  instability  of  conduct.  If 
there  be  a  model  which  we  profess  to  admire, 
let  us  square  our  lives  by  it.  If  either  the  Ko¬ 
ran  of  Mahomet,  or  the  Revelations  of  Zoroaster, 
be  a  perfect  guide,  let  us  follow  one  of  them.  If 
either  Epicurus,  Zeno,  or  Confucius,  be  the  pe¬ 
culiar  object  of  our  veneration  and  respect,  let 
us  avowedly  fashion  our  conduct  by  the  dictates 
of  their  philosophy  ;  and  then,  though  we  may 
be  wrong,  we  shall  not  be  absurd  ;  ,we  may  be 
erroneous,  but  we  shall  not  be  inconsistent ;  but 
if  the  Bibfe  be  in  truth  the  word  of  God,  as  we 
profess  to  believe,  we  need  look  no  farther  for  a 
consummate  pattern.  ‘  If  the  Lord  be  God,  let 
us  follow  Him.’  If  Christ  he  a  sacrifice  for  sin  ; 
let  Him  be  also  to  us  the  example  of  an  holy 
life. 

But  I  am  willing  to  flatter  myself  that  the 
moral  and  intellectual  scene  about  us  begins  to 
brighten.  I  indulge  myself  in  moments  of  the 
most  enthusiastic  and  delightful  vision,  that 
things  are  beginning  gradually  to  lead  to  the 
fulfilment  of  tliat  promise,  that  ‘all  the  king¬ 
doms  of  the  earth  shall  become  the  kingdoms  of 
our  God  and  of  his  Christ.’  I  take  encourage¬ 
ment  that  that  glorious  [iropliecy,  that  ‘  of  the 
increase  of  his  government  tliere  shall  be  no 
end,’  seems  to  be  gradually  accomplishing  ;  and 
in  no  instance  more,  perhaps,  than  in  the  noble 
attempt  about  to  be  made  for  the  abolition  of 
the  African  slave-trade.*  For  what  event  can 
human  wisdom  foresee  more  likely  to  contri¬ 
bute  to  ‘give  the  Son  the  heathen  fiir  his  in¬ 
heritance,  and  the  uttermost  parts  of  tlie  earth 
for  his  possession,’  than  the  success  of  such  an 

*  This  interesting  question  was  then  beginning  to  be 
agitated  in  purliaineut. 


274 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


enterprise,  which  will  restore  the  lustre  of  the 
British  name,  and  cut  off  at  a  single  stroke  as 
large  and  disgraceful  a  portion  of  national  guilt 
as  ever  impaired  the  virtue  or  dishonoured  the 
councils  of  a  Christian  country. 

A  good  spirit  seems  to  be  at  work.  A  catho¬ 
lic  temper  is  diffusing  itself  among  all  sects  and 
parties  :  an  enlightened  candour,  and  a  liberal 
toleration,  were  never  more  prevalent ;  good  men 
combat  each  others  opinions  with  less  rancour, 
and  better  manners  ;*  they  hate  each  other 
less  for  those  points  in  which  they  disagree, 
and  love  each  other  more  for  those  points  in 
which  they  join  issue  than  they  formerly  did. 
We  have  many  public  encouragements  ;  we  have 
a  pious  king ;  a  wise  and  virtuous  minister ; 
very  many  respectable,  and  not  a  few  serious 
clergy.  Their  number  I  am  willing  to  hope  is 
daily  increasing.  Among  these  some  of  the 
first  in  dignity  are  the  most  exemplary  in  con¬ 
duct.  An  increasing  desire  to  instruct  the  poor, 
to  inform  the  ignorant,  and  to  reclaim  the  vi¬ 
cious,  is  spreading  among  u^.  The  late  royal 
proclamation  affords  an  honourable  sanction  to 
virtuous  endeavours,  and  lends  nerves  and  si¬ 
news  to  the  otherwise  feeble  exertions  of  in¬ 
dividuals,  by  enforcing  laws  wisely  planned, 
but  hitherto  feebly  executed.  In  short,  there  is  a 
good  hope  that  we  shall  more  and  more  become 
‘  that  happy  people  who  have  the  Lord  for  their 
God:’ that  as  prosperity  is  already  within  our 
walls,  peace  and  virtue  may  abidein  our  dwellings. 

But  vain  will  be  all  endeavours  after  partial 
and  subordinate  amendment.  Reformation  must 
begin  with  the  great,  or  it  will  never  be  effec¬ 
tual.  Their  example  is  the  fountain  whence 
the  vulgar  draw  their  habits,  actions,  and  cha¬ 
racters.  To  expect  to  reform  the  poor  while 
the  opulent  are  corrupt  is  to  throw  odours  into 
the  stream  while  the  springs  are  poisoned. 

If,  therefore,  the  rich  and  great  will  not, 
from  a  liberal  spirit  of  doing  right,  and  from  a 
Christian  spirit  of  fearing  God,  abstain  from  those 
offences,  for  which  the  poor  are  to  ’suffer  fines 
and  imprisonments,  effectual  good  cannot  be 
done.  It  will  signify  little  to  lay  penalties  on 
the  horses  of  the  drover,  or  the  wagon  of  the 
husbandman,  while  the  chariot  wlieels  of  the 
great  roll  with  incessant  motion  ;  and  wliile  the 
sacred  day  on  which  the  sons  of  industry  are 
commanded  by  royal  proclamation  to  desist  from 
travelling,  is  for  that  very  reason  selected  for 
:  *  This  was  written  before  the  French  revolution !  1 


the  journeys  of  the  great,  and  preferred  because 
the  road  is  incumbered  with  fewer  interruptions . 
But  will  it  not  strike  every  w’ell-meaning  Sun¬ 
day  traveller  with  a  generous  remorse,  when  he 
reflects  that  he  owes  the  accommodation  of  an 
unobstructed  road  to  the  very  obedience  which 
is  paid  by  others  to  that  divine  and  human  law 
which  he  is  in  the  very  act  of  violating? 

Will  not  the  common  people  think  it  a  little 
inequitable  that  they  are  abridged  of  the  diver¬ 
sions  of  the  public  house  and  the  gaming  yard 
on  Sunday  evening,  wlien  they  shalj  hear  that 
many  houses  of  the  first  nobility  are  on  that 
evening  crowded  with  company,  and  such 
amusements  carried  on  as  are  prohibited  by  hu¬ 
man  laws  even  on  common  days  ?  As  imitation, 
and  a  desire  of  being  in  the  fashion,  govern  the 
lower  orders  of  mankind,  it  is  to  be  feared  that 
they  will  not  think  reformation  reputable,  while 
they  see  it  recommended  only,  and  not  practised^ 
by  their  superiors.  A  precept  counteracted  by 
an  example,  is  worse  than  fruitless  ;  it  is  ridicu¬ 
lous  ;  and  the  common  people  will  be  tempted  to 
set  an  inferior  value  on  goodness,  when  they 
find  it  is  only  expected  from  the  lower  ranks. 
They  cannot  surely  but  smile  at  the  disinterest¬ 
edness  of  their  superiors,  who,  while  they  seem 
anxiously  concerned  to  save  others,  are  so  little 
solicitous  about  their  own  state.  The  ambitious 
vulgar  will  hardly  relish  a  salvation  which  is 
only  intended  for  plebians  ;  nor  will^they  be  apt 
to  entertain  very  exalted  notions  of  that  pro¬ 
mised  future  reward,  the  road  to  which  they 
perceive  their  betters  are  so  much  more  earnest 
to  point  out  to  them,  than  to  walk  in  themselves. 

It  was  not  by  inflicting  pains  and  penalties 
that  Christianity  first  made  its  way  into  the 
world  :  the  divine  truths  it  inculcated  received 
irresistible  confirmation  from  the  lives,  prac¬ 
tices,  and  EXAMPLES  of  its  venerable  professors. 
These  were  arguments  which  no  popular  pre¬ 
judice  could  resist,  no  Jewish  logic  refute,  and 
no  Pagan  persecution  discredit.  Had  the  pri¬ 
mitive  Christians  only  praised  and  promulgated 
the  most  perfect  religion  the  world  ever  saw,  it 
would  have  produced  but  very  slender  effects  on 
the  faith  and  manners  of  the  people.  The  asto¬ 
nishing  consequences  which  followed  the  pure 
doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  would  never  have  been 
produced,  if  the  jealous  and  inqusitive  eye  of 
malice  could  have  detected  that  the  doctrines 
the  Christians  recommended  had  not  been  illus¬ 
trated  by  the  lives  they  led. 


POSTSCRIPT  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 


The  public  favour  having  already  brought 
this  little  essay  to  another  edition,  the  author 
has  been  sedulous  to  discover  any  particular  ob¬ 
jections  that  have  been  made  to  it.  Since  the 
preceding  sheets  were  printed  off,  it  has  been 
suggested  by  some  very  respectable  persons  who 
have  honoured  this  slight  performance  with  their 
notice,  that  it  inculcates  a  too  rigid  austerity, 
and  carries  the  point  of  observing  Sunday  much 
too  far ;  that  it  takes  away  all  the  usual  occu¬ 
pations  of  the  day,  without  substituting  any 
others  in  their  stead ;  and  that  it  only  pulls  down 


a  wrong  system,  without  so  much  as  attempting 
to  build  up  a  right  one.  To  these  observations 
the  author  begs  leave  to  reply,  that  whilst  ani¬ 
madverting  on  error,  the  insisting  on  obvious 
duty  was  purposely  omitted.  To  tell  people  what 
they  already  know  to  be  right,  was  less  the  in¬ 
tention  of  this  address,  than  to  observe  upon 
practices  which  long  habit  had  prevented  them 
from  perceiving  to  be  wrong.  Sensible  and  well- 
meaning  persons  can  hardly  be  at  a  loss  on  a 
subject  which  has  exhausted  precept  and  wea- 
.ried  exhortation.  To  have  expatiated  on  it. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAPI  MORE. 


Would  only  have  been  to  repeat  what  is  already 
known  and  acknowledged  to  be  right,  even  by 
those  whom  the  hurry  of  engagements  will  not 
allow  to  take  breath  one  day  in  a  week,  that  they 
may  run  the  race  of  pleasure  with  more  alacrity 
on  the  other  six.  But  probably  it  is  not  the  du¬ 
ties,  but  the  amusements  appropriated  to  the  day 
about  which  the  inquiry  is  made.  It  will,  per¬ 
haps,  be  found,  that  the  intervals  of  a  Sunday 
regularly  devoted  to  all  its  reasonable  and  ob¬ 
vious  employments,  are  not  likely  to  be  so  vdry 
tedious,  but  that  they  might  be  easily  and  plea¬ 
santly  filled  up  by  cheerful,  innocent,  and  in¬ 
structive  conversation.  Human  delights  would 
be  very  circumscribed  indeed,  if  the  practices 
here  noticed  as  erroneous,  included  the  whole 
circle  of  enjoyments.  In  addition  to  the  appro¬ 
priate  pleasures  of  devotion,  are  the  pleasures 
of  retirement,  the  pleasures  of  friendship,  the 
pleasures  of  intellect,  and  the  pleasures  of  be¬ 
neficence,  to  be  estimated  as  nothing? 

There  will  not  be  found,  perhaps,  a  single 
person  who  shall  honour  these  pages  with  a  pe¬ 
rusal,  who  has  not  been  repeatedly  told,  with  an 
air  of  imposing  gravity,  by  those  who  produce 
cards  on  a  Sunday  evening,  that  it  is  better  to 
play  than  to  talk  scajidal. — Before  this  pithy 
axiom  was  invented,  it  was  not  perhaps  suspect¬ 
ed  that  Sunday  gaming  would  ever  be  adduced 
as  an  argument  in  favour  of  morals.  Without 
entering  into  the  comparative  excellence  of  these 
two  occupations,  or  presuming  to  determine 
which  has  a  claim  to  pre-eminence  of  piety, 
may  we  not  venture  to  be  thankful  that  these 
alternatives  do  not  seem  to  empty  the  whole 
stock  of  human  resource ;  but  that  something 
will  still  be  left  to  occupy  and  to  interest  those 
who  adopt  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  ? 

People  in  the  gay  and  elegant  scenes  of  life 
are  perpetually  complaining  that  an  extensive 
acquaintance,  and  the  necessity  of  being  con¬ 
stantly  engaged  in  large  circles  and  mixed  as¬ 
semblies,  leaves  them  little  leisure  for  family 
enjoyment,  select  conversation,  and  domestic 
delights.  Others,  with  no  less  earnestness,  la- 
ment  that  the  hurry  of  public  stations,  and  the 
necessary  demands  of  active  life,  allow  them  no 
time  for  any  but  frivolous^  reading.  Now  the 
recurrence  of  one  Sunday  in  every  week  seems 
to  hold  out  an  inviting  remedy  for  both  these 
evils.  The  sweet  and  delightful  pleasures  of 


i  O 

family  society  might  then  be  uninterruptedly 
enjoyed,  by  the  habitual  exclusion  of  trifling  and 
idle  visiters,  who  do  not  come  to  see  their  friends, 
but  to  get  rid  of  themselves.  Persons  of  fashion, 
living  in  the  same  house,  and  connected  by  the 
closest  ties,  whom  business  and  pleasure  keep  a- 
sunder  during  the  greatest  part  of  the  week,  would 
then  have  an  opportunity  of  spending  a  little  time 
together,  and  of  cultivating  that  friendship  for 
each  other,  that  affection  for  their  children,  and 
that  intercourse  with  their  Maker,  to  which  the 
present  manners  are  not  very  favourable.  To 
the  other  set  of  complainers,  those  who  can  find 
no  time  to  read,  this  interval  naturally  presents 
itself ;  and  it  so  happens,  that  some  of  the  most 
enlightened  men  the  world  ever  saw,  have,  not 
unfrequently,  devoted  their  rare  talents  to  sub¬ 
jects  peculiarly  suited  to  this  day  ;  and  that  not 
merely  in  the  didactic  form  of  sermons,  which 
men  of  the  world  affect  to  disdain,  but  in  every 
alluring  shape  which  human  ingenuity  could 
assume.  It  can  be  fortunately  produced  among 
a  thousand  other  instances,  that  the  deepest 
metaphysician,*  the  greatest  astronomer,  the 
sublimest  poet,  the  acutest  reasoner,  the  politest 
writer,  the  most  consummate  philosopher,  and 
the  profoundest  investigator  of  nature,  which 
this,  or  perhaps  any  country  has  produced,  have 
all  written  on  such  subjects  as  are  analogous  to 
the  business  of  the  Lord’s  day.  Such  authors 
as  these,  even  wits,  philosophers,  and  men  of 
the  world,  must  acknowledge  that  it  is  not 
bigotry  to  read,  nor  enthusiasm  to  commend. 
Of  this  illustrious  group  only  one  was  a  clergy¬ 
man,  which  to  a  certain  class  of  readers  will  be 
a  strong  recommendation  ;  though  it  is  a  little 
hard  that  the  fastidiousness  of  modern  taste 
should  undervalue  the  learned  and  pious  labours 
of  divines,  only  because  they  are  professional. — 
In  every  other  function,  a  man’s  compositionii 
are  not  the  less  esteemed  because  they  peculi- 
arly  belong  to  his  more  immediate  business. 
Blackstone's  opinions  in  jurisprudence  are  in 
high  reputation,  though  he  was  a  lawyer ;  Sy¬ 
denham  is  still  consulted  as  oracular  in  fevers, 
m  spite  of  his  having  been  a  physician  ;  and  the 
Commentaries  of  Caesar  are  of  established  au¬ 
thority  in  military  operations,  notwithstandu»g 
he  was  a  soldier. 

*  Locke,  Newton,  Milton,  Butler,  AdJison,  BA«on, 
Boyle. 


AN  ESTIMATE 


OF  THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  FASHIONABLE  WORLD. 


There  was  never  found  in  any  age  of  the  world,  either  philosophy,  or  sect,  or  religion,  or  law, 
or  discipline,  which  did  so  highly  exalt  the  public  good  as  the  Christian  faith. — Lord  Bacon, 


INTRODUCTION. 

The  general  design  of  these  pages  is  to  offer 
some  cursory  remarks,  on  the  present  stafe  of 
religion  among  agreat  part  of  the  polite  and  the 
fashionable  ;  not  only  among  that  description  of 
persons  who,  whether  from  disbelief  or  whatever 
other  cause,  avowedly  neglect  the  duties  of 


Christianity  ;  but  among  that  more  decent  class 
also,  who,  while  they  acknowledge  their  belief  of 
its  truth  by  a  public  profession,  and  are  not  inat¬ 
tentive  to  any  of  its  forms,  yet  exhibit  little  of 
its  spirit  in  their  general  temper  and  cotiduct. 
It  is  designed  to  show  that  Christianity,  like  its 
Divine  Author,  is  not  only  denied  by  those  who 
in  so  many  words  disown  their  submission  tc 


276 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


its  authority,  but  is  betrayed  by  the  still  more 
treacherous  disciple,  even  while  he  cries,  Hail, 
Master! 

For  this  visible  declension  of  piety  various 
reasons  have  been  assigned,  some  of  which  how¬ 
ever  do  not  seem  fully  adequate  to  the  effects 
ascribed  to  them.  The  author  of  a  late  popular 
pamphlet*  has  accounted  for  the  increased  pro¬ 
fligacy  of  the  common  people,  by  ascribing  it, 
very  justly,  to  the  increased  dissoluteness  of 
their  superiors.  And  who  will  deny  what  he 
farther  affirms — that  the  general  conduct  of  high 
and  low  receives  a  deep  tincture  of  depravity 
from  the  growing  neglect  of  public  worship  ? 
So  far  I  most  cordially  agree  with  the  noble 
author.  Nothing  can  be  more  obvious  than  that 
the  disuse  of  public  worship  is  naturally  follow¬ 
ed  by  a  neglect  of  all  religious  duties.  Energies, 
which  are  not  called  out  into  action,  almost  ne¬ 
cessarily  die  in  the  mind.  The  soul,  no  less 
than  the  body,  requires  its  stated  repairs,  and 
regular  renovations.  And  from  the  sluggish 
and  procrastinating  spirit  of  man,  that  religious 
duty  to  which  no  fixed  time  is  assigned,  is  sel¬ 
dom,  it  is  to  be  feared,  performed  at  all.f 

I  must,  however,  take  leave  to  dissent  from 
the  opinion  of  the  noble  author,  that  the  too 
common  desertion  of  persons  of  rank  from  the 
service  of  the  establishment  is  occasioned  in 
general,  as  he  intimates,  by  their  disapprobation 
of  the  Liturgy  ;  as  it  may  more  probably  be  sup¬ 
posed,  that  the  far  greater  part  of  them  are  de¬ 
terred  from  going  to  church  by  motives  widely 
removed  from  speculative  objections  and  con¬ 
scientious  scruples. 

It  would  be  quite  foreign  to  my  present  pur¬ 
pose  to  enter  upon  the  question  of  the  superior 
utility  of  a  form  of  prayer  for  public  worship. 
Most  sincerely  attached  to  the  establishment 
myself,  not,  as  far  as  I  am  able  to  judge,  from 
prejudice,  but  from  a  fixed  and  settled  convic¬ 
tion.  I  regard  its  institution  with  a  veneration 
at  once  aifectionate  and  rational.  Never  need  a 
Christian,  except  when  his  own  heart  is  strange¬ 
ly  indisposed,  fail  to  derive  benefit  from  its  or¬ 
dinances,  and  he  may  bless  the  overruling  pro¬ 
vidence  of  God,  that,  in  this  instance,  the  natural 
variableness  and  inconstancy  of  human  opinion 
is,  as  it  were  fixed,  and  settled,  and  hedged  in, 
by  a  stated  service  so  pure,  so  evangelical,  and 
which  is  enriched  by  such  a  large  infusion  of 
sacred  Scripture. 

If  so  many  among  us  contemn  the  service  as. 
having  been,  individually,  to  us  fruitless  and  un¬ 
profitable,  let  us  inquire  whether  the  blessing 
may  not  be  withheld  because  w'c  are  not  fervent 
in  asking  it.  If  we  do  not  find  a  suitable  hu¬ 
miliation  in  the  Confession,  a  becoming  earnest¬ 
ness  in  the  Petitions,  a  congenial  joy  in  the 
Adoration,  a  corresponding  gratitude  in  the 
Thanksgivings,  it  is  because  our  hearts  do  not 
accompany  our  words ;  it  is  because  we  rest  in 
‘  t)ie  form  of  godliness,’  and  are  contented  tore- 
main  destitute  of  its  ‘  power.’  If  we  are  not 
duly  interested  when  the  select  portions  of  Scrip¬ 
ture  are  read  to  us,  it  is  because  we  do  not  as 

*  Hints  to  an  Association  for  preventing  Vice  and  Im¬ 
morality,  written  by  a  nobleman  of  the  liigliest  rank. 

t  On  this  subject  see  Dr.  Johnson's  Life  of  Milton. 


/ 

‘  new  born  babes  desire  the  sincere  milk  of  the 
word,  that  we  may  grow  thereby.’ 

Perhaps  there  has  not  been  since  the  age  of 
the  Apostles,  a  church  upon  earth  in  which  the 
public  worship  was  so  solemn  and  so  cheerful ; 
so  simple,  yel-so  sublime ;  so  full  of  fervour,  at 
the  same  time  so  free  from  enthusiasm  ;  so  rich 
in  the  gold  of  Christian  antiquity,  yet  so  asto¬ 
nishingly  exempt  from  its  dross.  That  it  has 
imperfections  we  do  not  deny,  but  what  are  they 
compared  with  its  general  excellence  ?  They 
are  as  the  spots  on  the  sun’s  disk,  which  a  sharp 
observer  may  detect,  but  which  neither  diminish 
the  warmth,  nor  obscure  the  brightness. 

But  if  those  imperfections  which  are  insepa¬ 
rable  from  all  huma.u  institutions,  are  to  be  al¬ 
leged  as  reasons  for  abstaining  to  attend  on  the 
service  of  the  established  church,  we  must  on 
the  same  principle,  and  on  still  stronger  grounds, 
abstain  from  all  public  worship  whatever  ;  and 
indeed  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  persons  of 
whom  we  are  now  speaking  are  very  consistent 
in  this  matter. 

But  the  dilference  of  opinion  here  intimated, 
is  not  so  much  about  the  Liturgy  itself,  as  the 
imaginary  effects  attributed  to  it  in  thinning  the 
pews  of  our  people  of  fashion.  The  slightest 
degree  of  observation  serves  to  contradict  this 
assertion.  Those,  however,  who,  with  the  noble 
author,  maintain  the  other  opinion,  may  satisfy 
their  doubts  by  inquiring,  whether  the  regular 
and  systematic  absentees  from  church  aiechiefiy 
to  be  found  among  the  thinking,  the  reading 
the  speculative,  and  the  scrupulous  part  of  man¬ 
kind. 

Even  the  most  negligent  attendant  on  public 
worship  must  know,  that  the  obnoxious  creed, 
to  whose  nip.lignant  potency  this  general  deser- 
tion  is  ascribed,  by  the  noble  author,  is  never 
read  above  three  or  four  Sundays  in  the  year  ; 
and  even  allowing  the  validity  of  the  objections 
brought  against  it,  that  does  not  seem  a  very 
adequate  reason  for  banishing  the  most  scru¬ 
pulous  and  tender  consciences  from  church  on 
the  remaining  eight-and-forty  Sundays  of  the 
calender. 

Besides,  there  is  one  test  which  is  absolutely 
unequivocal :  this  creed  is  never  read  at  all  in 
the  afternoon,  any  more  than  the  Litany,  that 
other  great  source  of  offence  and  sup[)osed  de¬ 
sertion  ;  and  yet  with  all  these  multiplied  rea¬ 
sons  for  their  attendance  do  we  see  the  con¬ 
scientious  crowds  of  the  high  born,  who  abstain 
from  the  morning  service  through  their  repug¬ 
nance  to  subscribe  to  the  dogmas  of  Athanasius, 
or  the  more  orthodox  clauses  of  the  morning 
Litany,  do  we  see  them,  I  say,  flocking  to  the 
evening  service,  impatient  for  the  exercise  of 
that  devotion  which  had  ‘  been  obstructed  by 
these  two  objectionable  portions  of  the  Li¬ 
turgy  ?  Do  we  see  them  eager  to  e.xplain  the 
cause  of  their  morning  absence,  and  jealous  to 
vindicate  their  piety  by  assiduously  attending 
when  the  reprobated  {tortious  are  omitted  7  So 
far  from  it,  is  it  not  pretty  evident  that  the 
general  quarrel  (with  some  few  exeeptionst  of 
those  who  habitually  absent  themselves  from 
public  vvorsliip,  is  not  with  the  Creed,  but  the 
commandments  ?  With  such,  to  reform  the 
Prayer-book  would  go  but  a  little  wav,  unless 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


277 


the  new  Testament  could  be  also  abridged.  Cut, 
and  pare,  and  prune  the  service  of  the  church 
ever  so  much,  still  Christianity  itself  will  be 
foutid  full  of  formidable  objections.  Should  the 
church  even  give  up  her  abstruse  creeds,  it 
would  avail  but  little,  unless  the  Bible  would 
also  expunge  those  rigorous  laws  which  not  only 
prohibit  sinful  actions,  but  corrupt  inclinations. 
And  to  speak  honestly,  I  do  not  see  how  such 
persons  as  habitually  infringe  the  laws  of  virtue 
and  sobriety,  and  who  are  yet  men  of  acute  sa¬ 
gacity,  accustomed  on  other  subjects  to  a  con¬ 
sistent  train  of  reasoning  ;  who  see  consequen¬ 
ces  in  their  causes  ;  who  behold  practical  self- 
denial  necessarily  involved  in  the  sincere  ha¬ 
bit  of  religious  observances — I  do  not  see 
how,  with  respect  to  such  men,  any  doctrines 
reformed,  any  redundancies  lopped,  any  obscuri¬ 
ties  brightened,  could  effect  the  object  of  this 
author’s  very  benevolent  and  Christian  wish. 

Religious  duties  are  often  neglected  upon 
more  consistent  grounds  than  the  friends  of  Re¬ 
ligion  are  willing  to  allow.  They  are  often  dis¬ 
continued,  not  as  repugnant  to  the  understanding, 
not  as  repulsive  to  the  judgment,  but  as  hostile 
to  a  licentious  life.  And  when  a  prudent  man, 
after  having  entered  into  a  solemn  convention, 
finds  that  he  is  living  in  a  constant  breach  of 
every  article  of  the  treaty  he  has  engaged  to 
observe,  one  cannot  much  wonder  at  his  getting 
out  of  the  hearing  of  the  heavy  artillery  which 
he  knows  is  planted  against  him,  and  against 
every  one  who  lives  in  the  allowed  infraction 
of  the  covenant  into  which  every  Christian  has 
entered. 

For  a  man  of  sense  who  should  acknowledge 
the  truth  of  the  doctrine,  would  find  himself 
obliged  to  submit  to  the  force  of  the  precept. 
It  is^not  easy  to  be  a  comfortable  sinner,  with¬ 
out  trying,  at  least,  to  be  a  confirmed  unbeliever. 
And  as  that  cannot  be  achieved  by  a  wish,  the 
next  expedient  is  to  shun  the  recollection  of  that 
belief,  and  to  forget  that  of  which  we  cannot  be 
ignorant.  The  smallest  remains  of  faith  would 
embitter  a  life  of  libertinism,  and  to  be  frequent¬ 
ly  reminded  of  the  articles  of  that  faith  would 
disturb  the  ease  induced  by  a  neglect  of  all  ob¬ 
servances.  While  to  him  who  retains  any  im¬ 
pression  of  Christianity,  the  wildest  festivals  of 
intemperance  will  be  converted  into  the  terrify¬ 
ing  feast  of  Damocles. 

Tliat  many  a  respeetable  non-conformist  is 
kept  out  of  the  pale  of  the  establishment  by  some 
of  the  causes  noticed  by  the  noble  author,  can¬ 
not  be  questioned,  and  a  matter  of  regret  it  is. 
But  these,  however,  are  often  sober  thinkers, 
serious  inquirers,  conscientious  reasoners,  whose 
object  we  may  eharitably  believe  is  truth,  how¬ 
ever  they  may  be  deceived  as  to  its  nature :  but 
that  the  same  objections  banish  the  groat  and 
the  gay,  is  not  equally  evident.  Thanks  to  the 
indolence  and  indifference  of  the  times,  it  is  not 
dogmas  or  doctrines,  it  is  not  abstract  reason¬ 
ings,  or  puzzling  propositions,  it  is  not  perplexed 
argument,  or  intricate  rnetapliyslcs,  which  can 
now  disincline  from  Christianity ;  so  far  from 
it  tlrcy  cannot  even  allure  to  unbelief.  Infidelity 
itself,  with  all  that  strong  and  natural  bias  whicli 
selfishness  and  appetite  entertain  in  its  favour, 
if  it  appear  in  the  grave  and  scholastic  form  of 


spectilation,  argument,  or  philosophical  deduc. 
tion  may  lie  almost  as  quietly  on  the  shelf,  as 
the  volumes  of  its  most  able  antagonist;  and  the 
cobwebs  are  almost  as  seldom  brushed  from 
Hobbes  as  from  Hooker.  No  :  prudent  scepti¬ 
cism  hath  wisely  studied  the  temper  of  the 
times,  and  skilfully  felt  the  pulse  of  this  relaxed, 
and  indolent,  and  selfish  age.  It  prudently  ac¬ 
commodated  itself  to  the  reigning  character, 
when  it  adopted  sarcasm  instead  of  reasoning, 
and  preferred  a  sneer  to  an  argument.  It  dis¬ 
creetly  judged,  that,  if  it  would  now  gain  prose¬ 
lytes,  it  must  show  itself  under  the  bewitching 
form  of  a  profane  bon-mot ;  must  be  interwoven  in 
the  texture  of  some  amusing  history,  written  with 
the  levity  of  a  romance,  and  the  point  and  glitter 
of  an  epigram :  it  must  embellish  the  ample 
margin  with  some  offensive  anecdote  or  impure 
allusion,  and  decorate  impiety  with  every  loose 
and  meretricious  ornament  which  a  corrupt 
imagination  can  invent.  It  must  break  up  the 
old  flimsy  system  into  little  mischievous  apho¬ 
risms,  ready  for  practical  purposes  :  it  must  di¬ 
vide  the  rope  of  sand  into  little  portable  parcels, 
which  the  shallowest  wit  can  comprehend,  and 
the  shortest  memory  carry  away. 

Philosophy  therefore  (as  Unbelief  by  a  patent 
of  its  own  creation,  has  been  pleased  to  call  it¬ 
self)  will  not  do  nearly  so  much  mischief  to  the 
present  age  as  its  primitive  apostles  intended, 
since  it  requires  time,  application,  and  patience 
to  peruse  the  reasoning  veterans  of  the  sceptic 
school :  and  these  are  talents  not  now  very  se¬ 
verely  devoted  to  study  of  any  sort,  by  those 
who  give  the  law  to  fashion  ;  especially  since, 
as  it  was  hinted  above,  the  same  principles  may 
bo  acquired  on  cheaper  terms,  and  the  reputa¬ 
tion  of  being  philosophers  obtained  without  the 
sacrifices  of  pleasure  for  the  severities  of  study  ; 
since  the  industry  of  our  literary  chemists  has 
extracted  the  spirit  from  the  gross  substance  of 
the  old  unvendible  poison,  and  exhibited  it  in  the 
volatile  essence  of  a  few  sprightly  sayings. 

If  therefore  in  this  voluptuous  age,  when  a 
frivolous  and  relaxing  dissipation  has  infected 
our  very  studies.  Infidelity  will  not  be  at  the 
pains  of  deep  research  and  elaborate  investiga¬ 
tion,  even  on  such  subjects  as  are  congenial  to 
its  affections,  and  prornotive  of  its  object :  it  is 
in  vain  to  expect  that  Christianity  will  be  more 
engaging,  either  as  an  object  of  speculation,  or 
as  a  rule  of  practice  ;  since  it  demands  a  still 
stronger  exertion  of  those  energies  which  the 
gay  world  is  not  at  the  pains  to  exercise,  even 
on  the  side  they  approve.  For  the  evidences  of 
Christianity  require  attention  to  be  comprehend¬ 
ed,  no  less  than  its  doctrines  require  bumility 
to  be  received,  and  its  precepts  self-denial  to  be 
obeyed. 

Will  it  then  be  uncharitable  to  pronounce, 
that  the  leading  mischief,  not  which  thins  our 
churches  (for  that  is  not  the  evil  I  propose  to 
consider)  but  which  pervades  our  whole  charac¬ 
ter,  and  gives  the  colour  to  our  general  conduct, 
is  practical  irreligion  ?  an  irreligion  not  so  much 
opposed  to  a  8[)eeulativo  fajth,  not  so  much  in 
hostility  to  the  evidences  of  Christianity,  as  to 
tliat  spirit,  temper,  and  behaviour  which  Chris- 
tia.nity  inculcates. 

On  this  practical  irreligion  it  is  proposed  to 


278 


rHE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


offer  a  few  hints.  After  altemplingf  to  show, 
by  a  comparison  with  the  relig-ion  of  the  great 
in  preceding  ages,  that  there  is  a  visible  decline 
of  piety  among  the  higher  ranks — that  even 
those  more  liberal  spirits  who  neglect  not  many 
of  the  great  duties  of  benevolence,  yet  hold  the 
severer  obligations  of  piety  in  no  esteem — I 
shall  proceed,  though  perhaps  with  too  little 
method  to  remark  on  the  notorious  effects  of  the 
decay  of  this  religious  principle,  as  it  corrupts 
our  mode  of  education,  infects  domestic  conduct, 
spreads  the  contagion  downwards  among  ser¬ 
vants  and  inferiors,  and  influences  our  general 
manners,  habits,  and  conversation. 

But  what  it  is  here  proposed  principally  to  in¬ 
sist  on  is,  that  this  defect  of  religious  principle 
is  almost  equally  fatal  as  to  all  the  ends  and  pur- 
poses  of  genuine  piety,  whether  it  appear  in  the 
open  contempt  and  defiance  of  all  sacred  insti¬ 
tutions,  or  under  the  more  decent  veil  of  exter¬ 
nal  observances,  unsupported  by  such  a  conduct 
as  is  analogous  to  the  Christian  profession. 

I  shall  proceed  with  a  few  remarks  on  a  third 
class  of  fashionable  characters,  who  profess  to 
acknowledge  Christianity  as  a  perfect  system 
of  morals,  while  they  deny  its  divine  authority : 
and  conclude  with  some  slight  animadversions 
on  the  opinion  which  these  modish  Christians 
maintain,  that  morality  is  the  whole  of  religion. 

It  must  be  confessed,  however,  that  manners 
and  principles  act  reciprocally  on  each  other ; 
and  are,  by  turns,  cause,  and  effect.  For  in¬ 
stance — the  increased  relaxation  of  morals  pro¬ 
duces  the  increased  neglect  of  infusing  religious 
principle  in  the  education  of  youth  ;  which  effect 
becomes,  in  its  turn,  a  cause,  and  in  due  time, 
when  that  cause  comes  to  operate,  helps  on  the 
decline  of  manners. 


CHAP.  I. 

Decline  of  Christianity  shown  by  a  comparative 
view  of  the  religion  of  the  great  in  preceding 
ages. 

If  the  general  position  of  this  little  tract  be 
allowed,  namely,  that  Religion  is  at  present  in 
no  very  flourishing  state  among  those  whose  ex¬ 
ample,  from  the  high  ground  on  which  they 
stand,  guides  and  governs  the  rest  of  mankind, 
it  will  not  be  denied  by  those  who  are  ever  so 
superficially  acquainted  with  the  history  of 
our  country,  that  this  lias  not  always  been  the 
case.  Those  who  make  a  fair  comparison  must 
allow,  that  however  the  present  age  may  be  im¬ 
proved  in  other  important  and  valuable  advan¬ 
tages,  yet,  that  there  is  but  little  appearance  re¬ 
maining  among  the  groat  and  the  powerful  of 
that  ‘  rigliteousness  which  exalteth  a  nation.’ — 
They  must  confess  that  there  has  been  a  moral 
revolution  in  the  national  manners  and  princi¬ 
ples,  very  little  analogous  to  that  great  political 
one  which  we  hear  so  much  and  so  justly  ex¬ 
tolled.  That  our  nublic  virtues  bear  little  pro- 
jiortion  to  our  public  blessings  ;  and  that  our  re- 
ligion  has  decreased  in  pretty  exact  proportion 
to  our  having  secured  the  means  of  enjoving  it. 

’I’hat  the  antipodes  to  wrong  arc  hardly  ever 
right,  was  wry  strikingly  Illustrated  about  the 


middle  of  the  last  century,  when  the  fiery  and 
indiscreet  zeal  of  one  party  was  made  a  pretext 
for  the  profligate  impiety  of  the  other ;  who  to 
the  bad  principle  which  dictated  a  depraved 
conduct,  added  the  bad  taste  of  being  proud  of 
it ; — when  even  the  least  abandoned  were  ab¬ 
surdly  apprehensive  that  an  appearance  of  de¬ 
cency  might  subject  them  to  the  charge  of  fana¬ 
ticism,  a  charge  in  which  they  took  care  to 
involve  real  piety,  as  well  as  enthusiastic  pre¬ 
tence,  till  it  became  the  general  fashion  to  avoid 
no  sin  but  hypocrisy;  to  dread  no  imputation 
but  that  of  seriousness,  and  to  be  more  afraid  of 
the  virtues  which  procure  a  good  reputation 
than  of  every  vice  which  ever  earned  a  bad  one 
Party  was  no  longer  confined  to  political  dis¬ 
tinctions,  but  became  a  part  of  morals,  and  was 
carried  into  religion.  The  more  profligate  of 
the  court  party  began  to  connect  the  idea  of  de 
votion  with  that  of  republicanism  ;  and  to  prove 
their  aversion  to  the  one,  though  they  could 
never  cast  too  much  ridicule  upon  the  other. 
The  public'iaste  became  debauched,  and  to  be 
licentious  in  principle,  was  thought  by  many  to 
be  the  best  way  of  making  their  court  to  the 
restored  monfirch,  and  of  proving  their  abhor¬ 
rence  of  the  hypocritical  side.  And  Poems  by 
a  person  of  honour,  the  phrase  of  the  day  to  de¬ 
signate  a  fashionable  author,  were  often  scan¬ 
dalous  offences  against  modesty  and  virtue. 

It  was  not  till  piety  was  thus  unfortunately 
brought  into  disrepute,  that  persons  of  condition 
thought  it  made  their  sincerity,  their  abilities, 
or  their  good  breeding  questionable,  to  appear 
openly  on  the  side  of  Religion.  A  strict  at¬ 
tachment  to  piety  did  not  subtract  from  a  great 
reputation.  Men  were  not  tliought  the  worst 
lawyers,  generals,  minister.^,  legislators,  or  his¬ 
torians,  for  believing,  and  even  defending,  the 
religion  of  their  country.  The  gallant  Sir 
Philip  Sidney,  the  rash  but  heroic  Essex,  the 
politic  and  sagacious  Burleigh,  the  all-accom¬ 
plished  Falkland,*  not  only  publicly  owned 
their  belief  in  Christianity,  but  even  wrote  some 
things  of  a  religious  nature.!  These  insUinces, 
and  many  others  which  might  be  adduced,  are 
not,  it  will  be  allowed,  selected  from  among  con¬ 
templative  recluses,  grave  divines,  or  authors  by 
profession ;  but  from  the  busy,  the  active,  and 
the  illustrious;  from  public  characters,  from 
men  of  strong  passions,  beset  with  great  tempta¬ 
tions;  distinguished  actors  on  the  stage  of  life  ; 
and  whose  respeetive  claims  to  the  title  of  fine 
gentlemen,  brave  soldiers,  or  able  statesmen, 
have  never  been  called  in  question. 

What  would  the  Hales,  and  the  Clarendons, 
and  the  Somersets,!  have  said,  had  they  been 
told  that  the  time  was  at  no  great  distance  when 
that  sacred  book,  for  which  they  thought  it  no 
derogation  from  their  wisdom  or  their  digniU' 
to  entertain  the  profoundest  reverence  ;  the  book 
which  they  made  the  rule  of  their  faitli,  the  ob 
ject  of  their  most  serious  study,  and  the  founda- 

*  Lord  Faiilkland  assicted  tli  ■  ereal  (lliinimworth  in 
hi.s  iiiCiMiiparable  work,  'I'lie  Rfiliiinn  ol'a  Protestant. 

t  See  that  equally  elesiaiit  and  authentic  work,  ‘The 
Anoedotes  of  Itoyal  and  \ohle  Authors  ’ 

t  This  i  nnsnniniatr*  statesman  was  not  only  remark- 
aide  for  a  strict  attendance  on  the  p  iblic  duties  of  redi- 
;;ion,  tint  for  inaintainini  them  with  equal  exactn-ss  in 
his  family,  at  a  period  loo  whcji  religion  w;.s  most  dis- 
countenanceJ. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


/9 


tion  of  their  eternal  hope  ;  that  this  book  would 
one  day  be  of  little  more  use  to  men  in  high 
public  stations,  than  to  be  the  instrument  of  an 
oath  ;  and  that  the  sublirnest  rites  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  religion  would  soon  be  considered  as  little 
more  than  a  necessary  qualification  for  a  place, 
or  the  legal  preliminary  to  an  office. 

This  indeed  is  the  boasted  period  of  free  in¬ 
quiry  and  liberty  of  thinking  :  but  it  is  the  pe¬ 
culiar  character  of  the  present  age,  that  its  mis¬ 
chiefs  often  assume  the  most  alluring  forms  ; 
and  that  the  most  alarming  evils  not  only  look 
so  like  goodness  as  to  be  often  mistaken  for  it, 
but  are  sometimes  mixed  up  with  so  much  real 
good,  as  often  to  disguise  though  never  to  coun¬ 
teract,  their  malignity.  Under  the  beautiful 
mask  of  an  enlightened  philosophy,  all  religious 
restraints  are  set  at  nought ;  and  some  of  the 
•deadliest  wounds  have  been  aimed  at  Christi¬ 
anity,  in  works  written  in  avowed  vindica¬ 
tion  of  the  most  amiable  of  all  the  Christian 
principles  !*  Even  the  prevalence  of  a  liberal 
and  warm  philanthropy  is  secretly  sapping 
the  foundation  of  Christian  morals,  because 
many  of  its  champions  allow  themselves  to 
live  in  the  open  violation  of  the  severer  duties 
of  justice  and  sobriety,  while  they  are  contend¬ 
ing  for  the  gentler  ones  of  charity  and  bene¬ 
ficence. 

The  strong  and  generous  bias  in  favour  of 
universal  toleration,  noble  as  the  principle  itself 
is,  has  engendered  a  dangerous  notion  that  all 
error  is  innocent.  Whether  it  be  owing  to  this, 
or  to  whatever  other  cause,  it  is  certain  that  the 
discriminating  features  of  the  Christian  religion 
are  every  day  growing  into  less  repute  ;  and 
it  is  become  the  fashion,  even  among  the  better 
sort,  to  evade,  to  lower,  or  to  generalize,  its  most 
distinguishing  peculiarities. 

There  is  so  little  of  the  Author  of  Christianity 
left  in  his  pwn  religion,  that  an  apprehensive 
believer  is  ready  to  exclaim,  with  the  womari  at 
the  sepulchre,  ‘They  have  taken  away  my 
Lord,  and  I  know  not  where  they  have  laid 
him,’  The  locality  of  Hell  and  the  existence 
of  an  Evil  Spirit  are  annihilated,  or  considered 
as  abstract  ideas.  When  they  are  alluded  to, 
it  is  periphrastically  ;  or  they  are  discontinued 
not  on  the  ground  of  their  being  awful  and  ter¬ 
rible,  but  they  are  set  aside  as  topics  too  vulgar 
for  the  polished,  too  liberal  for  the  learned,  and 
as  savouring  too  much  of  credulity  for  the  en¬ 
lightened. 

While  we  glory  in  having  freed  ourselves 
from  the  trammels  of  human  authority,  are  we 
not  turning  our  liberty  into  licentiousness,  and 
wantonly  struggling  to  throw  off  the  Divine 
authority  too  ?  Freedom  of  thought  is  the  glory 
of  the  human  mind,  while  it  is  eonfined  within 
its  just  and  sober  limits;  but  though  we  may 

*  See  particiilfirly  Voltaire  sur  la  Tolerance.  This  is 
a  common  artifice  of  that  insidious  author.  In  this  in¬ 
stance  he  has  made  use  of  the  popularity  he  obtained  in 
the  fanatical  tragedy  at  Thoulouse,  (the  murder  of  Ca¬ 
lais)  to  discredit,  though  in  the  most  guarded  manner 
C'hristianity  itself ;  degrading  martyrdoms,  denying  the 
truth  of  the  Pagan  jiersccutions,  &c.  &c.  And  by  mi.v- 
jng  some  truths  with  many  falsehoods,  by  a.ssuming  an 
amiable  candour,  and  professing  to  serve  the  interest  of 
goodness,  he  treacherously  contrives  to  leave  on  the 
jnirid  of  the  unguarded  reader  impressions  the  most  un¬ 
favourable  to  Christianity, 


think  ourselves  accountable  for  opinions  at  no 
earthly  tribunal,  yet  it  should  be  remembered 
that  thoughts  as  well  as  actions  are  amenable  at 
the  bat  of  God  ;  and  though  we  may  rejoice  that 
the  tyranny  of  the  spiritual  Procustes  is  so  far 
annihilated,  that  wo  are  in  no  danger  of  having 
our  opinions  lopped  or  lengthened  till  they  are 
brought  to  fit  the  measure  of  human  caprice, 
yet  there  is  still  a  standard  by  which  not  only 
actions  are  weighed,  but  opinions  are  judged; 
and  every  sentiment  which  is  clearly  inconsis¬ 
tent  with  the  revealed  will  of  God,  is  as  much 
as  throwing  off  his  dominion  as  the  breach  of 
any  of  his  moral  precepts.  This  cuts  up  by  the 
roots  that  popular  and  independent  phrase,  that 
‘  thoughts  are  free,’  for  in  this  view  we  are  no 
more  at  liberty  to  indulge  opinions  in  opposition 
to  the  express  word  of  God,  that  we  are  at  liberty 
to  infringe  practically  on  his  commandments. 

There  is  then  surely  one  test  by  which  it  is 
no  mark  of  intolerance  to  try  the  principles  of 
men,  namely,  the  Law  and  the  Testimony :  and 
on  applying  to  this  touchstone,  it  is  impossible 
not  to  lament,  that  while  a  more  generous  spirit 
governs  our  judgment,  a  purer  principle  does 
not  seem  to  regulate  our  lives.  May  it  not  be 
said,  that  while  we  are  justly  commended  for 
thinking  charitably  of  the  opinions  of  others 
we  seem,  in  return,  as  if  we  were  desirous  of 
furnishing  them  with  an  opportunity  of  exer¬ 
cising  their  candour  by  the  laxity  of  principle 
in  which  we  indulge  ourselves  ?  If  the  hearts  of 
men  were  as  firmly  united  to  each  other,  by  the 
bond  of  charity  as  some  pretend,  they  oculd  not 
fail  of  being  united  to  God  also  by  one  common 
principle  of  piety.  And  Christian  piety  furnishes 
the  only  certain  source  of  all  charitable  judg¬ 
ment,  as  well  as  of  all  virtuous  conduct. 

Instead  of  abiding  by  the  salutary  precept  of 
judging  no  man,  it  is  the  fashion  to  exceed  our 
commission,  and  to  fancy  every  body  to  be  in 
a  safe  state.  ‘  Judge  not’  is  the  precise  limit 
of  our  rule.  There  is  no  more  encouragement 
to  judge  falsely  on  the  side  of  worldly  candour, 
than  there  is  to  judge  harshly  on  the  side  of 
Christian  charity.  In  forming  our  notions  we 
have  to  choose  between  the  Bible  and  the  world, 
between  the  rule  and  the  practice.  Where 
these  do  not  agree  it  is  left  to  the  judgment  of 
believers,  at  least,  by  which  we  are  to  decide. 
But  we  never  act,  in  religious  concerns,  by  the 
same  rule  of  common  sense  and  equitable  judg¬ 
ment  which  governs  us  on  other  occasions.  In 
weighing  any  commodity,  its  weight  is  deter¬ 
mined  by  some  generally  allowed  standard ; 
and  if  the  commodity  be  heavier  or  lighter  than 
the  standard  weight,  we  add  or  take  from  it : 
but  we  never  break,  or  clip,  or  reduce  the  weight 
to  suit  the  thing  we  are  weighing  ;  because  the 
common  consent  of  mankind  has  agreed  that 
the  ono  shall  be  considered  as  the  standard  to 
ascertain  the  value  of  the  other.  But,  in  weigh¬ 
ing  our  principles  by  the  standard  of  the  Gos¬ 
pel,  we  do  just  the  reverse,  instead  of  bringing 
our  opinions  and  actions  to  the  halatice  of  the 
sanctuary,  to  determine  and  rectify  their  com¬ 
parative  deficiencies,  wo  lower  and  reduce  the 
standard  of  the  Scripture  doctrines  till  we  have 
accommodated  them  to  our  own  purposes :  so 
that  instead  of  trying  others  and  ourselves  by 


280 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


God’s  unerringf  rule,  we  try  the  truth  of  God’s 
ruJo  by  its  conformity  or  non-conformity  to  our 
own  depraved  notions  and  corrupt  practices. 


CHAP.  II. 

Benevolence  allowed  to  he  the  reigning  virtue, 
but  not  exclusively  the  virtue  of  the  present 
age. — Benevolence  not  the  whole  of  Religion, 
though  one  of  its  most  characteristic  features. 
Whether  Benevolence  proceeds  from  a  religious 
principle,  will  be  more  infallibly  known  by  the. 
general  disposition  of  time,  fortune,  and  the 
common  habits  of  life,  than  from  a  few  occa¬ 
sional  acts  of  bounty. 

To  all  the  remonstrance  and  invective  of  the 
preceding  chapter,  there  will  not  fail  to  be  op¬ 
posed  that  which  we  hear  every  day  so  loudly 
insisted  on — the  decided  superiority  of  the  pre¬ 
sent  age  in  other  and  better  respects.  It  will 
be  said,  that  even  those  who  neglect  the  outward 
forihs  of  religion,  exhibit,  however,  the  best 
proofs  of  the  best  principles;  that  the  unparal¬ 
leled  instances  of  charity  of  which  we  are  con¬ 
tinual  witnesses ;  that  the  many  striking  acts 
of  public  bounty,  and  the  various  new  and  no¬ 
ble  improvements  in  this  shining  virtue,  justly 
entitle  the  present  age  to  be  called,  by  way  of 
eminence,  the  Age  of  Benevolence. 

It  is  with  the  liveliest  joy  I  acknowledge  the 
delightful  truth.  Liberality  flows  with  a  full 
tide  through  a  thousand  channels.  There  is 
scarcely  a  newspaper  but  records  some  meeting 
of  men  of  fortune  fjr  the  most  salutary  purposes. 
The  noble  and  numberless  structures  for  the 
relief  of  distress,  which  are  the  ornament  and 
the  glory  of  our  metropolis,  proclaim  a  species 
of  munificence  unknown  to  former  ages.  Sub¬ 
scriptions,  not  only  to  hospitals,  but  to  various 
other  valuable  institutions,  are  obtained  almost 
as  soon  as  solicited.  And  who  but  must  wish 
that  these  beautiful  monuments  of  benevolence 
may  become  every  day  more  numerbus,  and 
more  extended  ! 

Yet,  with  all  these  allowed  and  obvious  ex¬ 
cellences,  it  is  not  quite  clear  whether  some¬ 
thing  too  much  has  not  been  said  of  the  liberal¬ 
ity  of  the  present  age,  in  a  comparative  view  with 
that  of  those  ages  which  preceded  it.  A  gene¬ 
ral  alteration  of  habits  and  manners  has  at  the 
same  time  multiplied  public  bounties  and  pri¬ 
vate  distress ;  and  it  is  scarcely  a  paradox,  to 
say  that  there  was  probably  less  misery  when 
there  was  less  munificence. 

If  an  increased  benevolence  now  ranges 
through  and  relieves  a  wider  compass  of  dis¬ 
tress  ;  yet  still,  if  those  examples  of  luxury  and 
dissipation  which  promote  that  distress  are  still 
more  increased,  this  makqs  the  good  done,  bear 
little  proportion  to  the  evil  promoted.  If  the 
miseries  removed  by  the  growth  of  charity  fall, 
both  in  number  and  weight,  far  below  those 
which  are  caused  by  the  growth  of  vice  and 
disorder;  if  we  find  that,  though  bounty  is  ex¬ 
tended,  yet  those  corruptions  which  make  boun¬ 
ty  so  necessary  are  extended  also,  almost  beyond 
calculation  ;  if  it  appear  that,  though  more  ob- 
iects  are  relieved  by  our  money,  yet  incompara¬ 


bly  more  are  debauched  by  our  licentiousness— 
the  balance  perhaps  will  not  turn  out  so  de¬ 
cidedly  in  our  favour  of  the  times  as  we  are  wil¬ 
ling  to  imagine. 

If  then  the  most  valuable  species  of  charity 
is  that  which  prevents  distress  by  preventing  or 
lessening  vice,  the  greatest  and  most  inevitable 
cause  of  want — we  ought  not  so  highly  to  exalt 
the  bounty  of  the  great  in  the  present  day,  in 
preference  to  that  broad  shade  of  protection,  pa¬ 
tronage,  and  maintenance,  which  the  wide¬ 
spread  bounty  of  their  forefathers  stretched  out 
over  whole  villages,  I  had  almost  said  whole 
provinces.  When  a  few  noblemen  in  a  county, 
like  their  own  stately  oaks,  (paternal  oaks  1 
which  were  not  often  set  upon  a  card,)  extend¬ 
ed  their  sheltering  branches  to  shield  all  the  un¬ 
derwood  of  the  forest — when  there  existed  a 
kind  of  passive  charity,  a  negative  sort. of  be¬ 
nevolence,  which  did  good  of  itself ;  and  with¬ 
out  effort,  exertion,  or  expense,  produced  the 
effect  of  all,  and  performed  the  best  functions  of 
bounty,  though  it  did  not  aspire  to  the  dignity 
of  its  name — ^it  was  simply  this  : — great  people 
staid  at  home;  and  the  sober  pomp  and  orderly 
magnificence  of  a  noble  family,  residing  at  their 
own  castle  a  great  part  of  the  year,  contributed  in 
the  most  natural  way  to  the  maintenance  of  the 
poor  ;  and  in  a  good  degree  prevented  their  dis¬ 
tress,  which  it  must  however  thankfully  be  con¬ 
fessed  it  is  the  laudable  object  of  modern  bounty 
to  relieve.  A  man  of  fortune  might  not  then, 
it  is  true,  so  often  dine  in  public  for  the  benefit 
of  the  poor  ;  but  the  poor  were  more  regularly 
and  comfortably  fed  with  the  abundant  crumbs 
which  then  fell  from  the  rich  man’s  table- 
Whereas  it  cannot  be  denied  that  the  prevailing 
mode  of  living  has  pared  real  hospitality  to  the 
very  quick  ;  and,  though  the  remark  may  be 
thought  ridiculous,  it  is  a  material  disadvantage 
to  the  poor,  that  the  introduction  of  the  modern 
style  of  luxury  has  rendered  the  remains  of  the 
most  costly  table  but  of  small  value. 

But  even  allowing  the  boasted  superiority  of 
modern  benevolence,  still  it  would  not  be  incon¬ 
sistent  with  the  object  of  the  present  design,  to 
inquire  whether  the  diffusion  of  this  branch  of 
charity,  though  the  most  lovely  offspring  of  re- 
ligion,  be  yet  any  positive  proof  of  the  preva¬ 
lence  of  religious  principle  ?  and  whether  it  be 
not  the  fashion  rather  to  consider  benevolence 
as  a  substitute  for  Christianity  than  as  an  evi¬ 
dence  of  it  ? 

It  seems  to  be  one  of  the  reigning  errors 
among  the  better  sort,  to  reduce  all  religion  into 
benevolence,  and  all  benevolence  into  alms-giv¬ 
ing.  The  wide  and  comprehensive  idea  of  Chris¬ 
tian  charity  is  compressed  into  the  slender  com¬ 
pass  of  a  little  pecuniary  relief.  This  sjiecies  of 
benevolence  is  indeed  a  bright  gem  among  the 
ornaments  of  a  Christian  ;  but  by  no  means  fur¬ 
nishes  all  the  jewels  of  his  crown,  which  derives 
its  lustre  from  the  associated  radiance  of  every 
Christian  grace.  Besides,  the  genuine  virtues 
are  all  of  the  same  family  :  and  it  is  only  by  be¬ 
ing  seen  in  company  with  each  other,  and  with 
Piety  their  common  parent,  that  they  are  cer¬ 
tainly  known  to  be  legitimate. 

But  it  is  the  property  of  the  Christian  virtues, 
that,  like  all  other  amiable  members  of  the  same 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


281 


family,  while  each  is  doing  its  own  particular 
duty,  it  is  contributing  to  the  prosperity  of  the 
rest ;  and  the  larger  the  family,  the  better  they 
live  together,  as  no  one  can  advance  itself  with¬ 
out  labouring  for  the  advancement  of  the  whole  : 
thus,  no  man  can  be  benevolent  on  Christian 
principles  without  self-denial;  and  so  of  the 
other  virtues  :  each  is  connected  with  some  other, 
and  all  with  Religion. 

I  already  anticipate  the  obvious  and  hack¬ 
neyed  reply,  that,  ‘  whoever  be  the  instrument, 
and  whatever  be  the  motive  of  bounty,  still  the 
poor  are  equally  relieved,  and  therefore  the  end 
is  the  same.’  And  it  must  be  confessed  that 
those  compassionate  hearts,  w'ho  cannot  but  be 
earnestly  anxious  that  the  distressed  should  be 
relieved  at  any  rate,  should  not  too  scrupulously 
inquire  into  any  cause  of  which  the  effect  is  so 
beneficial.  Nor  indeed  will  candour  scrutinize 
too  curiously  into  the  errors  of  any  life  of  which 
benevolen'ce  will  always  be  allowed  to  be  the 
shining  ornament,  while  it  does  not  pretend  to 
be  the  atoning  virtue. 

Let  me  not  be  misrepresented,  as  if  I  were 
seeking  to  detract  from  the  value  of  this  amia¬ 
ble  feeling  ;  we  do  not  surely  lower  the  practice 
by  seeking  to  enoble  the  principle  ;  the  action 
will  not  be  impaired  by  mending  the  motive ; 
and  no  one  will  be  likely  to  give  the  poor  less 
because  he  seeks  to  please  God  more. 

One  cannot  then  help  wishing  that  pecuniary 
bounty  werb  not  only  not  practised,  but  that  it 
were  not  sometimes  enjoined  too,  as  a  redeem¬ 
ing  virtue.  In  many  conversations,  (I  had  al¬ 
most  said  in  many  charity-sermons,)  it  is  insi¬ 
nuated  as  if  a  little  alms-giving  could  pay  off 
old  scores  contracted  by  favourite  indulgences. 
This,  though  often  done  by  well-meaning  men 
to  advance  the  interests  of  some  present  pious 
purpose,  yet  has  the  mischievous  effect  of  those 
medicines  which,  while  they  may  relieve  a  local 
complaint,  are  yet  undermining  the  general 
habit. 

That  great  numbers  who  are  not  influenced 
by  so  high  a  principle  as  Christianity  holds  out, 
are  yet  truly  compassionate  without  hypocrisy 
and  without  ostentation,  who  can  doubt  ?  But 
who  that  feels  the  beauty  of  benevolence  can 
avoid  being  solicitous,  not  only  that  its  offer¬ 
ings  should  comfort  the  receiver,  but  return  in 
blessings  to  the  bosom  of  the  giver,  by  spring¬ 
ing  from  such  motives,  and  being  accompanied 
by  such  a  temper  as  shall  redound  to  his  eternal 
good  ?  For  that  the  benefit  is  the  same  to  the 
object,  whatever  be  the  character  of  the  bene¬ 
factor,  is  but  an  uncomfortable  view  of  things  to 
a  real  Christian,  whose  compassion  reaches  to 
the  souls  of  men.  Such  a  one  longs  to  see  the 
charitable  giver  as  happy  as  he  is  endeavouring 
to  make  the  object  of  his  bounty :  but  such  a 
one  knows  that  no  happiness  can  bo  fully  and 
finally  enjoyed  but  on  the  solid  basis  of  Chris¬ 
tian  piety. 

For  as  Religion  is  not,  on  the  one  hand,  mere¬ 
ly  an  opinion  or  a  sentiment,  so  neither  is  it,  on 
the  other,  merely  an  act  or  a  perforrnance ;  but 
jt  is  a  dispo.sition,  a  habit,  a  temper ;  it  is  not  a 
name,  but  a  nature:  it  is  a  turning  the  whole 
mind  to  God  :  it  is  a  concentration  of  all  the 
Dowers  and  affections  of  the  soul  into  one  stead  v 
VoL.  I, 


point,  an  uniform  desire  to  please  Him.  This' 
desire  will  naturally  and  necessarily  manifest 
itself  in  our  doing  all  the  good  we  can  to  our 
fellow-creatures  in  every  possible  way  ;  for  it 
will  be  found  that  neither  of  the  two  parts  into 
which  practical  religion  is  divided,  can  be  per¬ 
formed  with  any  degree  of  perfection  but  by 
those  who  unite  both  ;  as  it  may  be  questioned 
if  any  man  really  dors  ‘love  his  neighbour  as 
himself,’  who  does  not  first  endeavour  to  ‘  love 
God  with  all  his  heart.’  As  genius  has  been  de- 
fined  to  be  strong  general  powers  of  mind,  acci¬ 
dentally  determined  to  some  particular  pursuit, 
so  piety  may  be  denominated  a  strong  general 
disposition  of  the  heart  to  every  thing  that  is 
right,  breaking  forth  into  every  excellent  action, 
as  the  occasion  jiresents  itself.  The  temper 
must  be  ready  in  the  mind,  and  the  whole  heart 
must  be  prepared  and  trained  to  every  act  of 
virtue  to  which  it  may  be  called  out.  For  reli¬ 
gious  principles  are  like  the  military  exercise  ; 
they  keep  up  an  habitual  state  of  preparation 
for  actual  service  ;  and,  by  never  relaxing  the 
discipline,  the  real  Christian  is  ready  for  every 
duty  to  which  he  may  be  commanded.  Right 
actions  best  prove  the  existence  of  religion 
of  the  heart ;  but  they  are  evidences,  i  not 
causes. 

Whether  therefore,  a  man’s  charitable  actions 
proceed  from  religious  principle,  he  will  be  best 
able  to  ascertain  by  scrutinizing  into  what  is 
the  general  disposition  of  his  time  and  fortune, 
and  by  observing  whether  his  pleasures  and  ex¬ 
penses  are  habitually  regulated  with  a  view 
to  enable  him  to  be  more  or  less  useful  to 
others. 

It  is  in  vain  that  he  possesses  what  is  called 
by  the  courtesy  of  fashion,  the  best  heart  in  the 
world,  (a  character  we  every  day  hear  applied 
to  the  libertine  and  the  prodigal,)  if  he  squander 
his  time  and  estate  in  such  a  round  of  extrava¬ 
gant  indulgences  and  thoughtless  dissipation  as 
leaves  him  little  money,  and  less  leisure  for  no¬ 
bler  purposes.  It  makes  but  little  difference 
whether  a  man  is  prevented  from  doing  good  by 
hard-hearted  parsimony  or  an  unprincipled  ex¬ 
travagance  ;  the  stream  of  usefulness  is  equally 
cutoff  by  both. 

The  mere  casual  benevolence  of  any  man  can 
have  little  claim  to  solid  esteem  ;  nor  does  any 
charity  deserve  tfie  name,  which  does  not  grow 
out  of  a  tender  conviction  that  it  is  his  bounden 
duty  ;  which  does  not  spring  from  a  settled  pro¬ 
pensity  to  obey  the  whole  will  of  God  ;  which 
is  not  therefore  made  a  part  of  the  general  plan 
of  his  conduct;  and  which  does  not  lead  him  to 
order  the  whole  scheme  of  his  affairs  with  an 
eye  to  it. 

He  therefore,  who  does  not  habituate  himself 
to  certain  interior  restraints,  who  does  not  livo 
in  a  regular  course  of  self-renunciation,  will  not 
be  likely  often  to  perform  acts  of  beneficence, 
when  it  becomes  necessary  to  convert  to  siicli 
purposes  any  of  that  time  or  money  which  ap¬ 
petite,  temptation,  or  vanity  solicit  him  to  divert 
to  other  purposes. 

And  surely  he  who  seldom  sacrifices  one  dar¬ 
ling  indulgence,  who  does  not  subtract  one  gra¬ 
tification  from  the  incessant  round  of  his  enjoy¬ 
ments,  when  the  indulgence  would  obstruct  hia 


282 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


oapacity  of  doing  good,  or  when  the  sacrifice 
would  enlarge  his  power,  does  not  deserve  the 
name  oi  benevolent.  And  for  such  an  unequivo¬ 
cal  criterion  of  charity,  to  whom  are  we  to  look, 
but  to  the  conscientious  Christian  ?  No  other 
epirit  but  that  by  which  he  is  governed,  can 
subdue  self-love :  and  where  self-love  is  the  pre. 
dominant  passion,  benevolence  can  have  but  a 
feeble,  or  an  accidental  dominion. 

Now  if  we  look  around,  and  remark  the  ex¬ 
cesses  of  luxury,  the  costly  diversions,  and  the 
intemperate  dissipation  in  whieh  numbers  of 
professing  Christians  indulge  themselves,  can 
any  stretch  of  candour,  can  even  that  tender 
sentiment  by  which  we  are  enjoined  ‘  to  hope’ 
and  to  ‘  believe  all  things,’  enable  us  to  hope 
and  believe  that  such  are  actuated  by  a  spirit  of 
Christian  benevolence,  merely  because  we  see 
them  perform  some  casual  acts  of  charity,  which 
the  spirit  of  the  world  can  contrive  to  make 
extremely  compatible  with  a  voluptuous  life  ; 
■and  the  cost  of  which,  after  all,  bears  but  lit¬ 
tle  proportion  to  that  of  any  one  vice,  or  even 
■vanity. 

Men  will  not  believe  that  there  is  hardly  any 
one  human  good  quality  which  will  know  and 
keep'  its  proper  bounds,  without  the  restraining 
influence  of  religious  principle.  There  is,  for 
instance,  great  danger  lest  a  constant  attention 
to  so  right  a  practice  as  an  invariable  economy, 
should  incline  the  heart  to  the  love  of  money. 
Nothing  can  effectually  counteract  this  natural 
propensity  but  the  Christian  habit  of  devoting 
those  retrenched  expenses  to  some  good  pur¬ 
pose  ;  and  then  economy  instead  of  narrowing 
the  heart,  will  enlarge  it,  by  inducing  a  con¬ 
stant  association  of  benevolence  with  frugality. 
An  habitual  attention  to  the  wants  of  others  is 
the  only  wholesome  regulator  of  our  own  ex¬ 
penses  ;  and  carries  with  it  a  whole  train  of 
virtues,  disinterestedness,  sobriety,  and  tempe¬ 
rance.  And  those  who  live  in  the  custom  of 
levying  constant  taxes  on  their  vanities  for  such 
purposes,  serve  the  poor  still  less  than  they  serve 
themselves.  For  if  they  are  charitable  upon 
true  Christian  principles,  ‘  they  are  laying  up 
for  themselves  a  good  foundation  against  the 
time  to  come.’ 

Thus  when  a  vein  of  Christianity  runs  through 
the  whole  mass  of  a  man’s  life,  it  gives  a  new 
value  to  all  his  actions,  and  a  new  character  to 
all  his  views.  It  transmutes  prudence  and  eco¬ 
nomy  into  Christian  virtues  ;  and  every  offering 
that  is  presented  on  the  altar  of  charity  becomes 
truly  consecrated,  when  it  is  the  gift  of  obedi¬ 
ence,  and  the  price  of  self-denial.  Piety  is  that 
fire  from  heaven  that  can  alone  kindle  the  sacri¬ 
fice,  which  through  the  mediation  and  interces¬ 
sion  of  our  great  High  Priest,  ‘  will  go  up  for  a 
memorial  before  God.’ 

On  the  otlier  hand,  when  any  act  of  bounty  is 

Cerformed  by  way  of  composition  with  our  Ma- 
er,  either  as  a  purchase  or  an  expiation  of  un¬ 
allowed  indulgences ;  though,  even  in  this  case, 
<jJod  (who  makes  all  passions  of  men  subservient 
to  his  good  purposes,!  can  make  the  gift  equally 
lieneficial  to  the  receiver,  yet  it  is  surely  not  too 
severe  to  say,  that  to  the  giver  such  acts  are  an 
unfounded  dependence,  a  deceitful  refuge,  a 
broken  staff. 


CHAP.  III. 

The  neglect  of  religious  education,  both  a  cause 
and  a  consequence  of  the  decline  of  Christiani¬ 
ty. — Ab  moral  restraints. — Religion  only  inci¬ 
dentally  taught,  not  as  a  principle  of  action- 
A  few  of  the  many  causes  which  dispose  the 
young  to  entertain  low  opinions  of  Religion. 

Let  not  the  truly  pious  be  offended,  as  if,  in 
the  present  chapter,  which  is  intended  to  treat 
of  the  notorious  neglect  of  religious  education, 
I  meant  to  insinuate,  that  the  principles  and 
tempers  of  Christianity  may  be  formed  in  the 
young  mind,  by  the  mere  mechanical  operation 
of  early  instruction,  without  the  co-operating 
aid  of  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God.  To  imply  this 
would  be  indeed  to  betray  a  lamentable  igno¬ 
rance  of  human  nature,  of  the  disorder  that  sin 
has  introduced,  of  the  inefficacy  of  mere  human 
means  ;  and  entirely  to  mistake  the  genius,  and 
overlook  the  most  obvious  and  important  truths 
of  our  holy  religion. 

It  must  however  be  allowed,  that  the  Supreme 
Being  works  chiefly  by  means ;  and  though  it 
be  confessed  that  no  defect  of  education,  no  cor¬ 
ruption  of  manners  can  place  any  out  of  the 
reach  of  the  Divine  influences  (for  it  is  under 
such  circumstances,  perhaps,  that  some  of  the 
most  extraordinary  instanoes  of  Divine  grace 
have  been  manifested)  yet  it  must  be  owned, 
that  instructing  children  in  principles  of  reli¬ 
gion,  and  giving  them  early  habits  of  tempe¬ 
rance  and  piety,  is  the  way  in  which  we  may 
most  confidently  expect  the  Divine  blessing. — 
And  that  it  is  a  work  highly  pleasing  to  God, 
and  which  will  be  most  assuredly  accompanied 
by  his  gracious  energy,  we  may  judge  from 
what  he  says  of  his  faithful  servant  Abraham  ; 
‘  I  know  him  that  he  will  command  his  children, 
and  his  household  after  him,  and  they  shall  keep 
the  way  of  the  Lord.’ 

But  religion  is  the  only  thing  in  which  we 
seem  to  look  for  the  end,  without  making  use 
of  the  means  ;  and  yet  it  would  not  be  more  sur¬ 
prising  if  we  were  to  expect  that  our  children 
should  become  artists  and  scholars  without  be¬ 
ing  bred  to  arts  and-*  languages,  than  it  is  to 
look  for  a  Christian  world,  without  a  Christian 
education. 

The  noblest  objects  can  yield  no  delight  if 
there  be  not  in  the  mind  a  disposition  to  relish 
them.  There  must  be  a  congruity  between  the 
mind  and  the  object,  in  order  to  produce  any 
capacity  of  enjoyment.  To  the  mathematician, 
demonstration  is  pleasure ;  to  the  philosopher, 
the  study  of  nature  ;  to  the  voluptuary,  the  gra¬ 
tification  of  his  appetite;  to  the  poet,  the  plea¬ 
sures  of  the  imagination.  These  objects  they 
each  respectively  pursue,  as  pleasures  adapted 
to  that  part  of  their  nature  which  they  have  been 
accustomed  to  indulge  and  cultivate. 

Now  as  men  will  be  apt  to  act  consistently 
with  their  general  views  and  habitual  tenden¬ 
cies,  would  it  not  be  absurd  to  expect  that  tlie 
philosopher  should  look  for  his  sovereign  good 
at  a  ball,  or  the  sensualist  in  the  pleasures  of  in- 
tellect  or  piety  ?  None  of  these  ends  are  an¬ 
swerable  to  the  general  views  of  the  r(!8pective 
pursuer;  they  are  not  correspondent  to  his  ideas; 
they  are  not  commensurate  to  his  aims.  The 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


283 


sublimest  pleasures  can  afford  little  gratification 
where  a  taste  for  them  has  not  been  previously 
formed.  A  clown,  who  should  hear  a  scholar 
or  an  artist  talk  of  the  delights  of  a  library,  a 
picture  gallery,  or  a  concert,  could  not  guess  at 
the  nature  of  the  pleasures  they  afford  ;  nor 
Would  his  being  introduced  to  them  give  hifn 
much  clearer  ideas  ;  because  he  would  bring  to 
them  an  eye  blind  to  proportion,  an  understand¬ 
ing  new  to  science,  and  an  ear  deaf  to  harmony. 

Shall  we  expect  then,  since  men  can  only  be¬ 
come  scholars  by  diligent  labour,  that  they  shall 
become  Christians  by  mere  chance  !  Shall  we 
be  surprised  if  those  do  not  fulfil  the  offices  of 
religion  who  are  not  trained  to  an  acquaintance 
with  thefn  ?  And  will  it  not  be  obvious  that  it 
must  be  some  other  thing  besides  the  abstruse¬ 
ness  of  creeds,  which  has  tended  to  make  Chris¬ 
tianity  unfashionable,  and  piety  obsolete  ? 

It  probably  will  not  be  disputed,  that  in  no 
age  have  the  passions  of  our  high-born  youth 
been  so  early  freed  from  all  curb  and  restraint. 
In  no  age  has  the  paternal  authority  been  so 
contemptuously  treated,  or  every  species  of 
subordination  so  disdainfully  trampled  upon. 
In  no  age  have  simple,  and  natural,  and  youth¬ 
ful  pleasures  so  early  lost  their  power  over  the 
mind  ;  nor  was  ever  one  great  secret  of  virtue 
and  happiness,  the  secret  of  being  cheaply  pleas¬ 
ed,  so  little  understood. 

A  taste  for  costly,  or  artificial,  or  tumultuous 
pleasures  cannot  be  gratified,  even  by  their  most 
sedulous  pursuers,  at  every  moment ;  and  what 
wretched  management  is  it  in  the  economy  of 
human  happiness,  so  to  contrive,  as  that  the  en¬ 
joyment  shall  be  rare  and  difficult,  and  the  in¬ 
tervals  long  and  languid  !  Whereas  real  and 
unadulterated  pleasures  occur  perpetually  to 
him  who  cultivates  a  taste  for  truth  and  nature, 
and  scienee  and  virtue.  But  these  simple  and 
tranquil  enjoyments  cannot  but  be  insipid  to 
him  whose  passions  have  been  prematurely  ex¬ 
cited  by  agitating  pleasures,  or  whose  taste  has 
been  depraved  by  such  as  are  debasing  and  fri¬ 
volous  ;  for  it  is  of  more  consequence  to  virtue 
than  some  good  people  are  willing  to  allow,  to 
preserve  the  taste  pure  and  the  judgment  sound. 
A  vitiated  intellect  has  no  small  connexion  with 
depraved  morals. 

Since  amusements  of  some  kind  are  necessa¬ 
ry  to  all  ages  (I  speak  now  with  an  eye  to  mere 
human  enjoyment)  why  should  it  be  an  object 
of  early  care,  to  keep  a  due  proportion  of  them 
in  reserve  for  those  future  seasons  of  life  in 
which  there  will  be  so  mueh  more  needed  ? 
Why  should  there  not,  even  for  this  purpose,  be 
adopted  a  system  of  salutary  restriction,  to  bo 
used  by  parents  toward  their  children,  by  in¬ 
structors  toward  their  pupils,  and  in  the  pro¬ 
gress  of  life  by  each  man  toward  himself?  In 
a  word,  why  should  not  the  same  reasons,  which 
have  induced  us  to  tether  inferior  animals,  sug¬ 
gest  the  expediency  of,  in  some  sort,  tethering 
man  also  ?  Since  nothing  but  experience  seems 
to  teach  him,  that  if  he  be  allowed  to  anticipate 
his  future  pjssossions,  and  trample  all  the  flow¬ 
ery  fields  of  real,  as  well  as  those  of  imaginary 
and  artificial  enjoyment,  he  not  only  endures 
present  disgust,  but  defaces  and  destroys  all  the 
rich  materials  of  his  future  happiness ;  and 


leaves  himself,  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  nothing 
but  ravaged  fields  and  barren  stubble. 

But  the  great  and  radical  defect,  and  that 
which  comes  more  immediately  within  the  pre¬ 
sent  design,  seems  to  be,  that  in  general  the 
characteristical  principles  of  Christianity  are 
not  early  and  strongly  infused  into  the  mind  ; 
that  religion,  if  taught  at  all,  is  rather  taught 
incidentally,  as  a  thing  of  subordinate  value, 
than  as  the  leading  principle  of  human  actions, 
the  great  animating  spring  of  human  conduct. 
Were  the  high  influential  principles  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  religion  anxiously  and  early  inculcated,  we 
should  find  that  those  lapses  from  virtue,  to 
which  passion  and  temptation  afterwards  too 
frequently  solicit,  would  be  more  easily  reco¬ 
verable. 

For  though  the  evil  propensities  of  fallen  na¬ 
ture,  and  the  bewitching  allurements  of  plea¬ 
sure,  will  too  often  seduce  even  those  of  the  best 
education  into  devious  paths,  yet  we  shall  find 
that  men  will  seldom  be  incurably  wicked  unless 
that  internal  corruption  of  principle  has  taken 
place,  which  teaches  them  how  to  justify  ini¬ 
quity  by  argument,  and  to  confirm  evil  conduct 
by  the  sanction  of  false  reasoning ;  or  where 
there  is  a  total  ignorance  of  the  very  nature  and 
design  of  Christianity,  which  ignorance  can  on¬ 
ly  exist  where  early  religious  instruction  has 
been  entirely  neglected. 

The  errors  occasioned  by  the  violence  of  pas¬ 
sion  may  be  reformed,  but  systematic  wicked¬ 
ness  will  be  only  fortified  by  time  ;  and  no  de¬ 
crease  of  strength,  no  decay  of  appetite,  can 
weaken  the  power  of  a  pernicious  principle. 
He  who  deliberately  commits  a  bad  action,  puts 
himself  indeed  out  of  the  path  of  safety  ;  but  he 
who  adopts  a  false  principle,  not  only  throws 
himself  into  the  enemy’s  country,  but  burns  the 
ships,  breaks  the  bridge,  cuts  off  every  retreat 
by  which  he  might  one  day  hope  to  return  to 
his  own. 

It  is  remarkable  that  in  almost  all  the  cele¬ 
brated  charaeters  of  whom  we  have  an  account 
in  former  periods  of  the  English  history,  we 
find  a  serious  attention  to  religion  discovering 
itself  at  the  close  of  life,  however  the  preceding 
years  might  have  been  misemployed.  We  meet 
with  striking  examples  of  this  kind  amongst 
statesmen,  amongst  philosophers,  amongst  men 
of  business,  and  even  amongst  men  of  pleasure. 
We  have  on  record  the  dying  sentiments  of 
Walsinghavi,  Smith,  of  Hutton,  the  favourites 
of  queen  Elizabeth.  We  sec,  in  the  following 
reign,  Raleigh  supporting  himself  by  religion 
under  the  severity  of  his  fate ;  Bacon  seeking 
eomfort  in  devotion  amidst  his  disgraces ;  and 
Wotton,  after  having  been  ambassador  to  almost 
every  court  in  Europe,  taking  refuge  at  last  in 
a  pious  retirement  at  Eton  college.  But  to  enu¬ 
merate  instances  would  be  endless,  when,  in 
fact,  we  scarcely  discover  a  single  instance  tc 
the  contrary. — In  those  times  it  was  considered 
as  a  matter  even  of  common  decency,  that  ad¬ 
vanced  age  should  possess,  at  least,  the  exterior 
of  piety  ;  and  we  have  every  reason  to  believe 
that  an  irreligious  old  man  would  have  been 
pointed  at  as  a  sort  of  monster. 

But  is  this  the  case  in  our  day  ?  Do  we  now 
commonly  perceive  in  any  rank  that  disposition 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


a!!'4 

to  close  life  religiously,  which  at  the  period  to 
which  I  have  alluded  was  so  general  even  in  the 
fashionable  world  ?  I  fear  it  is  so  far  the  reverse, 
that  if  Pope  had  been  our  contemporary,  and 
were  now  composing  his  famous  Ethical  Poem, 
hie  could  not  hazard  even  that  light  remark, 

That  beads  and  prayer-books  are  the  toys  of  age, 

without  grossly  violating  probability. 

But  to  what  cause  are  we  to  ascribe  that  su¬ 
perannuated  impiety,  which  seems  to  distinguish 
the  present  from  the  preceding  generations  ? 
Is  it  not  chiefly  owing  to  the  neglect  of  early  re¬ 
ligious  instruction,  which  now  fbr  so  many 
years  has  been  gaining  ground  among  us  ?  In 
the  last  age  even  public  schools  were  places,  no 
less  of  Christian  than  of  classical  instruction  : 
and  the  omission  of  religious  worship,  whether 
public  or  private,  was  deemed,  at  least,  as  cen¬ 
surable  a  fault  as  the  neglect  of  a  lesson. — Pa¬ 
rents  had  not  yet  imbibed  that  maxim  of  modern 
refinement,  that  religious  instruction  ought  to 
be  deferred  until  the  mind  be  capable  of  choos¬ 
ing  for  itself — that  is,  until  it  be  so  preoccupied 
as  to  leave  neither  room  nor  relish  for  the  arti¬ 
cles  of  Christian  faith,  or  the  rules  of  Christian 
obedience.  The  advice  of  the  wise  king  of 
Israel  of  ‘  training  up  a  child  in  the  way  he 
should  go,’  had  not  then  become  obsolete ;  and 
the  truth  of  his  assertion  in  the  remaining 
clause  of  the  passage,  was  happily  realized  in  the 
sincere,  though  late  return  of  many  a  wanderer. 

Even  in  the  very  laws  of  our  nature,  there 
seems  to  be  a  gracious  provision  for  promoting 
the  final  efficacy  of  early  religious  instruction. 
When  the  old  man  has  no  longer  any  relish  left 
for  his  accustomed  gratifications,  in  what  way 
does  he  endeavour  to  fill  up  the  void  ?  Is  it  not 
by  sending  back  his  thoughts  to  his  early  years, 
and  endeavouring  to  live  over  again  in  idea 
those  scenes  which,  in  this  distant  retrospect, 
appear  far  more  delightful  than  he  had  found 
them  to  be  at  the  actual  period  of  enjoyment  ? 
Disgusted  at  every  thing  around  him,  and  dis- 
appointed  in  those  pursuits  to  which  he  had 
once  looked  forward  with  all  the  ardour  of  hope  ; 
but  to  which  he  now  feels  he  has  sacrificed  in 
vain,  his  quiet,  and  perhaps  his  integrity,  he 
takes  a  pensive  pleasure  in  reviewing  the  season 
when  his  mind  was  yet  cheerful  and  innocent  ; 
and  even  the  very  cares  and  anxieties  of  that 
happy  period  appear  to  him  now,  in  a  more 
captivating  form  than  any  pleasures  he  can  yet 
hope  to  enjoy.  What  then  is  more  natural,  I 
had  almost  said  more  certain,  than  that  if  the 
principles  of  religion  w’ere  inculcated,  and  the 
feelings  of  devotion  excited  in  his  mind  in  that 
most  susceptible  season  of  lifd,  they  should  now 
revive  ns  well  as  other  contemporary  impres¬ 
sions,  and  present  themselves  in  a  point  of  view, 
the  more  interesting,  because,  while  all  other 
instances  of  youthful  occupation  can  be  only  re- 
collected,  these  may  be  called  up  into  fresh  exist¬ 
ence,  and  be  enjoyed  even  more  perfectly  than 
before. 

Til!)  defects  of  memory  also,  which  old  age 
induces,  will,  in  this  instance,  assist  rather  than 
obstruct.  It  almost  universally  happens,  that 
the  more  recent  transactions  arc  those  soonest 
forgotten,  while  the  events  of  youth  and  child¬ 


hood  are  remembered  with  accuracy.  If  there- 
fore  pious  principles  have  been  implanted,  they 
will,  even  by  the  course  of  nature,  be  recollect¬ 
ed,  while  those  things  which  most  contribute  to 
hinder  their  growth  are  swept  from  the  memory. 
What  a  powerful  encouragement  then  does  this 
consideration  afford !  or  rather  what  an  indis¬ 
pensable  obligation  does  it  lay  upon  parents,  to 
store  the  minds  of  their  children  with  the  seeds 
of  piety  !  And  on  the  other  hand,  what  unna¬ 
tural  barbarity  is  it,  irretrievably  to  shut  up  the 
last  refuge  of  the  wretched,  by  a  neglect  of  this, 
duty;  and  to  render  it  impossible  for  those  who 
had  ‘  stood  all  the  day  idle,’  to  be  called  (at  least 
without  a  miracle)  even  at  the  eleventh  hour. 

No  one  surely  will  impute  to  bigotry  or  en¬ 
thusiasm,  the  lamenting,  or  even  remonstrating 
against  such  desperate  negligence ;  nor  can  it 
be  .  deemed  illiberal  to  inquire,  whether  even 
a  still  greater  evil  does  not  exist?  I  mean, 
whether  pernicious  principles  are  not  as  stre¬ 
nuously  inculcated  as  those  of  real  virtue  and 
happiness  are  discountenanced  ?  Whether  young 
men  are  not  expressly  taught  to  take  custom 
and  fashion  as  the  ultimate  and  exclusive 
standard  by  which  to  try  their  principles  and 
to  weigh  their  actions!  Whether  some  idol 
of  false  honour  be  not  consecrated  and  set 
up  for  them  to  worship?  Whether,  even  among 
the  better  sort,  reputation  be  not  held  out 
as  a  motive  of  sufficient  energy  to  produce 
virtue,  in  a  world,  where  yet  the  greatest 
vices  are  every  day  practised  openlj!,  with¬ 
out  at  all  obstructing  the  reception  of  those 
who  practise  them  into  the  best  company  ? 
Whether  resentment  be  not  ennobled  ;  and  pride, 
and  many  other  passions,  erected  into  honour¬ 
able  virtues — virtues  not  less  repugnant  to  thn 
genius  and  spirit  of  Christianity  than  obvious 
and  gross  vices  ?  Will  it  be  thought  iin|)ertinent 
to  inquire  if  the  awful  doctrines  of  a  perpetually 
present  Deity,  and  a  future  righteous  judgment, 
are  early  impressed  and  lastingly  engraved  on 
the  hearts  and  consciences  of  our  high-born 
youth  ? 

Perhaps  if  there  be  any  one  particular  in 
which  we  fall  remarltably  below  the  politer  na¬ 
tions  of  antiquity,  it  is  in  that  part  of  educa¬ 
tion  which  has  a  reference  to  purity  of  mind 
and  the  discipline  of  the  heart. 

The  great  secret  of  religious  education,  which 
seems  banished  from  the  present  practice,  con¬ 
sists  in  training  young  men  to  an  habitual  in. 
terior  restraint,  an  early  government  of  the  af¬ 
fections,  and  a  course  of  self-controul  over  those 
tyrannizing  inclinations  which  have  so  natural 
a  tendency  to  enslave  the  human  heart.  With¬ 
out  this  habit  of  moral  restraint,  which  is  one 
of  the  fundamental  laws  of  Christian  virtue, 
though  men  may,  from  natural  temper,  often 
do  good,  yet  it  is  impossible  that  they  should 
ever  be  good.  Without  the  vigorous  exercise  of 
this  controling  principle,  the  best  dispositions 
and  the  most  amiable  qualities  will  go  but  a 
little  way  towards  establishing  a  virtuous  cha¬ 
racter.  For  the  best  dispositions  will  bo  easily 
overcome  by  the  concurrence  of  passion  and 
temptation,  in  a  heart  where  the  passions  havo 
not  been  accustomed  to  this  whole.some  disci¬ 
pline  :  and  the  most  amiable  qualities  will  but 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


283 


more  easily  betray  their  possessor,  unless  the 
heart  be  fortified  by  repeated  acts  and  long 
habits  of  resistance. 

In  this,  as  in  various  other  instances,  we  may 
blush  at  the  superiority  of  pagan  instruction. 
Were  the  Roman  youth  taught  to  imagine 
themselves  always  in  the  awful  presence  df 
Cato,  in  order  to  habituate  them  betimes  to 
suppress  base  sentiments,  and  to  excite  such  as 
were  generous  and  noble  ?  and  should  not  the 
Christian  youth  be  continually  reminded,  that  a 
greater  than  Cato  is  here  ?  Should  they  not  be 
trained  to  the  habit  of  acting  under  the  con¬ 
stant  impression,  that  He  to  whom  they  must 
one  day  be  accountable  for  intentions,  as  well  as 
words  and  actions,  is  witness  to  the  one  as  well 
as  the  other  ?  that  he  not  only  is  ‘  about  their 
path,’  but  ‘  understands  their  very  thoughts.’ 

Were  the  disciples  of  a  pagan*  leader  taught 
that  it  was  a  motive  sufficient  to  compel  their 
obedience  to  any  rule,  whether  they  liked  it  or 
not,  that  it  had  the  authority  of  their  teacher’s 
name  ?  Were  the  bare  words,  ihe  master  hath 
said  it,  sufficient  to  settle  all  disputes,  and  to 
subdue  all  reluctance  ?  And  shall  the  scholars 
of  a  more  Divine  teacher,  who  have  a  code  of 
laws  written  by  God  himself,  be  contented  with 
a  lower  rule,  or  abide  by  a  meaner  authority  ? 
And  is  any  argument  drawn  from  human  con¬ 
siderations  likely  to  operate  more  forcibly  on  a 
dependent  being,  than  that  simple  but  grand  as¬ 
sertion,  with  which  so  many  of  the  precepts  of 
our  religion  are  introduced — Because,  thus 

SAITH  THE  LORD  ? 

It  is  doing  but  little,  in  the  infusion  of  first 
principles,  to  obtain  the  bare  assent  of  the  un¬ 
derstanding  to  the  existence  of  one  Supreme 
power,  unless  the  heart  and  afteetions  go  along 
with  the  conviction,  by  our  conceiving  of  that 
power  as  intimately  connected  with  ourselves. 
A  feeling  temper  will  be  but  little  aftected  with 
the  cold  idea  of  a  geometrical  God,  as  the  excel¬ 
lent  Pascal  expresses  it,  who  merely  adjusts  all 
the  parts  of  matter,  and  keeps  the  elements  in 
order.  Such  a  mind  will  be  but  little  moved, 
unless  he  be  taught  to  consider  his  Maker  un¬ 
der  the  interesting  and  efidearing  representa¬ 
tion  which  revealed  religion  gives  of  him. 
That  ‘  God  is,’  will  be  to  him  rather  an  alarm¬ 
ing  than  a  consolatory  idea ;  till  he  be  persuad¬ 
ed  of  the  subsequent  proposition,  that  ‘  he  is  a 
rewarder  of  them  that  diligently  seek  him.’ 
Nay,  if  natural  religion  dees  even  acknowledge 
one  awful  attribute,  that  ‘God  is  just,’  it  will 
only  increase  the  terror  of  a  tender  conscience, 
till  it  be  learned  from  the  fountain  of  truth, 
that  he  is  ‘the  justifier  of  him  who  believeth  in 
Jesus.’ 

But  if  the  great  sanctions  of  our  religion  are 
not  deeply  engraven  on  the  heart,  where  shall 
we  look  for  any  other  adequate  curb  to  the  fiery 
spirit  of  youth  ?  For,  let  the  elements  be  ever 
so  kindly  mixed  in  a  human  composition,  lot  the 
natural  temper  bo  over  so  amiable,  still  when¬ 
ever  a  man  ceases  to  think  himself  an  account¬ 
able  being,  what  motive  can  he  have  for  resist¬ 
ing  a  strong  temptation  to  a  present  good,  when 
he  has  no  dread  that  ho  shall  thereby  forfeit  a 
greater  future  good  ? 

•  Pythagoras. 


It  may  perhaps  be  oojected,  that  this  deep 
sense  of  religion  would  interfere  with  the  gene¬ 
ral  purpose  of  education,  which  is  designed  to 
qualify  men  for  the  business  of  human  lilt;?  and 
not  train  up  a  race  of  monks  and  ascetics. 

There  is  however  so  little  real  solidity  in  this 
specious  objection,  that  I  am  firmly  persuaded, 
that  if  religious  principles  were  more  deeply  im¬ 
pressed  on  the  heart,  even  the  things  of  this  world 
would  be  much  better  carried  on.  For  where 
are  we  to  look  for  all  the  qualities;  which 
constitute  the  man  of  business ;  for  punctualily, 
diligence,  and  application,  for  such  attention 
in  doing  every  thing  in  its  proper  day  (the 
great  hinge  on  which  business  turns)  as  among 
men  of  principle  ?  Economy  of  time,  truth 
in  observing  his  word,  never  daring  to  de¬ 
ceive  or  to  disappoint — these  form  the  very  es¬ 
sence  of  an  active  and  an  useful  chaiacter  ;  and 
for  these,  to  whom  shall  we  most  naturally  look  ? 
Who  is  so  likely  to  be  ‘slothful  in  business’  as 
he  who  is  ‘  fervent  in  spirit  ?’  And  will  not  he 
be  most  regular  in  dealing  with  men,  who  is 
most  diligent  in  ‘  serving  the  Lord  ?’ 

But,  it  may  be  said,  allowing  that  Religion 
does  not  necessarily  spoil  a  man  of  business, 
yet  it  would  effectually  defeat  those  accomplish¬ 
ments,  and  counteract  that  fine  breeding,  which 
essentially  constitute  the  gentleman. 

This  again  is  so  far  from  being  a  natural  con¬ 
sequence,  that,  supposing/  all  the  other  real  ad 
vantages  of  parts,  education,  and  society,  to  be 
equally  taken  into  the  account,  there  is  no  doubt 
but  that,  in  point  of  true  politeness,  areal  Chris¬ 
tian  would  beat  the  world  at  his  own  weapons, 
the  world  itself  being  judge. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  in  the  present  cor¬ 
rupt  state  of  things,  there  is  scarcely  any  one 
contrivance  for  which  we  are  more  obliged  to 
the  inventions  of  mankind  than  for  that  polite¬ 
ness,  as  there  is  perhaps  no  screen  in  the  world 
which  hides  so  many  ugly  sights,  yet  while  we 
allow  that  there  never  was  so  admirable  a  sub¬ 
stitute  for  real  goodness  as  good  breeding,  it  is 
certain  that  the  principles  of  Christianity  put 
into  action,  would  of  themselves  produce  more 
genuine  politeness  than  any  maxims  drawn 
from  motives  of  human  vanity  or  worldly  con¬ 
venience.  If  love,  peace,  joy,  long-suffering, 
gentleness,  patience,  goodness,  and  meekness, 
may  be  thought  instruments  to  produce  sweet¬ 
ness  of  manners,  these  we  are  expressly  <told  are 
the  ‘  fruits  of  the  Spirit.’  If  mourning  with 
the  afflicted,  rejoicing  with  the  happy  ;  if  to 
‘esteem  others  better  than  ourselves;’  if ‘to 
take  the  lowest  room  ;’  if  not  to  seek  our  own  ;’ 
if ‘not  to  behave  ourselves  unseemly;’  if  ‘  not 
to  speak  great  swelling  words  of  vanity’— if 
these  are  amiable,  engaging,  and  polite  parts  of 
behaviour,  then  would  the  documents  of  Saint 
Paul  make  as  true  a  fine  gentleman  as  the 
courtier  of  Castiglione,  or  even  the  Letters  of 
lord  Chesterfield  himself.  Then  would  simu¬ 
lation,  and  dissimulation,  and  all  the  nice  shades 
and  delicate  gradations  of  passive  and  active 
deceit,  be  rendered  superfiuous  ;  and  tlie  affec¬ 
tions  of  every  heart  be  won  by  a  shorter  and 
a  surer  way  than  by  the  elegant  obliquities  of 
this  late  popular  preceptor,  whose  mischiefs 
have  outlived  itis  reputation  ;  and  who  notwilh 


4 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


:^8b 


standing  the  present  just  declension  of  his  fame, 
greatly  helped,  during  its  transient  meridian, 
to  relax  the  general  nerve  of  virtue,  and  has 
left  a  taint  upon  the  public  morals,  of  which  we 
are  still  sensible. 

That  self-abasement  then,  which  is  insepara¬ 
ble  from  true  Christianity,  and  the  external 
signs  of  which  good  breeding  knows  so  well 
how  to  assume  ;  and  those  charities  which  sug¬ 
gest  invariable  kindness  to  others,  even  in  the 
smallest  things,  would  if  left  to  their  natural 
workings,  produce  that  gentleness  which  it  is 
one  great  object  of  a  polite  education  to  imitate. 
They  would  produce  it  too  without  effort  and 
without  exertion ;  for  being  inherent  in  the  sub¬ 
stance,  it  would  naturally  discover  itself  on  the 
surface. 

For  however  useful  the  institutions  of  polish¬ 
ed  society  may  be  found,  yet  they  can  never 
alter  the  eternal  difference  between  right  and 
wrong,  or  convert  appearances  into  realities; 
they  cannot  transform  decency  into  virtue,  nor 
make  politeness  pass  for  prineiple.  And  the 
advocates  for  fashionable  breeding  should  be 
humbled  to  reflect  that  every  convention  of  ar¬ 
tificial  manners  was  adopted  not  to  cure,  but  to 
conceal,  deformity ;  that  though  the  superficial 
civilities  of  elegant  life  tend  to  make  this  corrupt 
world  a  more  tolerable  place  than  it  would  he 
without  them,  yet  they  never  will  be  considered 
as  a  substitute  for  truth,  nor  a  commutation  for 
virtue,  by  him  who  is  to  pass  the  definitive  sen¬ 
tence  on  the  characters  of  men. 

Among  the  many  prejudices  which  the  young 
and  the  gay  entertain  against  religion,  one  is, 
that  it  is  the  declared  enemy  to  wit  and  genius. 
But,  says  one  of  its  wittest  champions,*  ‘  piety 
enjoins  no  man  to  be  dull and  it  will  be  found, 
on  a  fair  inquiry,  that  though  it  cannot  be  de¬ 
nied  that  irreligion  has  had  able  men  for  its  ad¬ 
vocates,  yet  they  have  never  been  the  most  able. 
Nor  can  any  learned  profession,  any  department 
in  letters  or  in  science,  produce  a  champion  on 
the  side  of^unbelief,  but  Christianity  has  a  still 
greater  name  to  oppose  to  it ;  philosophers  them¬ 
selves  being  judges. 

He  who  studied  the  book  of  nature  with  a 
scrutiny  which  has  scarcely  been  permitted  to 
any  other  mortal  eye,  was  deeply  learned  in  the 
book  of  (lod.t  And  the  ablest  writer  on  the  in¬ 
tellect  of  mail,  has  left  one  of  the  ablest  treatises 
on  the  Reasonableness  of  Christianity.  Tliis  es¬ 
say  of  Mr.  Locke,  on  the  Human  Understand¬ 
ing,  will -stand  up  to  late^  ages,  as  a  monument 
of  wisdom  ;  while  Hume’s  posthumous  work, 
the  Essay  on  Suicide,  which  had  excited  such 
large  expectations,  has  been  long  since  forgot¬ 
ten.! 

*  T)r.  South, 
t  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 

i  The  Es.say  on  Suicide  was  published  soon  after  Mr. 
Iliime’s  death.  It  might  mortify  liis  liberal  mind  (if 
matter  and  motion  were  capable  of  conscioiisnessl  to 
learn  that  his  dying  leg.acy.  the  last  concentrated  effect 
of  his  genius  and  his  principles,  sent  from  the  grave  as 
it  were,  by  a  man  so  justly  renowned  in  other  branches 
of  literature,  produced  no  sensation  on  the  public  mind. 
And  that  the  precious  information  that  every  man  had 
a  right  to  be  hi.s  own  executioner,  was  considered  as  a 
privilege  so  little  desirable,  that  it  probably  had  not  the 
glory  of  converting  one  cross  rood  into  a  cemetery.  It 
is  to  the  credit  of  this  country  that  fewer  copies  of  this 


Pascal  has  proved  that  as  much  rhetoric  and 
logic  too  may  be  shown  in  defending  Revelation, 
as  in  attacking  it.  His  geometrical  spirit  was 
not  likely  to  take  up  with  any  proofs  but  such 
as  came  as  n,ear  to  demonstration  as  the  nature 
of  the  subject  would  admit.  Erasmus  in  his 
writings  on  the  ignorance  of  the  monks,  and  the 
Provincial  Letters  on  the  fallacies  of  the  Jesuits, 
while  they  exhibit  as  entire  a  freedom  from  bi¬ 
gotry,  exhibit  also  as  much  pointed  wit,  and  as 
much  sound  reasoning,  as  can  be  found  in  the 
whole  mass  of  modern  philosophy. 

But  while  the  young  adopt  the  opinion  from 
one  class  of  writers,  that  religious  men  are  weak 
men,  they  acquire  from  another  class  a  notion 
that  they  are  ridiculous.  And  this  opinion,  by 
mixing  itself  with  their  common  notions,  and 
deriving  itself  from  their  very  amusements,  is 
the  more  mischievous,  as  it  is  imbibed  without 
suspicion,  and  entertained  without  resistance. 

One  common  medium  through  which  they 
take  this  false  view  is,  those  favourite  works  of 
wit  and  humour,  so  captivating  to  youthful  ima¬ 
ginations,  where  no  small  part  of  the  author’s 
success  perhaps  has  been  owing  to  his  dexter¬ 
ously  introducing  a  pious  character  with  so 
many  virtues,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  love 
him  ;  yet  tinctured  with  so  many  absurdities, 
that  it  is  equally  impossible  not  to  laugh  at  him. 
The  reader’s  memory  will  furnish  him  with  too 
many  instances  of  what  is  here  meant.  The 
slightest  touches  of  a  witty  malice  can  make  the 
best  character  ridiculous.  It  is  effected  by  any 
little  awkwardness  ;  absence  of  mind,  an  obso¬ 
lete  phrase,  a  formal  pronunciation,  a  peculiarity 
of  gesture.  Or  if  such  a  character  be  brought 
by  unsuspecting  honesty,  and  credulous  good- 
nessf  into  some  foolish  scrape,  it  will  stamp  on 
him  ail  impression  of  ridicule  so  indelible,  that 
all  his  worth  shall  not  be  able  to  efface  it ;  and 
the  young,  who  do  not  always  separate  their 
ideas  very  carefully,  shall  ever  after,  by  this 
early  and  false  association,  conceive  of  piety  as 
having  something  essentially  ridiculous  in  itself. 

But  one  of  the  moat  infallible  arts  by  which 
the  inexperienced  are  engaged  on  the  side  of 
irreligion,  is  that  popular  air  of  candour,  good¬ 
nature,  and  toleration,  which  it  so  invariably 
puts  on.  ‘While  sincere  piety  is  often  accused 
of  moroseness  and  severity,  because  it  cannot 
hear  the  doctrines  on  which  it  founds  its  eter¬ 
nal  hopes  derided  without  emotion ;  indiffer¬ 
ence  and  unbelief  purchase  the  praise  of  candor 
at  an  easy  price,  because  they  neither  suffer 
grief  nor  express  indignation  at  hearing  the 
most  awful  truths  ridiculed,  or  the  most  solemn 
obligations  set  at  nought.  They  do  not  engage 
on  equal  terms.  The  infidel  appears  good-hu¬ 
moured  from  his  very  levity ;  but  the  Christian 

work  were  sold  than  perhaps  ever  was  the  case  with  a 
writer  of  so  much  eminence.  A  more  impotent  act  of 
wickedness  has  seldom  Ixien  achieved,  or  one  which  has 
had  the  cloi-y  of  makim;  fewer  persons  wicked  or  mise¬ 
rable.  That  cold  and  cheerless  oblivion  which  he  held 
out  as  a  refuce  to  beings  who  had  solaced  themselves 
with  the  soothing  hope  of  immortality,  has,  by  a  memo¬ 
rable  retribution,  overshadowed  his  last  labour;  the 
Essay  on  Suicide  beiii;?'  already  as  much  forgotten  as  he 
promised  the  best  men  that  they  themselves  would  be. 
And  this  favourite  work  became  at  once  a  prey  to  that 
forgetfulness  to  which  he  had  consigned  the  whole  hu- 
man  race. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


287 


cannot  jest  on  subjects  which  involve  his  ever¬ 
lasting  salvation. 

The  scoffers  whom  young  people  hear  talk, 
and  the  books  they  hear  quoted,  falsely  charge 
their  own  injurious  opinions  on  Christianity, 
and  then  unjustly  accuse  her  of  being  the  mon¬ 
ster  they  have  made.  They  dress  her  up  with 
the  sword  of  persecution  in  one  hand,  and  the 
flames  of  intolerance  in  the  other ;  and  then 
ridicule  the  sober-minded  for  worshipping  an 
idol  which  their  misrepresentation  has  rendered 
as  malignant  as  Moloch.  In  the  mean-time 
they  affect  to  seize  on  benevolence  with  exclu¬ 
sive  appropriation  as  their  own  cardinal  virtue, 
and  to  accuse  of  a  bigotted  cruelty  that  narrow 
spirit  which  points  out  the  perils  of  licentious¬ 
ness,  and  the  terrors  of  a  future  account.  And 
yet  this  benevolence,  with  all  its  tender  mercies, 
is  not  afraid  nor  ashamed  to  endeavour  at 
snatching  away  from  humble  piety  the  comfort 
of  a  present  hope,  and  the  bright  prospect  of  a 
felicity  that  shall  have  no  end.  It  does  not  how¬ 
ever  seem  a  very  probable  means  of  increasing 
the  stock  of  human  happiness,  to  plunder  man¬ 
kind  of  that  principle,  by  the  destructio  i  of 
which  friendship  is  robbed  of  its  bond,  society 
of  its  security,  patience  of  its  motive,  morality 
of  its  foundation,  integrity  of  its  reward,  sorrow 
of  its  consolation,  life  of  its  balm,  and  death  of 
its  support.* 

It  will  not  perhaps  be  one  of  the  meanest  ad¬ 
vantages  of  a  better  state  that,  as  the  will  shall 
be  reformed,  so  the  judgment  shall  be  rectified  ; 
that  ‘  evil  shall  no  more  be  called  good,’  nor  the 
‘  churl  liberal nor  the  plunderer  of  our  best  pos¬ 
session,  our  principles,  benevolent.  Then^Uwill 
be  evident  that  greater  injury  could  not^j)£  done 
to  truth,  nor  greater  violence  to  language,  than 
by  attempting  to  wrest  from  Christianity  that 
benevolence  which  is  in  fact  her  most  appropri¬ 
ate  and  peculiar  attribute.  ‘  A  new  command¬ 
ment  give  I  unto  you,  that  ye  love  one  another.’ 
If  benevolence  be  ‘  good  will  to  men,’  it  was 
that  which  angelic  messengers  were  not  thought 
too  high  to  announce,  nor  a  much  higher  being 
than  angels  too  great  to  teach  by  his  example, 
and  to  illustrate  by  his  death.  It  was  the  cri¬ 
terion,  the  very  watch-word  as  it  were,  by  which 
he  intended  his  religion  and  his  followers  should 
be  distinguished.  ‘  By  this  shall  all  men  know 
that  ye  are  my  disciples,  if  ye  have  love  one  to 
another.’  Besides,  it  is  the  very  genius  of 
Christianity  to  extirpate  all  selfishness,  on  wliose 
vacated  ground  benevolence  naturally  and  ne¬ 
cessarily  plants  itself. 

But  not  to  run  through  all  the  particulars 
which  obstruct  the  growth  of  piety  in  young 
persons,  I  shall  only  name  one  more.  They 
hear  much  declamation  from  the  fashionable 
reasoners  against  the  contracted  and  selfish 

*  Young  persons  are  too  liable  to  be  misled  by  that  ex¬ 
treme  disiiigenuoiisness  of  the  new  pbilosophers,  when 
writing  on  every  thing  and  person  connected  with  re¬ 
vealed  religion.  These  authors  often  quote  satirical  po¬ 
ets  as  grave  historical  authorities  ;  for  instance,  because 
Juvenal  has  said  that  the  Jews  were  so  narrow-minded 
that  they  refused  to  show  a  spring  of  water,  or  the  right 
road,  to  an  enquiring  traveller  who  was  not  of  their  re¬ 
ligion,  I  make  little  doubt  but  many  an  ignorant  free¬ 
thinker  has  actually  gone  away  with  the  bfdief,  that 
such  good-natured  acts  of  information  were  actually  for¬ 
bidden  by  the  law  of  Moses. 


spirit  of  Christianity — that  it  is  of  a  sordid  tem 
per,  works  for  pay,  and  looks  for  reward. 

This  jargon  of  French  philosophy,  which 
prates  of  pure  disinterested  goodness  acting  for 
its  own  sake,  and  equally  despising  punishrnen 
and  disdaining  recompence,  indicates  as  littl© 
knowledge  of  human  nature  as  of  Christian  re¬ 
velation,  when  it  addresses  man  as  a  being  made 
up  of  pure  intellect,  without  any  mixture  of 
passions,  and  who  can  be  made  happy  without 
hope,  and  virtuous  without  fear.  These  philoso¬ 
phers  affect  to  be  more  independent  than  Moses, 
more  disinterested  than  Christ  himself ;  for 
‘  Moses  had  respect  to  the  recompence  of  re¬ 
ward;’  and  Christ  ‘  endured  the  cross  and  de¬ 
spised  the  shame,  for  the  joy  that  was  set  be¬ 
fore  him.’ 

A  creature  hurried  away  by  the  impulse  of 
some  impetuous  inclination,  is  not  likely  to  be 
restrained  (if  he  be  restrained  at  all)  by  a  cold 
reflection  on  the  beauty  of  virtue.  If  the  dread 
of  offending  God,  and  incurring  his  everlasting 
displeasure,  cannot  stop  him,  how  shall  a  weak¬ 
er  motive  do  it  ?  When  we  see  that  the  power¬ 
ful  sanctions  which  Religion  holds  out  are  too 
often  an  ineffectual  curb  ;  to  think  of  attaining 
the  same  end  by  feebler  means,  is  as  if  ono 
should  expect  to  make  a  watch  go  the  better  by 
breaking  the  main-spring  ;  nay,  as  absurd  as  if 
the  philosopher  who  inculcates  the  doctrine 
should  undertake,  with  one  of  his  fingers,  to 
lift  an  immense  weight  which  had  resisted  the 
powers  of  the  crane  and  lever. 

On  calm  and  temperate  spirits  indeed,  in  the 
hour  of  retirement,  in  the  repose  of  the  pas¬ 
sions,  in  the  absence  of  temptation,  virtue  does 
seem  to  be  her  own  adequate  reward  ;  and 
very  lovely  are  the  fruits  she  bears  in  preserv¬ 
ing  health,  credit,  and  fortune.  But  on  how  few 
will  this  principle  act !  and  even  on  them  how 
often  will  its  operation  be  suspended  ?  and 
though  virtue  for  her  own  sake  might  have  cap¬ 
tivated  a  few  hearts,  which  almost  seem  cast  in 
a  natural  mould  of  goodness,  yet  no  motive  could 
at  all  times,  be  so  likely  to  restrain  even  these, 
(especially  under  the  pressure  of  temptation)  as 
this  simple  assertion — For  all  this,  God  will 
bring  thee  unto  judgment. 

It  is  the  beauty  of  our  religion,  that  it  is  not 
held  out  exclusively  to  a  few  select  spirits;  that 
it  is  not  an  object  of  speculation,  or  an  exercise 
of  ingenuity,  but  a  rule  of  life  suited  to  every 
condition,  capacity,  and  temper.  It  is  the  glory 
of  the  Christian  religion  to  be,  what  it  was  the 
glory  of  every  ancient  philosophic  system  not  to 
be,  the  religion  of  the  people  ;  and  that  which 
constitutes  its  characteristic  value,  is  its  suita¬ 
bleness  to  the  genius,  condition,  and  necessities 
of  mankind.  ’ 

For  with  whatsoever  obscurities  it  has  pleased 
God  to  shadow  some  parts  of  his  written  word, 
yet  he  has  graciously  ordered  that  whatever  is 
necessary  should  bo  perspicuous  also :  and 
though,  as  to  his  adorable  essence,  ‘  clouds  and 
darkness  are  round  about  him  ;’  yet  these  are 
not  the  medium  through  which  ho  has  left  us  to 
discover  our  duty.  In  this,  as  in  all  other  points, 
revealed  religion  has  a  decided  superiority  over 
all  the  ancient  systems  of  philosophy,  which 
were  always  in  many  respects  impracticable 


288 


THE  WORKS  OF  H4NNAH  MORE. 


and  extravagant,  because  not  framed  from  ob¬ 
servations  drawn  from  a  perfect  knowledge  ‘  of 
what  was  in  man.’  Whereas  the  whole  scheme 
of  the  Gospel  is  accommodated  to  real  human 
nature  ;  laying  open  its  mortal  disease,  present¬ 
ing  its  only  remedy  ;  exhibiting  rules  of  conduct 
often  difficult,  indeed,  but  never  impossible  ;  and 
where  the  rule  was  so  high  that  the  practicabili¬ 
ty  seemed  desperate,  holding  out  a  living  pat¬ 
tern,  to  elucidate  the  doctrine  and  to  illustrate 
the  precept;  offering  every  where  the  clearest 
notions  of  what  we  have  to  hope,  and  what  we 
have  to  fear  ;  the  strongest  injunctions  of  what 
we.  are  to  believe,  and  the  most  explicit  direc- 
tions  of  what  we  are  to  do ;  with  the  most  en¬ 
couraging  offers  of  Divine  assistance  for  strength¬ 
ening  our  faith  and  quickening  our  obedience. 

In  short,  whoever  examines  the  wants  of  his 
own  heart,  and  the  ap[)ropriate  assistance  which 
the  Gospel  furnishes,  will  find  them  to  be  two 
tallies  which  exactly  correspond — an  internal 
evidence,  stronger  perhaps  than  any  other,  of 
the  truth  of  Revelation. 

This  is  the  religion  with  which  the  ingenuous 
hearts  of  youth  should  be  warmed,  and  by  which 
their  minds,  while  pliant,  should  be  directed. 
This  will  afford  a  ‘  lamp  to  their  paths,’  strong¬ 
er, 'steadier,  brighter,  than  the  feeble  and  un¬ 
certain  glimmer  of  a  cold  and  comfortless  nhi- 
losophy. 


Other  symptoms  of  the  decline  of  Christianity — 
No  family  religion — Cormpt  or  negligent  ex¬ 
ample  of  superiors — 7'he  self-denying  and 
evangelical  virtues  held  in  contempt — Neglect 
of  encouraging  and  promoting  religion  among 
servants. 

It  was  by  no  means  the  design  of  the  present 
undertaking  to  make  a  general  invective  on  the 
corrupt  state  of  manners,' or  even  to  animadvert 
on  the  conduct  of  the  higher  ranks,  but  inas¬ 
much  as  the  corruption  of  that  conduct,  and  the 
depravation  of  those  manners  appear  to  be  a  na¬ 
tural  consequence  of  the  visible  decline  of  reli¬ 
gion  ;  and  as  operating  in  its  turn,  as  a  cause, 
on  the  inferior  orders  of  society. 

Of  the  other  obvious  causes  whieh  contribute 
to  this  decline  of  morals,  little  will  be  said.  Nor 
is  the  present  a  romantic  attempt  to  restore  the 
simplicity  of  primitive  manners.  This  is  too 
literally  an  age  of  gold,  to  expeet  that  it  should 
be  so  in  the  poetical  and  figurative  sense.  It 
would  be  unjust  and  absurd  not  to  form  our  opi¬ 
nions  and  expectations  from  the  present  general 
8|ate  of  society.  And  it  would  argue  great  ig¬ 
norance  of  the  corruption  which  commerce,  and 
conquest,  and  riches,  and  arts  necessarily  intro¬ 
duce  into  a  state,  to  look  for  the  same  sober- 
mindedness,  simplicity,  and  purity  among  tke 
dregs  of  Romulus,  as  the  severe  and  simple 
manners  of  elder  Rome  presented. 

But  though  it  would  be  an  attempt  of  despe¬ 
rate  hardihood,  to  controvert  that  maxim  of  the 
witty  bard,  that 

To  mend  the  world’s  a  vast  design; 

•*  popular  aphorism,  by  the  way,  which  haa  done 


no  littlfi.  mischief,  inasmuch,  as  under  the  mask 
of  hopelessness  it  suggests  an  indolent  acqni 
escence  ;  yet  to  make  the  best  of  the  times  in 
which  we  live ;  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  our 
own  actual,  particular,  and  individual  duties  ; 
and  to  take  care  that  the  age  shall  not  be  the 
worse  for  our  having  been  cast  into  it,  seems  to 
be  the  bare  dictate  of  common  probity,  and  not 
a  romantic  flight  of  impracticable  perfection. 

Is  it  then  so  very  chimerical  to  imagine  that 
the  benevolent  can  be  sober-minded  ^  Is  it  ro¬ 
mantic  to  desire  that  the  good  should  be  con¬ 
sistent  ?  Is  it  absurd  to  fancy  that  what  has 
once  been  practised  should  not  now  be  imprac¬ 
ticable  ? 

It  is  impossible  not  to  help  regretting  that  it 
should  be  the  general  temper  of  many  of  the 
leading  persons  of  that  age  which  arrogates  to 
itself  the  glorious  character  of  the  age  of  bene¬ 
volence,  to  be  kind,  considerate,  and  compassion¬ 
ate,  every  where  rather  than  at  home  ;  that  the 
rich  and  the  fashionable  should  be  zealous  in 
promoting  religious  as  weH  as  charitable  insti¬ 
tutions  abroad,  and  yet  discourage  every  thing 
wifleh  looks  like  religion  in  their  own  families  ; 
that  they  sho.uld  be  at  a  cot^iderable  expense  in 
instructing  the  poor  at  a  distance,  and  yet  dis¬ 
credit  piety  among  their  own  servants — those 
more  immediate  objects  of  every  man’s  attention, 
whom  Providence  has  enabled  to  keep  any  ; 
and  for  whose  conduct  he  will  be  finally  ac¬ 
countable,  inasmuch  as  he  may  have  helped  to 
corrupt  it. 

Is  there  any  degree  of  pecuniary  bounty  with¬ 
out  doors  which  can  counteract  the  mischief  of 
a  v^jj^ng  example  at  home,  or  atone  for  that  in¬ 
fectious  laxity  of  principle  which  spreads  cor¬ 
ruption  wherever  its  influence  extends  ?  Is  not 
he  thd’’*best  benefactor  to  society  who  sets  the 
best»example,  and  who  does  not  only  the  most 
good,  but  the  least  evil  ?  Will  not  that  man, 
however  liberal,  very  imperfectly  promote  virtue 
in  the  world  at  large,  who  neglects  to  dissemi¬ 
nate  its  principles  within  the  immediate  sphere 
of  his  own  personal  influence,  by  a  correct  con¬ 
duct  and  a  blameless  behaviour  ?  Can  a  gene¬ 
rous  but  profligate  person  atone  by  his  purse 
for  the  disorders  of  his  life  ?  Can  he  expect  a 
blessing  on  his  bounties,  while  he  defeats  their 
effect  by  a  profane  or  even  a  careless  conver¬ 
sation  7 

In  moral  as  well  as  in  political  treatises,  it  is 
often  asserted  that  it  is  a  great  evil  to  do  no 
good  ;  but  it  has  not  been  periiaps  enough  in¬ 
sisted  on,  that  it  is  a  great  deal  to  do  no  evil. 
This  species  of  goodness  is  not  ostentatious 
enough  for  popular  declamation  ;  and  the  value 
of  this  abstinence  from  vice  is  perhaps  not  well 
understood  but  by  Christians,  because  it  wants 
the  ostensible  brilliancy  of  actual  performance. 

But  as  the  pnnciples  of  Christianity  are  in  no 
great  repute,  so  their  concomitant  qualities,  the 
evangelical  virtues,  are  proportionably  dises- 
leemed.  Let  it,  however,  be  remembered,  that 
those  secret  habits  of  self-control,  those  i/ilcrior 
and  unobtrusive  virtues,  which  excite  no  asto¬ 
nishment,  kindle  no  emulation,  and  extort  no 
praise,  are  at  the  same  time  the  most  difficult, 
and  the  most  sublime  ;  and  if  Christianity  be 
true,  will  be  the  most  graciously  accepted  by 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


a89 


Him  who  witnesses  the  secret  combat  and  the 
silent  victory  ;  while  the  splendid  deeds  which 
have  the  world  for  their  witness,  and  immortal 
fame  for  their  reward,  shall  perhaps  cost  him 
who  actiieved  them  less  than  it  costs  a  conscien¬ 
tious  Christian  to  subdue  one  irregfular  inclina¬ 
tion  :  a  conquest  which  the  world  will  never 
know,  and,  if  it  did,  would  probably  despise. 

Though  great  actions,  performed  on  human 
motives,  are  permitted  by  the  Supreme  -Dispo¬ 
ser  to  be  equally  beneficial  to  society  with  such 
as  are  performed  on  purer  principles;  yet  it  is 
an  affecting  consideration,  that,  at  the  final  ad¬ 
justment  of  accounts,  the  politician  who  raised 
a  state,  or  the  hero  who  preserved  it,  may  miss 
of  that  favour  of  God  which,  if  it  was  not  his 
motive,  will  certainly  not  be  his  reward.  And 
it  is  awful  to  reflect,  as  we  visit  the  monuments 
justly  raised  by  public  gratitude,  or  the  statues 
properly  erected  by  well-earned  admiration  ;  it 
is  awful,  I  say,  to  reflect  on  what  may  now  be 
the  unalterable  condition  of  the  illustrious  object 
of  these  deserved  but  unavailing  honours  ;  and 
that  he  who  has  saved  a  state  may  have  lost  his 
own  soul ! 

A  Christian  life  seems  to  consist  of  two  things 
almost  equally  difficult ;  the  adoption  of  good 
habits,  and  the  excision  of  such  as  are  evil.  No 
one  sets  out  on  a  religious  course  with  a  stock 
of  native  innocence,  or  actual  freedom  from  sin; 
for  there  is  no  such  state  in  human  life.  The 
natural  heart  is  not,  as  has  been  too  often  sup- 
}>osed,  a  blank  paper,  whereon  the  Divine  Spirit 
has  nothing  to  do  but  to  stamp  characters  of 
goodness.  No !  many  blots  are  to  be  erased, 
many  defilements  are  to  be  cleansed,  as  well  as 
fresh  impressions  to  be  made. 

The  vigilant  Christian,  therefore,  who  acts 
with  an  eye  to  the  approbation  of  his  Maker, 
rather  than  to  that  of  mankind ;  to  a  future  ac¬ 
count,  rather  than  to  present  glory  ;  will  find 
that  diligently  to  cultivate  the  ‘  unweeded  gar¬ 
den’  of  his  own  heart ;  to  mend  the  soil ;  to  clear 
the  ground  of  indigenous  vices,  by  practising 
the  painful  business  of  extirpation,  will  be  that 
part  of  his  duty  which  will  cost  him  most  la¬ 
bour,  and  bring  him  least  credit :  while  the  fair 
flower  of  one  showy  action,  produced  with  little 
trouble,  and  of  which  the  ver}'  pleasure  is  re¬ 
ward  enough,  shall  gain  him  more  praise  than 
the  eradication  of  the  rankest  weeds  which  over¬ 
run  the  natural  heart. 

But  the  Gospel  judges  not  after  the  manner 
of  men  ;  for  it  never  fails  to  make  the  abstinent 
virtues  a  previous  step  to  the  right  performance 
of  the  operative  ones;  and  the  relinquishing 
what  is  wrong  to  be  a  necessary  prelude  to  the 
performance  of  wliat  is  right.  It  makes  ‘  ceas¬ 
ing  to  do  evil’  tlie  indispensable  preliminary  to 
*  learning  to  do  well.’  It  continually  suggests 
that  something  is  to  be- laid  aside,  as  well  as  to 
bo  practised.  We  must  ‘  hate  vain  thoughts’ 
before  wo  can  ‘love  God’s  law.’  We  must 
lay  aside  ‘  tnalice  and  hypocrisy,’  to  enable 
us  ‘  to  receive  the  engrafted  word.’  Having 
‘a  conscience  void  of  oflence ;’ — ‘abstaining 
from  fleshly  lusts  ;’ — ‘  bring  every  thought  into 
obedience  ;’ — these  arc  actions,  or  rather  nega¬ 
tions,  which,  though  they  never  will  obtain  im¬ 
mortality  from  the  chisel  of  the  statuary,  the 
VoL.  1.  T 


declamation  of  the  historian,  or  the  panegyric 
of  the  poet,  will,  however,  be  ‘  had  in  everlasting 
remembrance,’  w'hen  the  works  of  the  statuary, 
the  historian,  and  the  poet  will  be  no  more. 

And,  for  our  encouragement,  it  is  observable 
that  a  more  difficult  Christian  virtue  generally 
involves  an  easier  one.  A  habit  of  self-denial 
in  permitted  pleasures,  easily  induces  a  victory 
over  such  as  are  unlawful.  And  to  sit  loose  to 
our  own  possessions,  necessarily  includes  an  ex¬ 
emption  from  coveting  the  possessions  of  others' 
and  so  on  of  the  rest. 

Will  it  be  difficult  then  to  trace  back  to  fliat 
want  of  early  restraint  noticed  in  the  preceding 
chapter,  that  licence  of  behaviour  which,  having 
been  indulged  in  youth,  afterwards  reigned 
uncontrolled  in  families :  and  which  having 
infected  education  in  its  first  springs,  taints  all 
the  streams  of  domestic  virtue  ?  And  will  it  be 
thought  strange  that  that  same  want  of  religious 
principle  which  corrupted  our  children,  should 
corrupt  our  servants  ? 

We  scarcely  go  into  any  company  without 
hearing  some  invective  against  the  increased 
profligacy  of  this  order  of  men  ;  and  the  remark 
is  made  with  as  great  an  air  of  astonishment,  as 
if  the  cause  of  the  complaint  were  not  as  visible 
as  the  truth  of  it.  It  would  be  endless  to  point 
out  instances  in  which  the  increased  dissipation 
of  their  betters  (as  they  are  oddly  called)  has 
contributed  to  the  growth  of  this  evil.  But 
it  comes  only  within  the  immediate  design  of 
the  present  undertaking  to  insist  on  the  single 
circumstance  of  the  almost  total  extermination 
of  religion  in  fashionable  families,  as  a  cause 
adequate  of  itself  to  any  consequence  which  de¬ 
praved  morals  can  produce. 

Is  there  not  a  degree  of  injustice  in  persons 
who  express  strong  indignation  at  those  crimes 
which  crowd  our  prisons,  and  furnish  our  inces¬ 
sant  executions,  and  who  yet  discourage  not  an 
internal  principle  of  vice:  since  those  crimes 
are  nothing  more  than  that  principle  put  into 
action  ?  And  it  is  no  less  absurd  than  cruel,  in 
such  of  the  great  as  lead  disorderly  lives,  to  ex¬ 
pect  to  prevent  vice  by  the  laws  they  make  to 
restrain  or  punish  it,  while  their  own  example 
is  a  perpetual  source  of  temptation  to  commit  it. 
If,  by  their  own  practice,  they  demonstrate  that 
they  think  a  vicious  life  is  the  only  happy 
one,  with  what  colour  of  justice  can  tliey  inflict 
penalties  on  others,  who,  by  acting  on  the  same 
principle,  expect  the  same  indulgence  ! 

And  indeed  it  is  somewhat  unreasonable  to 
expect  very  high  degrees  of  virtue  and  probity 
fiom  a  class  of  people  whose  whole  life,  after 
they  are  admitted  into  dissipated  families,  is  one 
continued  counteraction  of  the  principles  in 
which  they  have  probably  been  bred. 

When  a  poor  youth  is  transplanted  from  one 
of  tt  ose  excellent  institutions  which  do  honor  to 
the  present  age,  and  give  some  hope  of  reform¬ 
ing  the  next,  into  the  family  of  his  nohlo  bene¬ 
factor  in  town,  who  has,  perha|)s,  provided  libe¬ 
rally  for  his  instruction  in  the  country  ;  what 
must  he  his  astonishntent  at  finding  the  manner 
of  life  to  which  he  is  introduced  diametrically 
opposite  to  that  life  to  which  he  has  been  taught 
that  salvation  is  alone  annexed  !  He  has  been 
taught  that  it  was  his  boundon  duty  to  be  de- 


290 


THE  WORKS  OJ?  HANNAH  MORE. 


voutly  thankful  for  his  own  scanty  :neal,  per¬ 
haps  of  barley-bread  ;  yet  he  sees  his  noble  lord 
sit  down  every  day, 

Not  to  a  dinner,  but'  a  becatomb : 

to  a  repast  of  whieh  every  element  is  plundered, 
and  every  climate  impoverished ;  for  whieh  na¬ 
ture  is  ransacked,  and  art  is  exhausted  ;  without 
even  the  formal  ceremony  of  a  slight  acknow¬ 
ledgment.  It  will  be  lucky  for  the  master,  if 
his  servant  does  not  happen  to  know  that  even 
the  pagans  never  sat  down  to  a  repast  without 
making  a  libation  to  their  deities  ;  and  that  the 
Jews  did  not  eat  a  little  fruit,  or  drink  a  cup  of 
water,  without  an  expression  of  devout  thank¬ 
fulness. 

Next  to  the  law  of  God,  he  has  been  taught  to 
reverence  the  law  of  the  land,  and  to  respect  an 
act  of  parliament  next  to  a  text  of  Scripture  : 
yet  he  sees  his  honourable  protector,  publicly 
in  his  own  house,  engaged  in  the  evening  in 
playing  at  a  game  expressly  prohibited  by  the 
laws,  and  against  which  perhaps  he  himself  had 
been  assisting  in  the. day  to  pass  an  act. 

While  the  contempt  of  religion  was  confined 
to  wits  and  philosophers,  the  effect  was  not  so 
sensibly  felt.  But  we  eannot  congratulate  the 
ordinary  race  of  mortals  on  their  emancipation 
from  old  prejudices,  or  their  indifference  to  sa¬ 
cred  usages ;  as  it  is  not  at  all  visible  that  the 
world  is  become  happier  in  proportion  as  it  is 
become  more  enlightened.  We  might  rejoice 
more  in  the  boasted  diffusion  of  light  and  free¬ 
dom,  were  it  not  apparent  that  bankruptcies  are 
grown  more  frequent,  robberies  more  common, 
divorces  more  numerous,  and  forgeries  more  ex¬ 
tensive — that  more  rich  men  die  by  their  own 
hand,  and  more  poor  men  by  the  hand  of  the 
exeeutioner — than  when  Christianity  was  prac¬ 
tised  by  the  vulgar,  and  countenanced,  at  least, 
by  the  great. 

It  is  not  to  be  regretted,  therefore,  while  the 
affluent  are  encouraging  so  many  admirable 
schemes  for  promoting  religion  among  the  chil¬ 
dren  of  the  poor,  that  they  do  not  like  to  perpe¬ 
tuate  the  principle,  by  encouraging  it  in  their 
own  children  and  their  servants  also  ?  Is  it 
not  a  pity,  since  these  last  are  so  moderately 
furnished  with  the  good  things  of  this  life,  to 
rob  them  of  that  bright  reversion,  the  bare  hope 
of  which  is  a  counterpoise  to  all  the  hardships 
they  undergo  here — esp'ceially  since  by  dimi¬ 
nishing  this  future  hope,  we  shall  not  be  likely 
to  add  to  their  present  usefulness  ? 

Still  allowing,  what  has  been  already  granted, 
that  absolute  infidelity  is  not  the  reigning  evil, 
and  that  servants  will  perhaps  be  more  likely 
to  see  religion  neglected  than  to  hear  it  ridiculed 
— would  it  not  be  a  meritorious  kindness  in  fa¬ 
milies  of  a  better  stamp,  to  furnish  them  with 
more  opportunities  of  learning  and  practising 
thjir  duty  I  Is  it  not  impolitic  indeed,  as  well 
as  unkind,  to  refuse  them  any  means  of  having 
impressed  on  their  consciences  the  operative 
principles  of  Christianity  ?  It  is  but  little,  barely 
not  to  oppose  their  going  to  church,  not  to  pre¬ 
vent  their  doing  their  duty  at  home,  their  op¬ 
portunities  of  doing  both  ought  to  be  facilitated, 
by  giving  them,  at  certain  seasons,  as  few  em¬ 
ployments  as  possible  that  may  interfere  with 


both.  Even  when  religion  is  by  pretty  general 
consent  banished  from  our  families  at  home,  that 
only  furnishes  a  stronger  reason  why  our  fami¬ 
lies  should  not  be  banished  from  religion  in  the 
churches. 

But  if  these  opportunities  are  not  made  easy 
and  convenient  to  them,  their  superiors  have  no 
right  to  expect  from  them  a  zeal  so  far  trans* 
cending  their  own,  as  to  induce  them  to  sur¬ 
mount  difficulties  for  the  sake  of  duty.  Religioa 
is  never  once  represented  in  Scripture  as  a  light 
attainment ;  it  is  never  once  illustrated  by  aa 
easy,  a  quiet,  or  an  indolent  allegory. 

On  the  contrary,  it  is  exhibited  under  the  ac¬ 
tive  figure  of  a  combat,  a  race  ;  something  ex¬ 
pressive  of  exertion,  activity,  progress.  And  yet 
many  are  unjust  enough  to  think  that  this  war¬ 
fare  can  be  fought,  though  they  themselves  are 
perpetually  weakening  the  vigour  of  the  com¬ 
batant  ;  this  race  be  run,  though  they  are  inces¬ 
santly  obstructing  the  progress  of  him  who  runs 
by  some  hard  and  interfering  command.  That 
our  compassionate  Judge,  who  ‘  knoweth  where¬ 
of  we  are  made,  and  remembereth  that  we  are 
but  dust,’  is  particularly  touched  with  the  feeling 
of  their  infirmities,  can  never  be  doubted ;  but 
what  portion  of  forgiveness  he  will  extend  to 
those  who  lay  on  their  virtue,  hard  burdens  ‘too 
heavy  for  them  to  bear  ’  who  shall  say  ? 

To  keep  an  immortal  being  in  a  state  of  spi¬ 
ritual  darkness,  is  a  positive  disobedience  to  His 
law,  who  when  he  bestowed  the  Bible,  no  less 
than  when  he  created  the  material  world,  said 
Let  there  he  light.  It  were  well,  both  for  the 
advantage  of  master  and  servant,  that  the  latter 
should  have  the  doctrines  of  the  Gospel  fre 
quently  impressed  on  his  heart ;  that  his  con¬ 
science  should  be  made  familiar  with  a  system 
which  offers  such  clear  and  intelligible  proposi¬ 
tions  of  moral  duty.  The  striking  interrogation, 

‘  how  shall  I  do  this  great  wickedness,  and  sin 
against  God  V  will  perhaps  operate  as  forcibly 
on  an  uncultivated  mind,  as  the  most  eloquent 
essay  to  prove  that  man  is  not  an  accountable 
being.  That  once  credited  promise,  that  ‘  they 
who  have  done  well  shall  go  into  everlasting 
life,’  will  be  more  grateful  to  the  spirit  of  a  plain, 
man,  than  that  more  elegant  and  disinterested 
sentiment,  that  virtue  is  Us  own  reward.  That, 

‘  he  that  walketh  uprightly  walketh  surely,’  is 
not  on  the  whole  a  dangerous,  or  a  misleading 
maxim.  And  ‘well  done,  good  and  faithful  ser¬ 
vant  !  I  will  make  thee  ruler  over  many  things, 
though  offensive  to  the  liberal  spirit  of  philoso¬ 
phic  dignity,  is  a  comfortable  support  to  humble 
and  suffering  piety.  That  ‘  we  should  do  to 
others  as  v;e  would  they  should  do  to  us,’  is  a 
portable  measureof human  duty,always  at  hand, 
as  always  referring  to  something  within  him¬ 
self,  not  amiss  for  a  poor  man  to  carry  constant 
ly  about  with  him,  who  has  neither  time  nor 
learning  to  search  for  a  better.  It  is  an  uni¬ 
versal  and  compendious  law,  so  universal  as  to 
include  the  whole  compass  of  social  obligation; 
so  compendious  as  to  be  inclosed  in  so  short  and 
plain  an  aphorism,  that  the  dullest  mind  cannot 
misapprehend,  nor  the  weakest  memory  forget 
it.  It  is  convenient  for  bringing  out  on  all  tho 
ordinary  occasions  of  life.  VVe  need  not  say, 

‘  who  shall  go  up  to  heaven  and  bring  it  unto 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


291 


us,  for  this  word  is  very  nigh  unto  thee,  in 
thy  mouth  and  in  thy  heart,  that  thou  mayest 
do  it.’* 

For  it  is  a  very  valuable  part  of  the  gospel  of 
Christ,  that  though  it  is  an  entire  and  perfect 
system  in  its  design  !  though  it  exhibits  one 
great  plan  from  which  complete  trains  of  argu¬ 
ment,  and  connected  schemes  of  reasoning  may 
be  deduced  ;  yet  in  compassion  to  the  multitude, 
for  whom  this  benevolent  institution  was  in  a 
good  measure  designed,  and  who  could  not  have 
comprehended  a  long  chain  of  propositions,  or 
have  embraced  remote  deductions,  the  most  im¬ 
portant  truths  of  doctrine,  and  the  most  essential 
documents  of  virtue,  are  detailed  in  single  max¬ 
ims,  and  comprised  in  short  sentences  ;  inde¬ 
pendent  of  themselves,  yet  making  a  necessary 
part  of  a  consummate  whole  ;  from  a  few  of 
which  principles  the  whole  train  of  human  vir¬ 
tues  has  been  deduced,  and  many  a  perfect  body 
of  ethics  has  been  framed. 

If  it  be  thought  wonderful,  that  from  so  few 
letters  of  the  alphabet,  so  few  figures  of  arithme¬ 
tic,  so  few  notes  in  music,  such  endless  combi¬ 
nations  should  have  been  produced  in  their  re¬ 
spective  arts  how  far  more  beautiful  would  it 
be  to  trace  the  whole  circle  of  morals  thus  growl¬ 
ing  out  of  a  few  elementary  principles  of  gospel 
truth. 

All  Seneca’s  arguments  against  the  fear  of 
death  never  yet  reconciled  one  reader  to  its  ap¬ 
proach  half  so  effectually  as  the  humble  believer 
is  reconciled  to  it  by  that  simple  persuasion,  ‘  I 
know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth.’ 

While  the  modern  philosopher  is  extending 
the  boundaries  of  human  knowledge,  by  under¬ 
taking  to  prove  that  matter  is  eternal;  or  en¬ 
larging  the  stock  of  human  happiness,  by  de- 
monstrating  the  extinction  of  spirit — it  can  do 
no  harm  to  an  unlettered  man  to  believe,  that 
‘  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away,  but  God’s 
word  shall  not  pass  away.’  While  the  former 
is  indulging  the  profitable  inquiry  why  the 
Deity  made  the  world  so  late,  or  why  he  made  it 
at  all,  it  will  not  hurt  the  latter  to  believe  that 
‘  in  the  beginning  God  made  the  world,’  and 
that  in  the  end  ‘he  shall  judge  it  in  righteous¬ 
ness.’ 

Wliile  the  liberal  scholar  is  usefully  studying 
the  law  of  nature  and  of  nations,  let  him  rejoice 
that  his  more  illiterate  brother  possesses  the 
plain  conviction  that  ‘  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the 
law’ — that  ‘love  worketh  no  ill  to  his  neighbour.’ 
And  let  him  be  persuaded  that  he  himself, 
though  he  know  all  Tully’s  Offices  by  heart, 
may  not  have  acquired  a  more  feeling  and  ope¬ 
rative  sentiment  than  is  conveyed  to  the  com¬ 
mon  Christian  in  the  rule  to  ‘bear  each  other’s 
burthen.’  While  the  wit  is  criticising  the  creed, 
he  will  be  no  loser  by  encouraging  his  depend¬ 
ants  to  keep  the  commandments ;  since  a  few 
such  simple  propositions  as  the  above  furnish  a 
more  practical  and  correct  rule  of  life  than  can 
be  gleaned  from  all  the  volumes  of  ancient  phi¬ 
losophy,  justly  eminent  as  many  of  them  are  for 
wisdom  and  purity.  For  though  they  abound 
with  passages  of  true  sublimity,  and  sentiments 
of  groat  moral  beauty,  yet  the  result  is  naturally 
defective,  the  conclusions  necessarily  contra- 
♦  Deut.  XXX,  11  and  12. 


dictory. — This  was  no  fault  of  the  author,  but 
of  the  system.  The  vision  was  acute,  but  the 
light  was  dim.  The  sharpest  sagacity  could 
not  distinguish  spiritual  objects,  in  the  twilight 
of  natural  religion,  with  that  accuracy  with 
which  they  are  now  discerned  by  every  common 
Christian,  in  the  diffusion  of  gospel  light. 

And  whether  it  be  that  what  depraves  the 
principle  darkens  the  intellect  also,  certain  it  is 
that  an  uneducated  serious  Christian  reads  his 
Bible  with  a  clearness  of  intelligence,  with  an 
intellectual  comment  which  no  sceptic  or  mere 
worldling  ever  attains.  The  former  has  not 
prejudged  the  cause  he  is  examining.  He  is 
not  often  led  by  his  passions,  still  more  rarely 
by  his  interest,  to  resist  his  convictions.  While 
the  ‘  secret  of  the  Lord  is  (obviously)  with  them 
that  fear  him,’  the  mind  of  them  who  fear  him 
not,  is  generally  prejudiced  by  a  retaining  fee 
from  the  world,  from  their  passions  or  their 
pride,  before  they  enter  on  the  inquiry. 

With  what  consistency  can  the  covetous  man 
embrace  a  religion  which  so  pointedly  forbids 
him  to  lay  up  treasures  on  earth  V  How  will 
the  man  of  spirit,  as  the  world  is  pleased  to  call 
the  duellist,  relish  a  religion  which  allows  not 
‘  the  sun  to  go  down  upon  his  wrath  ?’  How 
can  the  ambitious  struggle  for  ‘  a  kingdom 
which  is  not  in  this  world,  and  embrace  a  faith 
which  commands  him  to  lay  down  his  crown  at 
the  feet  of  another  ?’  How  should  the  professed 
wit  or  the  mere  philosopher  adopt  a  system 
which  demands  in  a  lofty  tone  of  derision, 

‘  Where  is  the  scribe  ?  Where  is  the  wise  ? 
Where  is  the  disputer  of  this  world  ?’  How  will 
the  self-satisfied  Pharisee  endure  a  religion 
which,  while  it  peremptorily  demands  from  him 
every  useful  action,  and  every  right  exertion, 
will  not  permit  him  to  rest  his  hope  of  salvation 
on  their  performance  ?  He  whose  aflbctions  are 
voluntarily  riveted  to  the  present  world,  will  not 
much  delight  in  a  seheme  whose  avowed  prin¬ 
ciples  is  to  set  him  above  it.  The  obvious  con¬ 
sequence  of  these  ‘  hard  sayings,’  is  illustrated 
by  daily  instances.  ‘  Have  any  of  the  rulers 
believed  on  him  ?’  is  a  question  not  confined  to 
the  first  age  of  his  appearance.  Had  the  most 
enlightened  philosophers  of  the  most  polished 
nations,  collected  all  the  scattered  wit  and  learn¬ 
ing  of  the  world  into  one  point  in  order  to  in¬ 
vent  a  religion  for  the  salvation  of  mankind,  the 
doctrine  of  the  cross  is  perhaps  precisely  the 
thing  they  would  never  have  hit  upon:  precisely 
the  thing  which,  being  offered  to  them,  they 
would  reject.  The  intellectual  pride  of  the  phi¬ 
losopher  relished  it  as  little  as  the  earnal  pride 
of  the  Jew  ;  for  it  flattered  human  wit  no  more 
than  it  gratified  human  grandeur.  The  pride 
of  great  acquirements,  and  of  great  wealth, 
equally  obstructs  the  reception  of  divine  truth 
into  the  heart ;  and  whether  the  natural  man  be 
called  upon  to  part  either  from  ‘  great  posses¬ 
sions,’  or  ‘  high  imaginations,’  he  equally  goes 
away  sorrowing. 


CHAP.  V. 

The  negligent  conduct  of  Christians  no  real  oh- 
jeclion  against  Christianity. —  I'he  reason  why 


292 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


its  effects  are  not  more  manifest  to  worldly 
men,  is  because  believers  do  not  lead  Chris¬ 
tian  lives.  Professors  differ  but  little  in  their 
practice  from  uni  elievers.  Even  real  Chris¬ 
tians  are  too  diffident  and  timid,  and  afraid 
of  acting  up  to  their  principles. —  The  absur¬ 
dity  of  the  charge  commonly  brought  against 
religious  people,  that  they  are  too  strict. 

It  is,  an  objection  frequently  brought  against 
Christianity,  that  if  it  exhibited  so  perfect  a 
scheme,  if  its  influences  were  as  strong,  if  its 
etfects  were  as  powerful,  as  its  friends  pre¬ 
tend,  it  must  have  produced  more  visible  con¬ 
sequences  in  the  reformation  of  mankind.  This 
is  not  the  place  fully  to  answer  this  objection, 
which  (like  all  the  other  cavils  against  our  re¬ 
ligion)  continues  to  be  urged  just  as  if  it  never 
had  been  answered.  ' 

That  vice  and  immorality  prevail  in  no  small 
degree  in  countries  professing  Christianity,  we 
need  not  go  out  of  our  own  to  be  convinced. 
But  that  this  is  the  case  only  because  this  be¬ 
nign  principle  is  not  suffered  to  operate  in  its 
full  power,  will  be  no  less  obvious  to  all  who  are 
sincere  in  their  inquiries  :  For  if  we  allow  (and 
who  that  examines  impartially  can  help  allow¬ 
ing)  that  it  is  the  natural  tendency  of  Christi¬ 
anity  to  make  men  better,  then  it  must  be  the 
aversion  from  receiving  it,  and  not  the  fault  of 
the  principle,  which  prevents  them  from  be¬ 
coming  so. 

Those  who  are  acquainted  with  the  effects 
which  Christianity  actually  produced  in  the 
first  ages  of  the  church,  when  it  was  received 
in  its  genuine  purity,  and  when  it  did  operate 
without  obstruction,  from  its  professors  at  least, 
will  want  no  oth  r  proof  of  its  inherent  power 
and  efficacy.  At  that  period,  its  most  decided 
and  industrious  enemy,  the  emperor  Julian, 
could  recommend  the  manners  of  Gallileans  to 
the  imitation  of  his  pagan  high  priests;  though 
he  himself,  at  the  same  time,  was  doing  every 
thing  which  the  most  inveterate  malice,  sharpen- 
d  by  the  acutest  wit,  and  backed  by  the  most 
absolute  power  could  devise,  to  discredit  their 
doctrines. 

Nor  would  the  efficacy  of  Christianity  be  less 
visible  now  in  influencing  the  conduct  of  its 
professors,  if  its  principles  were  heartily  and 
sincerely  received.  They  would,  were  they  of 
the  true  genuine  cast  operate  on  the  conduct  so 
effectually,  that  we  should  see  morals  and  man¬ 
ners  growing  out  of  principles,  as  we  see  other 
consequences  grow  out  of  their  proper  and  na¬ 
tural  causes.  Let  but  this  great  spring  have  its 
unobstructed  play,  and  there  would  be  little  oc¬ 
casion  to  declaim  against  this  excess  or  that 
enormity.  If  the  same  skill  and  care  which  are 
employed  in  curing  symptoms,  were  vigorously 
levelled  at  the  internal  principle  of  the  disease, 
the  moral  health  would  feel  the  benefit.  If  that 
attention  which  is  bestowed  in  lopping  the  re¬ 
dundant  and  unsightly  branches,  were  devoted 
to  the  cultivation  of  a  sound  and  ur;corrupt  root, 
the  effect  of  this  labour  would  soon  be  discovered 
by  the  excellence  of  the  fruits. 

For  though,  even  in  the  highest  possible  ex¬ 
ertion  of  religious  principle,  and  the  most  dili¬ 
gent  practice  of  all  its  consequential  train  of 


virtues,  man  would  still  find  evil  propensities 
enough,  in  his  fallen  nature,  to  make  it  neces¬ 
sary  that  he  should  counteract  them  by  keeping 
alive  his  difigence  after  higher  attainments,  and 
to  quicken  his  aspirations  after  a  bettei  state  ;  yet 
the  prevailing  temper  would  be  in  general  right; 
the  will  would  be  in  a  great  measure  rectified  ; 
and  the  heart,  feeling,  and  acknowledging  its  dis¬ 
ease,  would  apply  itself  diligently  to  the  only 
remedy.  Thus  though  even  the  best  men  have 
infirmities  enough  to  deplore,  and  commit  sins 
enough  to  keep  them  deeply  humble,  and  feel 
more  sensibly  than  others  the  imperfections  of 
that  vessel  in  which  their  heavenly  treasure  is 
hid,  they  however  have  the  internal  consolation 
of  knowing  that  they  shall  have  to  do  with  a 
merciful  Father,  who  ‘  despiseth  not  the  sighing 
of  the  contrite  heart,  nor  the  desire  of  such  as 
be  sorrowful,’  who  has  been  witness  to  all  their 
struggles  against  sin,  and  to  whom  they  can  ap¬ 
peal  with  Peter  for  the  sincerity  of  their  desires 
— ‘  Lord  !  Thou  knowest  all  things  :  thou 
knowest  that  I  love  Thee.’ 

All  the  heavy  charges  which  have  been 
brought  against  religion  have  been  taken  from 
the  abuses  of  it.  In  every  other  instance,  the 
injustice  of  this  proceeding  would  be  notorious  : 
but  there  is  a  general  want  of  candour  in  the 
judgment  of  men  on  this  subject,  which  we  do 
not  find  them  exercise  on  other  oecasions  ;  that 
of  throwing  the  fault  of  the  erring  or  ignorant 
professor  on  the  profession  itself. 

It  does  not  derogate  from  the  honourable  pro¬ 
fession  of  arms,  that  there  are  cowards  and  brag¬ 
garts  in  the  army.  If  any  man  lose  his  estate 
by  the  chicanery  of  an  attorney,  or  his  health 
by  the  blunder  of  a  physician,  it  is  commonly 
said  that  the  one  was  a  disgrace  to  his  business, 
and  the  other  was  ignorant  of  it ;  but  no  one 
therefore  concludes  that  law  and  physic  are 
contemptible  professions. 

Christianity  alone  is  obliged  to  bear  all  the 
obloquy  ineurred  by  the  misconduct  of  its  follow 
ers  ;  to  sustain  all  the  reproaeh  excited  by  igno- 
rant,  by  fanatical,  by  superstitious,  or  hypocritical 
professors.  But  whoever  accuses  it  of  a  tendency 
to  produce  the  errors  of  these  professors,  must 
have  picked  up  his  opinion  any  where  rather 
than  in  the  New  Testament ;  which  book  being 
the  only  authentic  history  of  Christianity,  is  that 
which  candour  would  naturally  consult  for  in¬ 
formation. 

But  as  worldly  and  irreligious  men  do  not 
draw  their  notions  from  that  pure  fountain,  but 
from  the  polluted  stream  of  human  practice  ;  as 
they  form  their  judgment  of  Divine  truth  from 
the  conduct  of  those  who  pretend  to  be  en¬ 
lightened  by  it ;  some  charitable  allowance  must 
be  made  for  the  contempt  which  they  entertain 
for  Christianity,  when  they  see  what  poor  effects 
it  produces  in  the  lives  of  the  generality  of  pro¬ 
fessing  Christians.  What  do  they  observe  there 
which  can  lead  them  to  entertain  very  high 
ideas  of  the  principles  which  give  birth  to  such 
practices  ? 

Do  men  of  the  world  discover  any  marked, 
any  decided  diflerence  between  the  conduct  of 
nominal  Christians  and  the  rest  of  their  neigh¬ 
bours  who  pretend  to  no  religion  at  alt  ?  Do 
they  see,  in  the  daily  lives  of  such,  any  great 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


293 


abundance  of  those  fruits  by  which  they  have 
heard  believers  are  to  be  known  ?  On  the  con¬ 
trary,  do  they  not  discern  in  them  the  same 
anxious  and  unwearied  pursuit  after  the  things 
of  the  earth,  as  in  those  who  do  not  profess  to 
have  any  thought  of  heaven  ?  Do  not  they  see 
them  labour  as  sedulously  in  the  interests  of  a 
debasing  and  frivolous  dissipation,  as  those  who 
do  not  pretend  to  have  any  nobler  object  in 
view  ?  Is  there  not  the  same  eagerness  to  plunge 
into  all  sorts  of  follies  themselves,  and  the  same 
unrighteous  speed  in  introducing  their  children 
to  them,  as  if  they  had  never  entered  into  a 
solemn  engagement  to  renounce  them  ?  Is 
there  not  the  same  self-indulgence,  the  same 
luxury,  and  the  same  passionate  attachment  to 
the  things  of  this  world  in  them,  as  is  visible  in 
those  who  do  not  look  for  another  ? 

Do  not  thoughtless  neglect,  and  habitual  dis¬ 
sipation  answer,  as  to  society,  all  the  ends  of  the 
most  decided  infidelity  ?  Between  the  barely 
decent  and  the  openly  profane  there  is  indeed 
this  difference — That  the  one,  by  making  no 
profession,  deceives  neither  the  world  nor  his 
own  heart :  while  the  other,  by  introducing  him¬ 
self  in  forms,  fancies  that  he  does  something, 
and  thanks  God  that  ‘  he  is  not  like  this  pub¬ 
lican.’  The  one  only  shuts  his  eyes  upon  the 
danger  which  the  other  despises. 

But  these  unfruitful  professors  would  do  well 
to  recollect  that,  by  a  conduct  so  little  worthy 
of  their  high  calling,  they  not  only  violate  the 
law  to  which  they  have  vowed  obedience,  but 
occasion  many  to  disbelieve  or  to  despise  it; 
that  they  are  thus  in  a  great  measure  accounta¬ 
ble  for  the  infidelity  of  others,  and  of  course  will 
have  to  answer  for  more  than  their  own  person¬ 
al  offences.  For  did  they  in  any  respect  live 
up  to  the  principles  they  profess ;  did  they  adorn 
the  doctrines  of  Christianity  by  a  life  in  any  de¬ 
gree  consonant  to  their  faith  ;  did  they  exhibit 
any  thing  of  the  ‘  beauty  of  holiness’  in  their 
daily  conversation ;  they  would  then  give  such 
a  demonstrative  proof  not  only  of  the  sincerity 
of  their  own  obedience,  but  of  the  brightness 
of  that  divine  light  by  which  they  profess  to 
walk,  that  the  most  determined  unbeliever  would 
at  last  begin  to  think  there  must  he  something 
in  a  religion  of  which  the  effects  were  so  visible, 
and  the  fruits  so  amiable  ;  and  in  time  be  led  to 
‘  glorify,’  not  them,  not  the  imperfect  doers  of 
these  works,  but  ‘  their  Father,  which  is  in 
heaven.’  Whereas,  as  things  are  at  present 
carried  on,  the  obvious  conclusion  must  be, 
either  that  Christians  do  not  believe  in  the  re¬ 
ligion  they  profess,  or  that  there  is  no  truth  in 
the  religion  itself. 

For  will  he  not  naturally  say,  that  if  its  in¬ 
fluences  were  so  predominant,  its  consequences 
must  be  more  evident !  that,  if  the  prize  held  out 
were  really  so  bright,  those  who  truly  believed 
so,  would  surely  do  something,  and  sacrifice 
something  to  obtain  it ! 

This  effect  of  the  carelessness  of  believers  on 
the  hearts  of  others,  will  probably  be  a  heavy 
aggravation  of  their  own  guilt  at  the  final  reck¬ 
oning  : — and  there  is  no  negligent  Christian  can 
guess  whore  the  infection  of  his  example  may 
stop ;  or  how  remotely  it  may  be  pleaded  as  a 
palliation  of  the  sins  of  others,  who  either  may 


think  themselves  safe  while  they  are  only  doing 
what  Christian’s  allow  themselves  to  do ;  or  wha 
may  adduce  a  Christian’s  habitual  violation  of 
the  divine  law,  as  a  presumptive  evidence  that 
there  is  no  truth  in  Christianity. 

This  swells  the  amount  of  the  actual  mischief 
beyond  calculation ;  and  there  is  something 
terrible  in  the  idea  of  this  sort  of  definite  evil, 
that  the  careless  Christian  can  never  know  the 
extent  of  the  contagion  he  spreads,  nor  the  mul¬ 
tiplied  infections  which  they  may  communicato 
in  their  turn,  whom  his  disorders  first  corrupted. 

And  there  is  this  farther  aggravation  of  his 
offence,  that  he  will  not  only  be  answerable  for 
all  the  positive  evils  of  which  his  example  is  the 
cause;  but  for  the  omission  of  all  the  probable 
good  which  might  have  been  called  forth  in 
others,  had  his  actions  been  consistent  with  his 
profession.  What  a  strong,  what  an  almost 
irresistible  conviction  would  it  carry  to  the 
hearts  of  unbelievers,  if  they  beheld  that  charac¬ 
teristic  difference  in  the  manner  of  Christians 
which  their  profession  gives  one  to  expect,  if 
they  saw  that  disinterestedness,  that  humility, 
sober-ftiindedness,  temperance,  simplicity,  and 
sincerity,  which  are  the  unavoidable  fruits  of  a 
genuine  faith!  and  which  the  Bible  has  taught 
them  to  expect  in  every  Christian. 

But,  while  a  man  talks  like  a  saint,  and  yet 
lives  like  a  sinner  ;  while  he  professes  to  believe 
like  an  apostle,  and  yet  leads  the  life  of  a  sen¬ 
sualist  ;  talks  of  ardent  faith,  and  yet  exhibits  a 
cold  and  low  practice ;  boasts  himself  the  dis- 
ciple  of  a  meek  Master,  and  yet  is  as  much  a 
slave  to  his  passions  as  they  who  acknowledge 
no  such  authority  ;  while  he  appears  the  proud 
professor  of  an  humble  religion,  or  the  intem¬ 
perate  champion  of  a  self-denying  one — such  a 
man  brings  Christianity  into  disrepute,  confirms 
those  in  error  who  might  have  been  awakened 
to  conviction,  strengthens  doubt  into  disbelief, 
and  hardens  indifference  into  contempt. 

Even  among  those  of  a  better  cast  and  a 
purer  principle,  the  excessive  restraints  of 
timidity,  caution,  and  that  ‘  fear  of  man,  which 
bringeth  a  snare,’  confine,  and  almost  stifle  the 
generous  spirit  of  an  ardent  exertion  in  the 
cause  of  religion.  Christianity  may  patheti- 
cally  expostulate,  that  it  is  not  always  *  an  open 
enemy  which  dishonours  her,’  but  her  ‘  familiar 
friend.’  And  ‘  what  dost  thou  more  than 
others  ?’  is  a  question  which  even  the  good  and 
worthy  should  often  ask  themselves,  in  order  to 
quicken  their  zeal ;  to  prevent  the  total  stagna¬ 
tion  of  unexerted  principles,  on  tlie  one  hand 
or  the  danger,  on  the  other,  of  their  being  driven 
down  the  gulf  of  ruin  by  the  unresisted  and  con¬ 
fluent  tides  of  temptation,  fashion,  and  example. 

In  a  very  strict  and  mortified  age,  of  which  a 
scrupulous  severity  was  the  predominant  cha¬ 
racter,  precautions  against  an  excessive  zeal 
might,  and  doubtless  would,  bo  a  wliolesome 
and  prudent  measure.  But  in  those  times  of 
relaxed  principle  and  frigid  indifference,  to  see 
peoj)le  so  vigilantly  on  their  guard  against  the 
imaginary  mischiefs  of  enthusiasm,  while  they 
run  headlong  into  the  real  opposite  perils  of  a 
destructive  licentiousness,  reminds  us  of  the  one- 
eyed  animal  in  the  fable  ;  who,  living  on  the 
banks  of  the  ocean,  never  fancied  he  could  be 


294 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


destroyetl  any  way  but  by  drowning :  but,  wJiile 
he  kept  that  one  eye  constantly  fixed  on  the  sea, 
on  which  side  he  concluded  all  the  peril  lay,  lie 
was  devoured  by  an  enemy  on  the  dry  land, 
from  which  quarter  he  never  suspected  any 
danger. 

Are  not  the  mischiefs  of  an  enthusiastic  piety 
insisted  on  with  as  much  earnestness  as  if  an 
extravagant  devotion  were  the  prevailing  pro¬ 
pensity  ?  Is  not  the  necessity  of  moderation  as 
vehemently  urged  as  if  an  intemperate  zeal 
were  the  epidemic  distemper  of  the  great  world  ? 
as  if  all  our  apparent  danger  and  natural  bias 
lay  on  the  side  of  a  too  rigid  austerity,  which 
required  the  discreet  and  constant  counteraction 
of  an  opposite  principle  ?  Would  not  a  stranger 
be  almost  tempted  to  imagine,  from  the  frequent 
invectives  against  extreme  strictness,  that  ab¬ 
straction  from  the  world,  and  a  monastic  rage 
for  retreat,  were  the  ruling  temper  ?  that  we 
were  in  some  danger  of  seeing  our  places  of  di¬ 
version  abandoned,  and  the  enthusiastic  scenes 
of  the  Holy  Fathers  of  the  desert  acted  over  again 
by  the  frantic  and  uncontrollable  devotion  of 
our  young  persons  of  fashion  ? 

It  is  not  to  be  denied,  that  enthusiasm  is  an 
evil  to  which  the  more  religious  of  the  lower 
class  are  peculiarly  exposed  ;  and  this  from  a 
variety'  of  causes,  upon  which  this  is  not  the 
place  to  enlarge.  But  who  will  be  hardy  enough 
to  assert  that  the  class  we  are  now  addressing, 
commonly  fall  into  the  same  error.  In  order  to 
establish  or  to  overthrow  this  assertion,  let  each 
fashionable  reader  confess  whether,  within  the 
sphere  of  his  own  observation,  the  fact  be  real- 
ized.  Let  each  bring  this  vague  charge  s[>e- 
cifically  home  to  his  own  acquaintance.  Let 
him  honestly  declare  what  proportion  of  noble 
enthusiasts,  what  number  of  honourable  fanatics 
his  own  personal  knowledge  of  the  great  world 
supplies.  liet  him  compare  the  list  of  his  en¬ 
thusiastic  with  tliat  of  his  luxurious  friends,  of 
his  fanatical  with  his  irreligious  acquaintance, 
of  ‘the  righteous  overmuch’  with  such  as  ‘  care 
for  none  of  these  things  of  the  strict  and  pre¬ 
cise  with  that  of  the  loose  and  irregular,  of  those 
who  beggar  themselves  by  their  pious  alms,  with 
those  who  injure  their  fortune  by  extravagance; 
of  those  who  ‘  are  lovers  of  God,’  with  those  who 
are  lovers  of  pleasure.  Let  him  declare  whether 
he  sees  more  of  his  associates  swallowed  up  in 
gloomy  meditation  or  immersed  in  sensuality  ; 
whether  more  arc  Ihe  slaves  of  supcrstious  oh- 
servances  or  of  ambition.  Surely  those  who  ad¬ 
dress  the  rich  and  great  in  the  way  of  exhorta¬ 
tion  and  reproof,  would  do  particularly  well  to 
define  exactly  what  is  indeed  the  prevailing  cha¬ 
racter  ;  lest,  for  want  of  such  discrimination 
they  should  heighten  the  disease  they  might 
wish  to  eure,  and  increase  the  bias  they  would 
desire  to  counteract,  by  addressing  to  the  vo¬ 
luptuary  cautions  which  belong  to  the  hermit, 
and  thus  aggravate  his  already  inllamed  appe¬ 
tites  by  invectives  against  an  evil  of  which  he 
is  in  little  danger. 

If^  however,  superstition,  where  it  really  does 
exist,  injures  religion,  and  we  grant  tliat  it 
greatly  iniures  it,  yet  we  insist  that  sce])ticistn 
injures  it  no  less ,  for  to  deride,  or  to  omit  any 
of  the  component  parts  of  Christian  faith,  is 


surely  not  a  less  fatal  evil  than  making  uncom. 
rnanded  additions  to  it. 

It  is  seriously  to  be  regretted  in  an  age  like 
the  present,  remarkable  for  indifference  in  reli 
gion  and  levity  in  manners,  and  which  stands 
so  much  in  need  of  lively  patterns  of  firm  and 
resolute  piety,  that  many  who  really  are  Chris¬ 
tians  on  the  soberest  conviction,  should  not  ap¬ 
pear  more  openly  and  decidedly  on  the  side  they 
have  espoused ;  that  they  assimilate  so  very 
much  with  the  manners  of  those  about  them 
(which  manners  they  yet  scruple  not  to  disap 
prove)  and,  instead  of  an  avowed  but  prudent 
steadfastness,  which  might  draw  over  the  others, 
appear  evidently  fearful  of  being  thought  pre¬ 
cise  and  overscrupulous ;  and  actually  seem  to 
disavow  their  right  principles,  by  concessions 
and  accommodations  not  strictly  consistent  with 
them.  They  often  seem  cautiously  afraid  of  do¬ 
ing  too  much,  and  going  too  far ;  and  the  dan¬ 
gerous  plea,  the  necessity  of  living  like  other 
people,  of  being  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  and 
the  propriety  o\'  not  being  particular,  is  brought 
as  a  reasonable  apology  for  a  too  yielding  and 
indiseriminate  conformity. 

But,  at  a  time  when  almost  all  are  sinking 
into  the  prevailing  corruption,  how  beautiful,  a 
rare,  a  single  integrity  is,  let  the  instances  of 
Lot  and  Noah  declare  !  And  to  those  with  whom 
a  poem  is  an  higher  authority  than  the  Bible, 
let  me  recommend  the  most  animated  pieture 
of  a  righteous  singularity  that  ever  was  deline¬ 
ated  in 

- The  Seraph  Abdiel,  faithful  found 

Among  the  faithless,  faithful  only  he 
Among  innumerable  false,  unmov'd, 

Unshaken,  unseduc'd,  unterrify’d, 

Ilis  loyalty  he  kept,  his  love  and  zeal ; 

Nor  numbers,  nor  example  with  him  wrought 
To  swerve  from  truth  or  change  his  constant  mind. 
Though  single.  Par.  Lost,  B.  iv. 

Few  indeed  of  the  more  orderly  and  deeent 
have  any  objection  to  that  degree  of  Religion 
which  is  compatible  with  their  general  accept¬ 
ance  with  others,  or  the  full  enjoyment  of  their 
own  pleasures.  For  a  formal  and  ceremonious 
exercise  of  the  outward  duties  of  Christianity 
may  not  only  be  kept  up  without  exciting  cen¬ 
sure,  but  will  even  procure  a  certain  respect  and 
confidence;  and  is  not  quite  irreconcilable  with 
a  voluptuous  and  dissipated  life.  So  far  many 
go;  and  so  far  as  ‘  godliness  is  profitable  to  the 
life  that  is,'  it  passes  w’ithout  reproach. 

But  as  soon  as  men  begin  to  consider  religious 
exercises  not  as  a  decency,  but  a  duty;  not  as  a 
commutation  for  a  self-denying  life,  but  as  a 
means  to  promote  a  holy  temper  and  a  virtuous 
conduct :  as  soon  as  they  feel  disposed  to  carry 
the  efiect  of  their  devotion  into  their  daily  life; 
as  soon  as  their  principles  discover  themselves, 
hy  leading  them  to  withdraw  from  those  scenes 
and  abstain  from  those  actions  in  which  the  gay 
place  their  supreme  happiness  ;  as  soon  as  some¬ 
thing  is  to  bo  done,  and  something  is  to  be  part¬ 
ed  with,  then  the  world  begins  to  take  offence, 
and  to  stigmatize  the  activity  of  that  piety  which 
*  ad  br’cn  commended  as  long  us  it  remained  in 
operative,  and  had  only  evaporated  in  words. 

When  religion,  like  the  vital  principle,  takes 
its  seat  in  the  heart  and  sends  out  supplies  of 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


295 


life  and  heat  to  every  part ;  diffuses  motion,  soul, 
•  and  vigour  through  the  whole  circulation,  and 
informs  and  animates  the  whole  man;  when  it 
operates  on  the  practice,  influences  the  conver¬ 
sation,  breaks  out  into  a  lively  zeal  for  the  ho- 
hour  of  God,  and  the  best  interest  of  mankind, 
then  the  sincerity  of  heart  or  the  sanity  of  mind, 
of  that  person,  will  become  questionable  ;  and 
it  must  be  owing  to  a  very  fortunate  combina¬ 
tion  of  circumstances  indeed,  if  he  can  at  once 
preserve  the  character  of  parts  and  piety,  and 
retain  the  reputation  of  a  man  of  sense  after  he 
has  acquired  that  of  a  Christian. 

It  is  surely  a  folly  to  talk  of  being  too  holy, 
too  strict,  or  too  good.  When  there  really  hap¬ 
pens  to  appear  some  foundation  for  the  charge 
®f  enthusiasm  (as  there  are  indeed  sometimes 
in  good  people  eccentricities  which  justify  the 
censure)  we  may  depend  upon  it,  that  it  pro¬ 
ceeds  from  some  defect  in  the  judgment,  and 
3iot  from  any  excess  in  the  piety :  for  in  good¬ 
ness  there  is  no  excess  :  and  it  is  as  preposter¬ 
ous  to  say  that  any  one  is  too  good,  or  too  pious, 
as  that  he  is  too  wise,  too  strong,  or  too  healthy  : 
since  the  highest  point  in  all  these  is  only  the 
perfection  of  that  quality  which  we  admired  in 
a  lower  degree.  There  may  be  an  imprudent, 
but  there  cannot  be  a  superabundant  goodness. 
An  ardent  imagination  may  mislead  a  rightly 
turned  heart  ■  and  a  weak  intellect  may  incline 
the  best  intentioned  to  ascribe  too  much  value 
to  things  of  comparatively  small  importance. 
Such  a  one  not  having  discernment  enough  to 
•perceive  where  the  force  and  stress  of  duty  lie, 
may  inadvertently  discredit  religion  by  a  too 
scrupulous  exactness  in  points  of  small  intrinsic 
■value. — And  even  well-meaning  men  as  well  as 
hypocrites  may  think  they  have  done  a  merito¬ 
rious  service  when  their  ‘  mint’  and  ‘  anise’  are 
rigorously  tithed. 

But  in  observing  the  ‘  weightier  matters  of 
the  law,'  in  the  practice  of  universal  holiness, 
in  the  love  of  God,  there  can  be  no  possibility 
of  exceeding,  while  there  is  no  limitation  in  the 
command.  We  are  in  no  danger  of  loving  our 
neighbour  better  than  ourselves  ;  and  let  us  re¬ 
member  that  we  do  not  go  beyond,  but  fall  short 
of  our  duty,  while  we  love  him  less.  If  we  were 
commanded  to  love  God  with  some  of  our  heart, 
with  part  of  our  soul,  and  a  portion  of  our 
strength,  there  would  then  be  some  colour  for 
those  perpetual  cavils  about  the  proportion  of 
love  and  the  degree  of  obedience  which  are  due 
to  him.  But  as  the  command  is  so  definite,  so 
absolute,  so  comprehensive,  so  entire,  nothing 
can  be  more  absurd  than  that  unmeaning,  but 
not  unfrequent  charge  brought  against  religious 
persons,  that  they  are  too  strict.  It  is  in  effect 
saying,  that  they  love  Gpd  too  much,  and  serve 
him  too  well. 

'rhe  foundation  of  this  silly  censure  is  com¬ 
monly  laid  in  the  first  principles  of  education, 
where  an  early  separation  is  systematically 
made  between  duty  and  pleasure.  One  of  the 
first  baits  held  out  for  the  encouragement  of 
children,  is  that  when  they  have  done  their  duty 
they  will  bo  entitled  to  some  pleasure ;  thus 
forcibly  disjoining  what  should  bo  considered  as 
inseparable.  And  there  is  not  a  more  common 
justification  of  that  idle  and  dissipated  manner 


in  which  the  second  half  of  the  Sunday  is  com- 
monly  spent,  even  by  those  who  make  a  con¬ 
science  of  spending  the  former  part  properly, 
than  that,  ‘now  they  have  done  their  duty,  they 
may  take  their  pleasure.’ 

But  while  Christian  observances  are  consider¬ 
ed  as  tasks,  which  are  to  bo  ffot  over  to  entitle 
us  to  something  more  pleasant ;  as  a  burthen 
which  we  must  endure  in  order  to  propitiate  an 
inexorable  judge,  w'ho  makes  a  hard  bargain 
with  his  creatures,  and  allows  them  just  so 
much  amusement  in  pay  for  so  much  drudgery 
— we  must  not  wonder  that  such  low  views  are 
entertained  of  Christianity,  and  that  a  religious 
life  is  reprobated  as  strict  and  rigid. 

But  to  him  who  acts  from  the  nobler  motive 
of  love,  and  the  animating  power  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  hope,  the  exercise  is  the  reward,  the  per¬ 
mission  is  the  privilege,  the  work  is  the  wages. 
He  does  not  carve  out  some  miserable  pleasure, 
and  stipulate  for  some  meagre  diversion,  to  pay 
himself  for  the  hard  performance  of  his  duty 
who  in  that  very  performance  experiences  the 
highest  pleasure ;  and  feels  the  truest  gratifica¬ 
tion  of  which  his  nature  is  capable,  in  devoting 
the  noblest  part  of  that  nature  to  His  service,  to 
whom  he  owes  all,  because  from  Him  he  has 
received  all. 

This  reprobated  strictness,  therefore,  so  far 
from  being  the  source  of  discomfort  and  misery, 
as  is  pretended,  is  in  reality  the  true  cause  of 
actual  enjoyment,  by  laying  the  axe  to  the  root 
of  all  those  turbulent  and  uneasy  passions,  the 
unreserved  and  yet  imperfect  gratification  of 
which  does  so  much  more  tend  to  disturb  our 
happiness,  than  that  self-government  which 
Christianity  enjoins. 

But  all  precepts  seem  rigorous,  all  observances 
are  really  hard,  where  there  is  not  an  entire 
conviction  of  God’s  right  to  our  obedience  and 
an  internal  principle  of  faith  and  love  to  make 
that  obedience  pleasant.  A  religious  life  is  in¬ 
deed  a  hard  bondage  to  one  immersed  in  the 
practices  of  the  world,  and  under  the  dominion 
of  its  appetites  and  passions.  To  a  real  Chris¬ 
tian  it  is  ‘  perfect  freedom.’  He  does  not  now 
abstain  from  such  and  such  things,  merely  be¬ 
cause  they  are  forbidden  (as  he  did  in  the  first 
stages  of  his  progress)  but  because  his  soul  has 
no  longer  any  pleasure  in  them.  And  it  would 
be  the  severest  of  all  punishments  to  oblige  him 
to  return  to  those  practices,  from  which  he  once 
abstained  with  difficulty,  and  through  the  less 
noble  principle  of  fear. 

There  is  not,  therefore,  perhaps,  a  greater 
mistake  than  that  common  notion  entertained 
by  the  more  orderly  part  of  the  fashionable 
world,  that  a  little  religion  will  make  peoj)lo 
happy,  but  that  a  high  degree  of  it  is  incom¬ 
patible  with  all  enjoyment.  For  surely  that  re 
ligion  can  add  little  to  a  man’s  happiness  which 
restrains  him  from  the  commission  of  a  wrong 
action,  but  which  does  not  pretend  to  extinguish 
the  bad  principle  from  which  the  act  proceeded. 
A  religion  which  ties  the  hands,  without  cliang- 
ing  the  heart ;  which,  like  the  hell  of  Tantalus, 
subdues  not  the  desire,  yet  forbids  the  gratifica¬ 
tion,  is  indeed  an  uncomfortable  religion  :  and 
such  a  religion,  thougli  it  may  gain  a  man 
something  on  the  side  of  reputation,  will  give 


296 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


him  but  little  inward  comfort.  For  what  true 
peace  can  that  heart  enjoy  which  is  left  a  prey 
to  that  temper  which  produced  the  evil,  even 
though  terror  or  shame  may  have  prevented  the 
outward  act. 

That  people  devoted  to  the  pursuits  of  a  dissi¬ 
pated  life  should  conceive  of  religion  as  a  diffi¬ 
cult  and  even  unattainable  state,  it  is  easy  to 
believe.  That  they  should  conceive  of  it  as  an 
unhappy  state,  is  the  consummation  of  their 
error  and  their  ignorance :  for  that  a  rational 
being  should  have  his  understanding  enlighten¬ 
ed  ;  that  an  immortal  being  should  have  his 
views  extended  and  enlarged  ;  that  a  helpless  be¬ 
ing  should  have  a  consciousness  of  assistance  ; 
a  sinful  being  the  prospect  of  a  pardon,  or  a 
fallen  one  the  assurance  of  restoration,  does  not 
seem  a  probable  ground  of  unhappiness  :  and  on 
any  other  subject  but  religion,  such  reasoning 
would  not  be  admissible. 


CHAP.  VI. 

A  stranger,  from  observing  the  fashionable  mode 
of  life,  loould  not  take  this  to  be  a  Christian 
country. — Lives  of  professing  Christians  ex¬ 
amined  by  a  comparison  with  the  Gospel. — 
Christianity  not  made  the  rule  of  life,  even  by 
those  who  profess  to  receive  it  as  an  object  of 

faith. - Temporizing  writers  contribute  to 

lower  the  credit  of  Christianity.  Loose  ha- 
rangues  on  morals  not  calculated  to  reform  the 
heart. 

The  Christian  religion  is  not  intended,  as 
some  of  its  fashionable  professors  seem  to  fancy, 
to  operate  as  a  charm,  a  talisman,  or  incantation, 
and  to  produce  its  effect  by  our  pronouncing 
certain  mystical  words,  attending  at  certain  con¬ 
secrated  places,  and  performing  certain  hallow¬ 
ed  ceremonies  ;  but  it  is  an  active,  vital,  influ¬ 
ential  principle,  operating  on  the  heart,  restrain¬ 
ing  Ihe  desires,  affecting  the  general  conduct, 
and  as  much  regulating  our  commerce  with  the 
world,  our  business,  pleasures,  and  enjoyments, 
our  conversations,  designs,  and  actions,  as  our 
behaviour  in  public  worship,  or  even  in  private 
devotion. 

That  the  effects  of  such  a  principle  are  strik- 
ingly  visible  in  the  lives  and  manners  of  the 
generality  of  those  who  give  the  law  to  fashion, 
will  not  perhaps  be  insisted  on.  And  indeed, 
the  whole  present  system  of  fashionable  life  is 
utterly  destructive  of  seriousness.  To  instance 
only  in  the  growing  habit  of  frequenting  great 
assemblies,  which  is  generally  thought  insigni¬ 
ficant,  and  is  in  efiect  so  vapid,  that  one  almost 
wonders  how  it  can  be  dangerous ; — it  would 
excite  laughter,  because  we  are  so  broken  into 
the  habit,  were  I  to  insist  on  the  immorality  of 
passing  one’s  whole  life  in  a  crowd. — But  those 
promiscuous  myriads  which  compose  the  so¬ 
ciety,  falsely  so  called,  of  the  gay. world;  who 
are  brought  together  without  esteem,  remain 
without  pleasure,  and  part  without  regret ;  who 
live  in  a  round  of  diversions,  the  possession  of 
which  is  so  joyless,  though  the  absence  is  so  in¬ 
supportable;  these,  by  tlie  mere  force  of  inces¬ 
sant  and  indiscriminate  association  weaken. 


and  in  time  wear  out,  the  best  feelings  and  at* 
fections  of  the  human  heart.  And  the  mere 
spirit  of  dissipation,  thus  contracted  from  inva¬ 
riable  habit,  even  detached  from  all  its  concomi¬ 
tant  evils,  is  in  itself  as  hostile  to  a  religious 
spirit,  as  more  positive  and  actual  olfencee.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  say  that  it  is  as  criminal ;  I 
only  insist  that  it  is  as  opposite  to  that  heavenly 
mindedness  which  is  the  essence  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  temper. 

Let  us  suppose  an  ignorant  and  unprejudiced 
spectator,  who  should  have  been  taught  the 
theory  of  all  the  religions  on  the  globe,  brought 
hither  from  the  other  hemisphere.  Set  him 
down  in  the  politest  part  of  our  capital,  and  let 
him  determine,  if  he  can,  except  from  what  he 
shall  see  interwoven  in  the  texture  of  our  laws, 
and  kept  up  in  the  service  of  our  churches,to  what 
particular  religion  we  belong.  Let  him  not  mix 
entirely  with  the  most  flagitious,  but  only  with 
the  most  fashionable ;  at  least,  let  him  keep 
what  they  themselves  call  the  best  company.  Let 
him  scrutinize  into  the  manners,  customs,  ha¬ 
bits,  and  diversions,  most  in  vogue,  and  then  in¬ 
fer  from  all  he  has  seen  and  heard,  what  is  the 
established  religion  of  the  land. 

That  it  could  not  be  the  Jewish  he  would 
soon  discover  :  for  of  rites,  ceremonies,  and  ex¬ 
ternal  observances,  he  would  trace  but  slender 
remains.  He  would  be  equally  convinced  that 
it  could  not  be  the  religion  of  old  Greece  and 
Rome  ;  for  that  enjoined  reverence  to  the  gods, 
and  inculcated  obedience  to  the  laws.  His  most 
probable  conclusion  would  be  in  favour  of  the 
Mahometan  faith,  did  not  the  excessive  indulg¬ 
ence  of  some  of  the  most  distinguished  in  an 
article  of  intemperance  prohibited  even  by  the 
sensual  prophet  of  Arabia,  defeat  that  conjec¬ 
ture. 

How  would  the  petrified  inquirer  be  astonish¬ 
ed,  if  he  were  told  that  all  these  gay,  thought¬ 
less,  luxurious,  dissipated  persons,  professed  a 
religion,  meek,  spiritual,  self-denying;  of  which 
humility,  poverty  of  spirit,  a  renewed  mind,  and 
non-conformity  to  the  world,  wore  specific  dis¬ 
tinctions  ! 

When  he  saw  the  sons  of  men  of  fortune, 
scarcely  old  enough  to  be  sent  to  school,  admit¬ 
ted  to  be  spectators  of  the  turbulent  and  unnatu¬ 
ral  diversions  of  racing  and  gaming;  and  the 
almost  infant  daughters,  even  of  wise  and  vir¬ 
tuous  mothers  (an  innovation  which  fashion  her¬ 
self  forbade  till  now)  carried  with  most  unthrifty 
anticipation  to  the  frequent  and  late  protracted 
ball — would  he  believe  that  we  were  of  a  religion 
which  has  required  from  those  very  parents  a 
solemn  vow  that  these  children  should  be  bred 
up  ‘  in  the  nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord?* 
That  they  should  constantly  ‘  believe  God’s  holy 
word  and  keep  his  commandments  ?’ 

When  he  observed  the  turmoils  of  ambition, 
the  competitions  of  vanity,  the  ardent  thirst  for 
the  possession  of  wealth,  and  the  wild  misappli¬ 
cation  of  it  when  possessed  ;  how  could  he  per¬ 
suade  himself  that  all  these  anxious  pursuers  of 
present  enjoyment  were  the  disciples  of  a  mas 
ter  who  exhibited  the  very  character  and  es¬ 
sence  of  his  religion,  as  it  were  in  a  motto — 

‘  My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world  !’ 

When  he  beheld  those  nocturnal  clubs,  8« 


the  works  of  HANNAH  MORE. 


297' 


subversive  of  private  virtue  and  domestic  happi- 
ness,  would  he  conceive  that  we  were  of  a  reli¬ 
gion  which  in  express  terms  ‘  exhorts  young 
men  to  be  sober-minded  V 

When  he  saw  those  magnificent  and  brightly 
illuminated  structures  which  decorate  and  dis¬ 
grace  the  very  precincts  of  the  royal  residence, 
(so  free  itself  from  all  these  pollutions)  when  he 
beheld  the  nightly  offerings  made  to  the  demon 
of  play,  on  whose  cruel  altar  the  fortune  and 
happiness  of  wives  and  children  are  offered  up 
without  remorse ;  would  he  not  conclude  that 
we  were  of  some  of  those  barbarous  religions 
which  enjoins  unnatural  sacrifices,  and  whose 
horrid  deities  are  appeased  with  nothing  less 
than  human  victims  ? 

Now  ought  we  not  to  pardon  our  imaginary 
spectator,  if  he  should  not  at  once  conclude  that 
all  the  various  descriptions  of  persons  above  no¬ 
ticed  professed  the  Christian  religion  ;  supposing 
him  to  have  no  other  way  of  determining  but 
by  the  conformity  of  their  manners  to  that  rule 
by  which  he  had  undertaken  to  judge  them  ? 
We  indeed  must  judge  with  a  certain  latitude, 
and  candidly  take  the  present  state  of  society 
into  the  account ;  which  in  some  few  instances, 
perhaps,  must  be  allowed  to  dispense  with  that 
literal  strictness,  which  more  peculiarly  belong¬ 
ed  to  the  first  ages  of  the  Gospel. 

But  as  this  is  really  a  Christian  country,  pro¬ 
fessing  to  enjoy  the  purest  faith  in  the  purest 
form,  it  cannot  be  unreasonable  to  go  a  little 
farther,  and  inquire  whether  Christianity,  how¬ 
ever  firmly  established  and  generally  professed 
in  it,  is  really  practised  by  that  order  of  fashion¬ 
able  persons,  who,  while  they  are  absorbed  in 
the  delights  of  the  world,  and  their  whole  souls 
devoted  to  the  pursuit  of  pleasure,  yet  still  arro¬ 
gate  to  themselves  the  honourable  name  of  Chris¬ 
tians,  and  occasionally  testify  their  claim  to  this 
high  character,  by  a  general  profession  of  their 
belief  in,  and  a  decent  occasional  compliance 
with  the  forms  of  religion,  and  the  ordinances 
of  our  church  ? 

This  inquiry  must  be  made,  not  by  a  compa¬ 
rison  with  the  state  of  Christianity  in  other 
countries  (a  mode  always  fallacious,  whether 
adopted  by  nations  or  individuals,  is  that  of  com¬ 
paring  themselves  with  those  who  are  still 
worse)  nor  must  it  be  made  from  any  notions 
drawn  from  custom,  or  any  other  human  stand¬ 
ard  ;  but  from  a  scripture  view  of  what  real  re¬ 
ligion  is  ;  from  any  one  of  those  striking  and 
comprehensive  representations  of  it,  which  may 
be  found  condensed  in  so  many  single  passages 
of  the  sacred  writings. 

Whoever  then  looks  into  the  Book  of  God, 
and  observes  its  prevailing  spirit,  and  then  looks 
into  that  part  of  the  world  under  consideration, 
will  not  surely  be  thought  very  censorious,  if  he 
pronounce  that  the  conformity  between  them 
does  not  seem  to  be  uery striking;  and  the  man¬ 
ners  of  the  one  do  not  very  evidently  appear  to 
be  dictated  by  the  spirit  of  the  other.  Will  he 
discover  that  the  Christian  religion  is  so  much 
as  pretended  to  be  made  the  rule  of  life  even  by 
that  decent  order  who  profess  not  to  have  dis¬ 
carded  it  as  an  object  of  faitli  ?  Do  even  the 
more  regular,  who  neglect  not  public  observan¬ 
ces,  consider  Christianity  as  the  measure  of  their 

VoL.  I, 


actions  !  4)o  even  what  the  world  calls  religi. 
ous  persons,  employ  their  time,  their  abilities, 
and  their  fortune,  as  talents  for  which  they  how¬ 
ever  confess  they  believe  themselves  accounta¬ 
ble  :  or  do  they,  in  any  respect  live,  I  will  not 
say  up  to  their  profession  (for  what  human  being 
does  so?)  but  in  any  consistency  with  it,  or  even 
with  an  eye  to  its  predominant  tendencies  ?  Do 
persons  in  general  of  this  description  seem  to 
consider  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  the  Gospel,  as 
any  thing  more  than  a  form  of  words  necessary 
indeed  to  be  repeated,  and  proper  to  be  believed  ? 
But  do  they  consider  them  as  necessary  to  be 
adopted  into  a  governing  principle  of  action  ? 

Is  it  acting  a  consistent  part  to  declare  in  the 
solemn  assemblies  that  they  are  ‘  miserable 
offenders,’  and  that  ‘  there  is  no  health  in  them,’ 
and  yet  never  in  their  daily  lives  to  discover 
any  symptom  of  that  humility  and  self-abase 
ment,  which  should  naturally  be  implied  in  such 
a  declaration  ? 

Is  it  reasonable  or  compatible,  I  will  not  say 
with  piety,  but  with  good  sense,  earnestly  to  la¬ 
ment  having  ‘  followed  the  devices  and  desires 
of  their  own  hearts,’  and  then  deliberately  to 
plunge  into  such  a  torrent  of  dissipations  as 
clearly  indicates  that  they  do  not  struggle  to 
oppose  one  of  these  devices,  to  resist  one  of  these 
desires  ?  I  dare  not  say  this  is  hypocrisy,  I  do 
not  believe  it  is,  but  surely  it  is  inconsistency. 

‘  Be  ye  not  conformed  to  this  world,’  is  a  lead- 
ing  principle  in  the  book  they  acknowledge  as 
their  guide.  But  after  unresistingly  assenting 
to  this  as  a  doetrinal  truth,  at  church — how  ab¬ 
surd  would  they  think  any  one  who  should  ex¬ 
pect  them  to  adopt  it  into  their  practice  !  Per¬ 
haps  the  whole  law  of  God  does  not  exhibit  a 
single  precept  more  expressly,  more  steadily, 
and  more  uniformly  rejected  by  the  class  in 
question.  If  it  mean  any  thing,  it  can  hardly 
be  consistent  with  that  mode  of  life  emphatical¬ 
ly  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of  fashion¬ 
able. 

Now,  would  it  be  much  more  absurd  (for  any 
other  reason  but  because  it  is  not  the  custom)  if 
our  legislators  were  to  meet  one  day  in  every 
week,  gravely  to  read  over  all  the  obsolete  sta¬ 
tutes,  and  rescinded  acts  of  parliament,  than  it 
is  for  the  order  of  persons  of  the  above  descrip¬ 
tion  to  assemble  every  Sunday,  to  profess  their 
belief  in  and  submission  to  a  system  of  princi¬ 
ples,  which  they  do  not  so  much  as  intend  shall 
be  binding  on  their  practice  ? 

But  to  continue  our  inquiry. — There  is  not  a 
more  common  or  more  intelligible  definition  of 
human  duty,  than  that  of  ‘  Fear  God,  and  keep 
his  commandments.’  Now,  as  to  the  first  of 
these  inseparable  precepts,  can  we,  with  the  ut¬ 
most  stretch  of  charity,  be  very  forward  to  con¬ 
clude  that  God  is  really  ‘  very  greatly  feared’  in 
secret,  by  those  who  give  too  manifest  indica¬ 
tions  that  they  live  ‘  without  him  in  the  world  V 
And  as  to  the  latter  precept,  which  naturally 
grows  out  of  the  other — without  noticing  any  of 
the  flagrant  breaches  of  the  moral  law,  let  us 
only  confine  ourselves  to  the  allowed,  general, 
and  notorious  violation  of  the  third  and  fourtli 
commandments,  by  the  higher  as  well  as  by  the 
lower  orders ;  breaches  so  flagrant,  that  they 
force  themselves  on  the  observation  of  the  most 


298 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


inattentive,  too  palpably  to  be  either»annoticed 
or  palliated. 

Shall  we  have  reason  to  chang^e  our  opinion  if 
we  take  that  Divine  representation  of  the  sum 
and  substance  of  religion,  and  apply  it  as  a 
touchstone  in  the  present  trial — ‘  Thou  shalt 
love  the  Lord  thy  God  with  all  thy  heart,  and 
with  all  thy  mind,  and  with  all  thy  soul,  and 
with  all  thy  strength,  and  thy  neighbour  as  thy¬ 
self?’  Now,  judge  by  inference,  do  we  see 
many  public  proofs  of  that  heavenly-mindedness 
whidh  would  be  the  inevitable  effect  of  such  a 
fervent  and  animated  dedication  of  all  the  pow¬ 
ers,  faculties,  and  affections  of  the  soul  to  Him 
who  gave  it  ?  And,  as  to  the  great  rule  of  social 
duty  expressed  in  the  second  clause,  do  we  ob¬ 
serve  as  much  of  that  considerate  kindness,  that 
pure  disinterestedness,  that  conscientious  atten¬ 
tion  to  the  comfort  of  others,  especially  of  de¬ 
pendents  and  inferiors,  as  might  be  expected 
from  those  who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  so  un¬ 
erring  a  standard  of  conduct?  a  standard,  which, 
if  impartially  consulted,  must  make  our  kind¬ 
ness  to  others  bear  an  exact  proportion  to  our 
self-love;  a  rule  in  which  Christian  principle, 
operating  on  human  sensibility,  could  not  fail 
to  decide  aright  in  every  supposeable  case.  For 
no  man  can  doubt  how  he  ought  to  act  towards 
another,  while  the  inward  corresponding  sug¬ 
gestions  of  conscience  and  feeling  concur  in 
letting  him  know  how  he  would  wish,  in  a  change 
of  circumstances,  that  others  should  act  towards 
him. 

Or  suppose  we  take  a  more  detailed  survey, 
by  a  third  rule,  which  indeed  is  not  so  much  the 
principle  as  the  effect  of  piety — ‘  True  religion, 
and  undefiled  before  God  and  the  Father,  is  this  : 
to  visit  the  fatherless  and  widows  in  their  afflic¬ 
tion,  and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the 
■world.'  Now,  if  Christianity  insists  that  obedi¬ 
ence  to  the  latter  injunction  be  the  true  evidence 
of  the  sincerity  of  those  who  fulfil  the  former,  is 
th^  beneficence  of  the  fashionable  world  very 
strikingly  illustrated  by  this  spotless  purity,  this 
exemption  from  the  pollutions  of  the  world, 
which  is  here  declared  to  bo  its  invariable  con¬ 
comitant? 

But  if  I  were  to  venture  to  take  my  estimate 
with  a  view  more  immediately  evangelical ;  if  I 
presumed  to  look  for  that  genuine  Christianity 
which  consists  in  repentance  towards  God,  and 
faith  in  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ to  insist,  that 
whatever  natural  religion  and  fashionable  reli¬ 
gion  may  teach,  it  is  the  peculiarity  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  religion  to  humble  the  sinner  and  exalt  the 
Saviour ;  to  insist  that  not  only  the  grossly  fla¬ 
gitious,  but  that  all  have  sinned  ;  that  all  are  by 
nature  in  a  state  of  condemnation  ;  that  all  stand 
in  need  of  mere)',  of  which  there  is  no  hope  but 
on  the  Gospel  terms ;  that  eternal  life  is  pro¬ 
mised  to  those  only  who  accept  it  on  the  offered 
conditions  of  *  faith,  repentance,  and  renewed 
obedience  — if  I  were  to  insist  on  such  eviden¬ 
ces  of  our  Christianity  as  these;  if  I  were  to 
express  these  doctrines  in  plain  scriptural  terms 
without  lowbring,  qualifying,  disguising,  or  do¬ 
ing  them  away  ;  if  I  were  to  insist  on  this  belief, 
and  its  implied  and  corresponding  practices ;  I 
am  aware  that,  with  whatever  condescending 
patience  this  little  tract  might  have  been  so  far 


perused,  many  a  fashionable  reader  would  here 
throw  it  aside,  as  having  now  detected  the  pal¬ 
pable  enthusiast,  the  abettor  of  ‘  strange  doc¬ 
trines,’  long  ago  consigned  over  by  the  liberal 
and  the  jxilite  to  bigots  and  fanatics.  And  yet, 
if  the  Bible  be  true,  this  is  a  simple  and  faithful 
description  of  Christianity. 

Surely  men  forget  that  we  are  urging  them 
upon  their  own  principles ;  that  while  we  are 
urging  them  with  motives  drawn  from  Chris¬ 
tianity,  they  seem  to  have  as  little  concern  in 
these  motives  as  if  they  themselves  were  of  an¬ 
other  religion.  It  is  not  a  name  that  will  stand 
us  instead.  It  is  not  merely  glorying  in  the  title 
of  Christians,  while  we  are  living  in  the  neglect 
of  its  precepts  ;  it  is  not  in  valuing  ourselves  on 
the  profession  of  religion  as  creditable,  while  we 
reject  the  power  of  it  as  fanatical,  that  will  save 
us  !  In  any  other  circumstances  of  life  it  would 
be  accounted  absurd  to  have  a  set  of  propositions, 
principles,  statutes,  or  fundamental  articles,  and 
not  to  make  them  the  ground  of  our  acting  as 
welt  as  of  our  reasoning.  In  these  supposed  in¬ 
stances  the  blame  would  lie  in  the  contradiction, 
in  religion  it  lies  in  the  agreement.  Strange  ! 
that  to  act  in  consequence  of  received  and  ac¬ 
knowledged  principles,  should  bo  accounted 
weakness  !  Strange,  that  what  alone  is  truly  con¬ 
sistent,  should  be  branded  as  absurd  !  Strange, 
that  men  must  really  forbear  to  act  rationally, 
only  that  they  may  not  be  reckoned  mad ! 
Strange,  that  they  should  be  commended  for 
having  prayed  in  the  excellent  words  of  the  Bi¬ 
ble  and  of  our  church,  for  ‘  a  clean  heart,  and  a 
right  spirit ;’  and  yet,  if  they  gave  any  sign  of 
such  a  transformation  of  heart,  they  should  be 
accounted,  if  not  fanatical,  at  least,  singular, 
weak,  or  melancholy  men. 

After  having,  however,  just  ventured  to  hint 
at  what  are  indeed  the  humbling  doctrines  of 
the  gospel,  the  doctrines  to  which  alone  eternal 
life  is  promised,  I  shall  in  deep  humility  forbear 
to  enlarge  on  this  part  of  the  subject,  which  has 
been  exhausted  by  the  labours  of  wise  and  pious 
men  in  all  ages.  Unhappily,  however,  the  most 
awakening  of  these  writers  are  not  the  favourite 
guests  in  the  closets  of  the  more  fashionable 
Christians  ;  who,  when  they  happen  to  be  more 
seriously  disposed  than  ordinary,  are  fond  of 
finding  out  some  middle  kind  of  reading,  which 
recommends  some  half-way  state,  something 
between  Paganism  and  Christianity,  suspending 
the  mind,  like  the  position  of  Mahomet’s  tomb, 
between  earth  and  heaven  :  a  kind  of  reading 
which,  wliile  it  quiets  the  conscience  by  being 
on  the  side  of  morals,  neither  awakens  fear,  nor 
alarms  security.  By  dealing  in  generals,  it 
comes  home  to  the  hearts  of  none  :  it  flatters  the 
passions  of  the  reader,  by  ascribing  high  merits 
to  the  performance  of  certain  right  actions,  and 
the  forbearance  from  certain  wrong  ones ;  among 
which,  that  reader  must  be  very  unlucky  indeed 
who  does  not  find  some  performances  and  some 
forbearances  of  his  own.  It  at  once  enables  him 
to  keep  heaven  in  his  eye,  and  the  world  in  his 
heart.  It  agreeably  represents  the  readers  to 
themselves  as  amiable  persons,  guilty  indeed  of 
a  few  faults,  but  never  as  condemned  sinners 
under  sentence  of  death.  It  commonly  abounds 
with  high  encomiums  on  the  dignity  of  human 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


299 


nature  ;  the  good  effects  of  virtue  on  health,  for¬ 
tune,  and  reputation  :  the  dangers  of  a  blind 
zeal,  the  mischiefs  of  enthusiasm,  and  the  folly 
of  singularity,  with  various  other  kindred  senti¬ 
ments  ;  which,  if  they  do  not  fall  in  of  them¬ 
selves  with  the  corruptions  of  our  nature,  may, 
by  a  little  warping,  be  easily  accommodated  to 
them. 

These  are  the  too  successful  practices  of  cer¬ 
tain  luke-warm  and  temporizing  divines,  who 
have  become  popular  by  blunting  the  edge  of 
the  heavenly  tempered  weapon,  whose  salutary 
keenness,  but  for  their  ‘  deceitful  handling,’ 
would  often  ‘  pierce  to  the  dividing  asunder  of 
soul  and  spirit.’ 

But  those  severer  preachers  of  righteousness, 
who  disgust  by  applying  too  closely  to  the  con¬ 
science  ;  who  probe  the  inmost  heart  and  lay 
open  all  its  latent  peccancies ;  who  treat  of 
principles  as  the  only  certain  source  of  man¬ 
ners  ;  who  lay  the  axe  at  the  root,  oflener  than 
the  pruning  knife  to  the  branch ;  who  insist 
much  and  often  on  the  great  leading  truths,  that 
man  is  a  fallen  creature,  who  must  be  restored, 
if  restored  at  all,  by  means  very  little  flattering 

to  human  pride - such  heart-searching  writers 

as  these  will  seldom  find  access  to  the  houses 
and  hearts  of  the  more  modish  Christians,  unless 
they  happen  to  owe  their  admission  to  some  sub¬ 
ordinate  quality  of  style  ;  unless  they  can  cap¬ 
tivate,  with  the  seducing  graces  of  language, 
those  well-bred  readers,  who  are  childishly 
amusing  themselves  with  the  garnish,  when  they 
are  perishing  for  want  of  food  ;  who  are  search¬ 
ing  for  polished  periods  when  they  should  be  in 
quest  of  alarming  truths  :  who  are  looking  for 
elegance  of  composition  when  they  should  be 
anxious  for  eternal  life. 

Whatever  comparative  praise  may  be  due  to 
the  former  class  of  writers,  when  viewed  with 
others  of  a  less  decent  order,  yet  I  am  not  sure 
whether  so  many  books  of  frigid  morality,  ex¬ 
hibiting  such  inferior  motives  of  action,  such  mo¬ 
derate  representations  of  duty,  and  such  a  low 
standard  of  principle  ;  have  not  done  religion 
much  more  harm  than  good ;  whether  they  do 
not  lead  many  a  reader  to  inquire  what  is  the 
lowest  degree  in  the  scale  of  virtue  with  which 
he  may  content  himself,  so  as  barely  to  escape 
eternal  punishment;  how  much  indulgence  he 
may  allow  himself,  without  absolutely  forfeiting 
his  chance  of  safety  :  what  is  the  uttermost  verge 
to  which  ho  may  venture  of  this  world’s  enjoy¬ 
ment,  and  yet  just  keep  within  a  possibility  of 
hope  for  the  next:  adjusting  the  scales  of  indul¬ 
gence  and  security  with  such  a  scrupulous  equi¬ 
librium,  as  not  to  lose  much  pleasure,  yet  not 
incur  much  penalty. 

This  is  hardly  an  exaggerated  representa¬ 
tion  ;  and  to  these  low  views  of  duty  is  partly 
owing  so  much  of  that  bare-wcight  virtue  with 
which  even  Christians  are  apt  to  content  them¬ 
selves  ;  fighting  for  every  inch  of  ground  which 
may  possibly  bo  taken  within  the  pales  of  per¬ 
mission,  and  stretching  those  pales  to  the  ut¬ 
most  edge  of  that  limitation  about  which  the 
world  and  the  Bible  contend. 

But  while  the  nominal  Christian  is  persuad¬ 
ing  himself  that  there  oan  be  no  Iiarrn  in  going 
u  little  farther,  the  real  Christian  is  always  afraid 


of  going  too  far.  While  the  one  is  debating  for 
a  little  more  disputed  ground,  the  other  is  so 
fearful  of  straying  into  the  regions  of  unhallow¬ 
ed  indulgence,  that  he  keeps  at  a  prudent  dis¬ 
tance  from  the  extremity  of  his  permitted 
limits ;  and  is  anxious  in  restricting  as  the  other 
is  desirous  of  extending  them.  One  thing  is 
clear,  and  it  may  be  no  bad  indication  by  which 
to  discover  the  state  of  man’s  heart  to  himself ; 
while  he  is  contending  for  this  allowance,  and 
stipulating  for  the  other  indulgence,  it  will  show 
him  that,  whatever  change  there  may  be  in  his 
life,  there  is  none  in  his  heart ;  the  temper  re¬ 
mains  as  it  did ;  and  it  is  by  the  inward  frame 
rather  than  the  outward  act  that  he  can  best 
judge  of  his  own  state,  whatever  may  be  the  rule 
by  which  he  undertakes  to  judge  of  that  of  an¬ 
other. 

It  is  less  wonderful  that  there  are  not  more 
Christians,  than  that  Christians,  as  they  are 
called,  are  not  better  men ;  for  if  Christianity 
be  not  true,  the  motives 'of  virtue  are  not  high 
enough  to  quicken  ordinary  men  to  very  extra¬ 
ordinary  exertions.  We  see  them  do  and  suffer 
every  day  for  popularity,  for  custom,  for  fash¬ 
ion,  for  the  point  of  honour,  not  only  more  than 
good  men  do  and  suffer  for  religion,  but  a  great 
deal  more  than  religion  requires  them  to  do.  For 
her  reasonable  service  demands  no  sacrifices  but 
what  are  sanctioned  by  good  sense,  sound  policy, 
right  reason,  and  uncorrupt  judgment. 

Many  of  these  fashionable  professors  even  go 
so  far  as  to  bring  their  right  faith  as  an  apology 
for  their  wrong  praetice.  They  have  a  com¬ 
modious  way  of  intrenching  themselves  within 
the  shelter  of  some  general  position  of  unques¬ 
tionable  truth  :  even  the  great  Christian  hope 
becomes  a  snare  to  them.  They  apologize  for 
a  life  of  offence,  by  taking  refuge  in  the  extreme 
goodness  they  are  abusing.  That  ‘  God  is  all 
merciful,’  is  the  common  reply  to  those  who 
hint  to  them  their  danger.  This  is  a  false  and 
fatal  application  of  a  divine  and  comfortable 
truth.  Nothing  can  be  more  certain  than  the 
proposition,  nor  more  delusive  than  the  infer¬ 
ence  :  for  their  deduction  implies,  not  that  he  is 
merciful  to  sin  repented  of,  but  to  sin  continued 
in.  But  it  is  a  most  fallacious  hope  to  expect 
that  God  will  violate  his  own  covenant,  or  that 
he  is  indeed,  ‘  all  mercy,’  to  the  utter  exclusion 
of  his  other  attributes  of  perfect  holiness,  purity 
and  justice. 

It  is  a  dangerous  folly  to  rest  on  these  vague 
and  general  notions  of  indefinite  mercy  ;  and  no¬ 
thing  can  be  more  delusive  than  this  indefinite 
trust  in  being  forgiven  in  our  own  way,  after 
God  has  clearly  revealed  to  us  that  he  will  only 
forgive  us  in  his  way.  Besides,  is  there  not 
something  singularly  base  in  sinning  against 
God  because  lie  is  merciful  ? 

But  the  truth  is  no  one  does  truly  trust  in  God, 
who  does  not  endeavour  to  obey  him.  For  to 
break  his  laws,  and  yet  to  depend  on  his  fa¬ 
vour  ;  to  live  in  opposition  to  his  will,  and  yet  in 
expectation  of  his  mercy  ;  to  violate  his  com¬ 
mands,  and  yet  to  look  for  his  acceptance,  would 
not,  in  any  other  instance,  bo  thought  a  reason¬ 
able  ground  of  conduct;  and  yet  it  is  by  no 
means  as  uncommon  as  it  is  inconsistent. 


300 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


CHAP.  VII. 

View  of  those  who  acknowledge  Christianity  as 
a  perfect  system  of  morals,  but  deny  its  divine 
authority. — Morality  not  the  whole  of  Religion. 


As  in  the  precedingf  chapter  notice  was  taken 
of  that  description  of  persons  who  profess  to  re¬ 
ceive  Christianity  with  great  reverence  as  a 
matter  of  faith,  who  yet  do  not  pretend  to  adopt 
it  as  a  rule  of  conduct ;  I  shall  conclude  these 
slight  remarks  with  some  short  animadversions 
on  another  set  of  men,  and  that  not  a  small  one 
among  the  decent  and  fashionable,  who  profess 
to  think  it  exhibits  an  admirable  system  of 
morals,  while  they  deny  its  divine  authority  ; 
though  that  authority  alone  can  make  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  obeying  its  precepts  binding  on  the  con¬ 
sciences  of  men. 

This  is  a  very  discreet  scheme ;  for  such  per¬ 
sons  at  once  save  themselves  from  the  discredit 
of  having  their  understanding  imposed  upon 
by  a  supposed  blind  submission  to  evidences  and 
authorities  ;  and  yet,  prudently  enough,  secure 
to  themselves,  in  no  small  degree,  the  reputa¬ 
tion  of  good  men.  By  steering  this  middle  kind 
of  course,  they  contrive  to  be  reckoned  liberal 
by  the  philosophers,  and  decent  by  the  believers. 

But  we  are  not  to  expect  to  see  the  pure  mo¬ 
rality  of  the  Gospel  very  carefully  transfused 
into  the  lives  of  such  objectors.  And  indeed  it 
would  be  unjust  to  imagine  that  the  precepts 
should  be  most  scrupulously  observed  by  those 
who  reject  the  authority.  The  influence  of 
divine  truth  must  necessarily  best  prepare  tlie 
heart  for  an  unreserved  obedience  to  its  laws. 
If  we  do  not  depend  on  the  offers  of  the  Gospel, 
we  shall  want  the  best  motives  to  the  actions 
and  performances  which  it  enjoins.  A  lively 
belief  must  therefore  precede  a  hearty  obedience. 
Let  those  who  think  otherwise,  hear  what  the 
Saviour  of  the  world  has  said  :  ‘  For  this  end  was 
I  born,  and  for  this  cause  came  I  into  the  world, 
that  I  might  bear  witness  unto  the  truth.’ 
Those  who  reject  the  Gospel,  therefore,  reject 
the  power  of  performing  good  actions.  That 
command,  for  instance,  to  ‘  set  our  affections  on 
things  above,’  will  operate  but  faintly,  till  that 
Spirit  from  which  the  command  proceeds, 
touches  the  heart,  and  convinces  that  no  human 
good  is  worthy  of  the  entire  affection  of  an  im¬ 
mortal  creature.  An  unreserved  faith  in  the 
promiser  must  precede  our  acceptable  perform¬ 
ance  of  any  duty  to  which  the  promise  is  an¬ 
nexed. 

But  as  to  a  set  of  duties  enforced  by  no  other 
motive  than  a  bare  acquiescence  in  their  beauty, 
and  a  cold  conviction  "of  their  propriety,  but 
impelled  by  no  obedience  to  his  authority  who 
imposes  them  ;  tliough  we  know  not  how  well 
they  might  be  performed  by  pure  and  impecca¬ 
ble  beings,  yet  we  know  how  they  commonly 
are  performed  by  frail  and  disorderly  creatures, 
fallen  from  their  innocence,  and  corrupt  in  their 
very  natures. 

Nothing  but  a  conviction  of  the  truth  of 
Christianity  can  reconcile  thinking  beings  to 
the  extraordinary  appearances  of  things  in  the 
Creator’s  moral  government  of  the  world.  The 
works  of  God  are  an  enigma,  of  which  his  word 


alone  is  the  solution.  The  dark  veil  whicn  is 
thrown  over  the  divine  dispensations  in  this 
tower  world  must  naturally  shock  those  who 
consider  only  the  single  scene  which  is  acting 
on  the  present  stage ;  but  is  reconcilable  to  him 
who,  having  learnt  from  Revelation  the  nature 
of  the  laws  by  which  the  great  Author  acts, 
trusts  confidently  that  the  catastrophe  will  set 
all  to  rights.  The  confusion  which  sin  and  the 
passions  have  introduced  ;  the  triumph  of  wick¬ 
edness  ;  the  seemingly  arbitrary  disproportion 
of  human  conditions,  accountable  on  no  scheme 
but  that  which  the  Gospel  has  opened  to  us — 
have  all  a  natural  tendency  to  withdraw  from 
the  love  of  God,  the  hearts  of  those  who  erect 
themselves  into  critics  on  the  Divine  conduct, 
and  yet  will  not  stndy  tlie  plan,  and  get  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  rules,  so  far  as  it  has  pleased 
the  Supreme  Disposer  to  reveal  them. 

Till  therefore  the  word  of  God  is  used  ‘  as  a 
lamp  to  their  paths,’  men  can  neither  truly  dis. 
cern  the  crookedness  of  their  own  ways,  nor  the 
perfection  of  that  light  by  which  they  are  di¬ 
rected  to  walk.  And  this  light  can  only  be  seen 
by  its  own  proper  brightness  ;  it  has  no  other 
medium.  Until  therefore,  ‘the  secret  of  the 
Lord’  is  with  men,  they  will  not  truly  ‘  fear 
him  ;’  until  he  has  ‘  enlarged  their  hearts’  with 
the  knowledge  and  belief  of  his  word,  they  will 
not  very  vigorously  run  ‘  the  way  of  his  com¬ 
mandments.’  Until  they  have  acquired  that 
‘  faith,  without  which  it  is  impossible  to  please 
God,’  they  will  not  attain  that  ‘  holiness,  with¬ 
out  which  no  man  can  see  him.’ 

And  indeed  if  God  has  thought  fit  to  make 
the  Gospel  an  instrument  of  salvation,  we  must 
own  the  necessity  of  receiving  it  as  a  divine  in¬ 
stitution,  before  it  is  likely  to  operate  very  ef¬ 
fectually  on  the  human  conduct.  The  great 
Creator,  if  we  may  judge  by  analogy  from  na- 
tural  things,  is  so  just  and  wise  an  economist, 
that  he  always  adapts,  with  the  most  accurate 
precision,  the  instrument  to  the  work  ;  and  never 
lavishes  more  means  than  are  necessary  to  ac¬ 
complish  the  proposed  end.  If  therefore  Chris¬ 
tianity  had  been  intended  for  nothing  more  than 
a  mere  system  of  ethics,  such  a  system  surely 
might  have  been  produced  at  an  infinitely  less 
expense.  The  long  chain  of  prophecy,  the 
succession  of  miracles,  the  labours  of  apostles, 
the  blood  of  the  saints,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
great  costly  sacrifice  which  the  Gospel  records, 
might  surely  have  been  spared.  Lessons  of 
mere  human  virtue  might  have  been  delivered  by 
some  suitable  instrument  of  human  wisdom, 
strengthened  by  the  visible  authority  of  human 
power.  A  bare  system  of  morals  might  have  been 
communicated  to  mankind  with  a  more  reasona¬ 
ble  prospect  of  advantage,  by  means  not  so  repug¬ 
nant  to  human  pride.  A  mere  scheme  of  con¬ 
duct  might  have  been  delivered  with  far  greater 
probability  of  the  success  of  its  reception  by 
Antoninus  the  emperor,  or  Plato  the  philosopher, 
than  by  Paul  the  tent-maker,  or  Peter  the 
fisherman. 

Christianity,  then,  must  be  embraced  entirely, 
if  it  be  received  at  all.  It  must  be  taken  with¬ 
out  mutilation,  as  a  perfect  scheme,  in  the  way 
in  which  God  has  been  pleased  to  reveal  it.  It 
must  be  accepted,  not  as  exhibiting  beautiful 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


301 


parts,  but  as  presenting  one  consummate  whole, 
of  which  the  perfection  arises  from  coherence 
and  dependence,  from  relation  and  consistency. 
Its  power  will  be  weakened,  and  its  energy  de¬ 
stroyed,  if  every  caviller  pulls  out  a  pin,  or  ob¬ 
structs  a  spring  with  the  presumptuous  view  of 
new  modelling  the  Divine  work,  and  making  it 
go  to  his  own  mind.  There  must  be  no  break¬ 
ing  the  system  into  portions  of  which  we  are 
at  liberty  to  choose  one  and  reject  another. 
There  is  no  separating  the  evidences  from  the 
doctrines,  the  doctrines  from  the  precepts,  belief 
from  obedience,  morality  from  piety,  the  love  of 
our  neighbour  from  the  love  of  God.  If  we  al¬ 
low  Christianity  to  be  any  thing,  we  must  allow 
it  to  be  every  thing :  if  we  allow  the  Divine 
Author  to  be  indeed  unto  us  ‘  wisdom  and 
righteousness,’  he  must  be  also  sanctification 
and  redemption.’ 

Christianity  then  is  assuredly  something  more 
than  a  mere  set  of  rules ;  and  faith,  though  it 
never  pretended  to  be  the  substitute  for  an  use¬ 
ful  life,  is  indispensably  necessary  to  its  accept¬ 
ance  with  God.  The  Gospel  never  offers  to 
make  religion  supersede  morality,  but  every 
where  clearly  proves  that  morality  is  not  the 
whole  of  religion.  Piety  is  not  only  necessary 
as  a  means,  but  is  itself  a  most  important  end. 
It  is  not  only  the  best  principle  of  moral  conduct, 
but  is  an  indispensable  and  absolute  duty  in  it¬ 
self.  It  is  not  only  the  highest  motive  to  the 
practice  of  virtue,  but  is  a  prior  obligation,  and 
.absolutely  necessary,  even  when  detached  from 
its  immediate  influence  on  outward  actions. 
Religion  will  survive  all  the  virtues  of  which  it 
is  the  source  ;  for  we  shall  be  living  in  the  no¬ 
blest  exercises  of  piety  when  we  shall  have  no 
objects  on  which  to  exercise  many  human  vir¬ 
tues.  When  there  will  be  no  distress  to  be  re¬ 
lieved,  no  injuries  to  be  forgiven,  no  evil  habits 
to  be  subdued,  there  will  be  a  Creator  to  be 
blessed  and  adored,  a  Redeemer  to  be  loved  and 
praised. 

To  conclude,  a  real  Christian  is  not  such 


merely  by  habit,  profession,  or  education  ;  he  ic 
not  a  Christian  in  order  to  acquit  his  sponsors 
of  the  engagements  they  entered  into  in  his 
name;  but  he  is  one  who  has  embraced  Chris¬ 
tianity  from  a  conviction  of  its  truth,  and  an 
experience  of  its  excellence.  He  is  not  only 
confident  in  matters  of  faith  by  evidences  sug¬ 
gested  to  his  understanding,  or  reasons  which 
correspond  to  his  inquiries ;  but  all  these  evi¬ 
dences  of  truth,  all  these  principles  of  goodness 
are  working  into  his  heart,  and  exhibit  them¬ 
selves*  in  his  practice.  He  sees  so  much  of  the 
body  of  the  great  truths  and  fundamental  points 
of  religion,  that  he  has  a  satisfactory  trust  in 
those  lesser  branches  which  ramify  to  infinity 
from  the  parent  stock ;  though  he  may  not  in¬ 
dividually  and  completely  comprehend  them  all. 
He  is  so  powerfully  convinced  gf  the  general 
truth,  and  so  deeply  impressed  by  the  general 
spirit  of  the  Gospel,  that  he  is  not  startled  by 
every  little  difficulty  ;  he  is  not  staggered  by 
every  ‘  hard  saying.’  Those  depths  of  mystery 
w’hich  surpass  his  understanding  do  not  shake 
his  faith,  and  this,  not  because  he  is  credulous, 
and  given  to  take  things  upon  trust,  but  because, 
knowing  that  his  foundations  are  right,  he  sees 
how  one  truth  of  Scripture  supports  another  like 
the  bearings  of  a  geometrical  building  ;  because 
he  sees  the  aspect  one  doctrine  has  upon  an¬ 
other  ;  because  he  sees  the  consistency  of  each 
with  the  rest,  and  the  place,  order,  and  relation 
of  all.  The  real  Christian  by  no  means  rejects 
reason  from  his  religion  ;  so  far  from  it,  he  most 
carefully  exercises  it  in  furnishing  his  mind 
with  all  the  evidences  of  its  truth.  But  he  does 
not  stop  here.  Christianity  furnishes  him  with 
a  living  principle  of  action,  with  the  vital  in¬ 
fluences  of  the  holy  Spirit,  whiq,h,  while  it  en¬ 
lightens  his  faculties,  rectifies  his  will,  turns  his 
knowledge  into  practice,  sanctifies  his  heart, 
changes  his  habits,  and  proves  that  when  faith¬ 
fully  received,  the  word  of  truth  ‘  is  life  indeed, 
and  is  spirit  indeed  !’ 


REMARKS  ON  THE  SPEECH  OF  M.  DUPONT, 

MADE  IN  THE  NATIONAL  CONVENTION  OF  FRANCE. 

ON  THE  SUBJECTS  OF  RELIGION  AND  PUBLIC  EDUCATION. 

A  PREFATORY  ADDRESS 

TO  THE  LADIES,  &0.  OF  GREAT  DRITAm, - IN  BEHALF  OF  THE  FRENCH  EMIGRANT  CLERGY, 


If  it  be  allowed  that  there  may  arise  occasions 
so  extraordinary  that  all  the  lesser  motives  of 
delicacy  ought  to  vanish  before  them,  it  is  pre¬ 
sumed  that  the  present  emergency  will  be  con¬ 
sidered  as  presenting  one  of  those  occasions,  and 
will  in  some  measure  justify  the  hardiness  of 
this  address  from  a  private  individual,  who,  sti¬ 
mulated  by  the  urgency  of  the  case,  sacrifices 
inferior  considerations  to  the  ardent  desire  of 


raising  further  supplies  towards  relieving  a  dis. 
tress  as  pressing  as  it  is  unexampled. 

We  are  informed  by  public  advertisement, 
that  the  large  sums  already  so  liberally  subscrib¬ 
ed  for  the  emigrant  clergy  are  almost  exhausted. 
Authentic  information  adds,  that  multitudes  of 
distres.scd  exiles  in  the  island  of  Jersey,  are  on 
the  [loint  of  wanting  bread. 

Very  many  to  whom  this  address  is  made  have 


NOTE.— The  profits  of  this  publication,  which  were  considerable,  were  given  to  the  French  emigrant  clergy. 


302 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


already  contributed.  O  let  them  not  be  weary 
in  well-doing  !  I  know  that  many  are  making 
generous  exertions  for  the  just  and  natural  claims 
of  the  widows  and  children  of  our  own  brave 
seamen  and  soldiers.  Let  it  not  be  said,  that 
the  present  is  an  interfering  claim.  Those  to 
whom  I  write,  have  bread  enough,  and  to  spare. 
You,  who  fare  sumptuously  every  day,  and  yet 
complain  that  you  have  little  to  bestow,  let  not 
this  bounty  be  subtracted  from  another  bounty, 
but  subtract  it  rather  from  some  superfluous 
expense. 

The  beneficent  and  right-minded  want  no  ar¬ 
guments  to  be  pressed  upon  them  ;  but  it  is  not 
those  alone  who  1  address  ;  I  write  to  persons 
of  every  description.  Luxurious  habits  of  living, 
which  really  furnish  the  distressed  with  the 
fairest  grounds  for  applieation,  are  too  often 
urged  by  those  who  practise  them  as  a  motive 
for  withholding  assistance,  and  produeed  as  a 
plea  for  having  little  to  spare.  Let  her  who  in¬ 
dulges  such  habits,  and  pleads  such  excuses  in 
consequence,  reflect,  that  by  retrenching  one 
costly  dish  from  her  abundant  table,  by  cutting 
off  the  superfluities  of  one  expensive  desert, 
omitting  one  evening’s  public  amusement,  she 
may  furnish  at  least  a  week’s  subsistenee  to 
more  than  one  person,*  as  liberally  bred  perhaps 
as  herself,  and  who,  in  his  own  country,  may 
have  often  tasted  how  much  more  blessed  it  is 
to  give  than  to  receive — to  a  once  affluent  mi¬ 
nister  of  religion,  who  has  been  long  accustomed 
to  bestow  the  necessaries  he  is  now  reduced  to 
solicit. 

Even  your  young  daughters,  whom  maternal 
prudence  has  not  yet  furnished  with  the  means 
of  bestowing,  may  be  cheaply  taught  the  first 
rudiments  of  charity,  together  with  an  impor¬ 
tant  lesson  of  economy  :  they  may  be  taught  to 
sacrifice  a  feather,  a  set  of  ribands,  an  expensive 
ornament,  an  idle  diversion.  And  if  they  are 
on  this  occasion  instructed,  that  there  is  no  true 
charity  without  self-denial,  they  will  gain  more 
than  they  are  called  upon  to  give  :  for  the  sup¬ 
pression  of  one  luxury  for  a  charitable  purpose, 
is  the  exercise  of  two  virtues,  and  this  without 
any  pecuniary  expense.- An  ind  ulgonce  is  abridg¬ 
ed  and  Christian  charity  is  exercised. 

Let  the  sick  and  afflicted  remember  how 
dreadful  it  must  bo,  to  be  exposed  to  the  suffer¬ 
ings  they  feel  without  one  of  the  alleviations 
which  mitigate  their  affliction.  How  dreadful 
it  is  to  be  without  comfort,  without  necessaries, 
witliout  a  home — without  a  country  !  While 
the  gay  and  prosperous  would  do  well  to  recol¬ 
lect,  how  suddenly  and  terribly  those  unhappy 

■*  Mr.  Bowdler’s  letter  states,  that  about  six  shillings 
a  week  includes  the  expenses  of  each  priest  at  Win- 
dies  ter, 


persons  for  whom  we  plead,  were,  by  the  sut 
prising  vicissitudes  of  life,  thrown  down  from 
heights  of  gayety  and  prosperity  equal  to  what 
they  are  now  enjoying.  And  let  those  who  have 
husbands,  fathers,  sons,  brothers,  or  friends,  re¬ 
flect  on  the  uncertainties  of  war,  and  the  revo¬ 
lution  of  human  affairs.  It  is  only  by  imagining 
the  possibility  that  those  who  are  dear  to  us  may 
be  placed  by  the  instability  of  human  events  in 
the  same  calamitous  circumstances,  that  we  can 
obtain  an  adequate  feeling  of  the  woes  we  are 
called  upon  to  commiserate. 

In  a  distress  so  wide  and  comprehensive  as 
the  present,  many  are  prevented  from  giving  by 
that  popular  excuse,  ‘  That  it  is  but  a  drop  of 
water  in  the  ocean.’  But  let  them  reflect,  that 
if  all  the  individual  drops  were  withheld,  there 
would  be  no  ocean  at  all ;  and  the  inability  to 
give  much  ought  not,  on  any  occasion,  to  be 
converted  into  an  excuse  for  giving  nothing. 
Even  moderate  circumstances  need  not  plead  an 
exemption.  The  industrious  tradesman  will  not, 
even  in  a  political  view,  be  eventually  a  loser 
by  his  small  contribution.  The  money  now 
raised  is  neither  carried  out  of  our  country,  nor 
dissipated  in  luxuries,  but  returns  again  to  the 
community ;  returns  to  our  shops  and  to  our 
markets,  to  procure  tha  bare  necessaries  of 
life. 

Some  have  objected  to  the  difference  of  reli¬ 
gion  of  those  for  whom  we  solicit.  Such  an  ob¬ 
jection  hardly  deserves  a  serious  answer.  Surely 
if  the  superstitious  Tartar  hopes  to  become  pos¬ 
sessed  of  the  courage  and  talents  of  the  enemy 
he  slays,  the  Christian  is  not  afraid  of  catching, 
or  of  propagating  the  error  of  the  sufferer  he 
relieves. — Christian  charity  is  of  no  party.  We 
plead  not  for  their  faith,  but  for  their  wants. 
But  while  we  affirm  that  it  is  not  for  their  pope¬ 
ry  but  their  poverty  which  we  solicit ;  yet  let 
the  more  scrupulous,  who  look  for  desert  as  well 
as  distress  in  the  objects  of  their  bounty,  bear 
in  mind,  that  if  these  men  could  have  sacrificed 
their  conscience  to  their  convenience,  they  had 
not  now  been  in  this  country  ;  and  if  we  wish 
for  proselytes,  who  knows  but  it  may  be  the  first 
step  towards  their  conversion,  if  we  show  them 
the  purity  of  our  religion,  by  the  beneficence  of 
our  actions. 

If  you  will  permit  me  to  press  upon  you  such 
high  motives  (and  it  were  to  be  wished  that  in 
every  action  we  were  to  be  influenced  only  by 
the  highest)  perhaps  no  act  of  bounty  to  which 
you  may  be  called  out,  can  ever  come  so  imme¬ 
diately,  and  so  literally  under  that  solemn  and 
affecting  description,  which  will  be  recorded  in 
the  great  day  of  account — /  was  a  strangertand 
ye  took  me  in. 


SPEECH  OF  MR.  DUPONT. 

The  f 'flowing  is  an  exact  Translation  from  a  Speech  made  in  the  National  Convention  at  Pans, 
on  Friday,  the  14th  of  December,  171)2,  in  a  debate  on  the  subject  of  establishing  Public  Schools 
for  the  education  of  Youth,  by  citizen  Dupont,  a  member  of  considerable  weight;  and  as  the 
doctrines  contained  in  it  were  received  with  unanimous  applause,  except  from  two  or  three  of 
the  clergy,  it  may  bo  fairly  considered  as  an  exposition  of  the  creed  of  that  enlightened  assem¬ 
bly.  Translated  from  Le  Moniteur,  of  Sunday,  the  16th  of  December,  1792. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


30.3 


What!  Thrjnes  are  overturned!  Sceptres 
broken !  Kings  expire  !  And  yet  the  altars  of 
God  remain  !  (Here  there  is  a  murmur  from 
some  members  ;  and  the  abbe  Ichon  demands 
that  the  person  speaking  may  be  called  to  order.) 
Tyrants  in  outrage  to  nature,,  continue  to  burn 
an  impious  incense  on  those  altars  !  (Some  mur¬ 
murs  arise,  but  they  are  lost  in  the  applauses 
from  the  majority  of  the  assembly.)  The  thrones 
that  have  been  reversed,  have  left  these  altars 
naked,  unsupported,  and  tottering.  A  single 
breath  of  enlightened  reason  will  now  be  suffi¬ 
cient  to  make  them  disappear  ;  and  if  humanity 
is  under  obligations  to  the  French  nation  for 
the  first  of  these  benefits,  the  fall  of  kings,  can 
it  be  doubted  but  that  the  French  people  now 
sovereign,  will  be  wise  enough,  in  like  manner, 
to  overthrow  those  altars  and  those  idols  to 
which  those  kings  have  hitherto  made  them  sub¬ 
ject  ?  Nature  and  Reason,  these  ought  to  be  the 
gods  of  men  !  These  are  my  gods  !  (Here  the 
abbe  Audrein  cried  out,  ‘  there  is  no  bearing 
this  and  rushed  out  of  the  assembly. — A  great 
laugh.)  Admire  nature — cultivate  reason.  And 
you,  legislators,  if  you  desire  that  the  French 
people  should  be  happy,  make  haste  to  propa¬ 
gate  these  principles,  and  to  teach  them  in  your 
primary  schools,  instead  of  those  fanatical  prin¬ 
ciples  which  have  hitherto  been  taught.  The 
tyranny  of  kings  was  confined  to  make  their 
people  miserable  in  this  life — but  those  other 
tyrants,  the  priests,  extend  their  dominion  into 
another,  of  which  they  have  no  other  idea  than 
of  eternal  punishments;  a  doctrine  which  some 
men  have  hitherto  had  the  good  nature  to  believe. 
But  the  moment  of  the  catastrophe  is  come — all 
these  prejudices  must  fall  at  the  same  time.  We 
must  destroy  them,  or  they  will  destroy  us.  For 


myself,  I  honestly  avow  to  the  convention,  Zajfs. 
an  atheist !  (Here  there  is  some  noise  and  tu¬ 
mult.  But  a  great  number  of  members  cry  out, 

‘  what  is  that  to  us — you  are  an  honest  man  !) 
But  I  defy  a  single  individual  amongst  the 
twenty-four  millions  of  Frenchmen,  to  make 
any  well-grounded  reproach.  I  doubt  whether 
the  Christians  or  the  Catholics,  of  which  the  last 
speaker,  and  those  of  his  opinion,  have  been 
talking  to  us,  can  make  the  same  challenge. . 
(Great  applauses.)  There  is  another  considera¬ 
tion — Paris  has  had  great  losses.  It  has  been 
deprived  of  the  commerce  of  luxury  ;  of  that 
factitious  splendour  which  was  found  at  courts, 
and  invited  strangers  hither.  Well !  We  must 
repair  these  losses.  Let  me  then  represent  to 
you  the  times,  that  are  fast  approaching,  when 
our  philosophers,  whose  names  are  celebrated 
throughout  Europe,  Petion,  Syeves,  Condorcet, 
and  others — surrounded  in  our  Pantheon,  as  the 
Greek  Philosophers  were  at  Athens,  with  a 
crowd  of  disciples  coming  from  all  parts  of  Eu¬ 
rope,  walking  like  the  peripatetics,  and  teaching 
— this  man,  the  system  of  the  universe,  and  de¬ 
veloping  the  progress  of  all  human  knowledge; 
that,  perfectioning  the  social  system,  and  show¬ 
ing  in  our  decree  of  the  17th  of  June,  1789,  the 
seeds  of  the  insurrections  of  the  14th  of  July, 
and  the  10th  of  August,  and  of  all  those  insur¬ 
rections  which  are  spreading  with  such  rapidity 
throughout  Europe — so  that  these  young  stran¬ 
gers,  on  their  return  to  their  respective  coun¬ 
tries,  may  spread  the  same  lights,  and  may  ope¬ 
rate/or  the  happiness  of  mankind,  similar  rovo- 
lutions  throughout  the  world. 

(Numberless  applauses  arose,  almost  through, 
out  the  whole  assembly,  and  in  the  galleries.^ 


REMARKS  ON  THE  SPEECH  OF  MR.  DUPONT, 

ON  THE  .SUBJECT  OF  RELIGION  AND  PUBLIC  EDUCATION. 


It  is  presumed  that  it  may  not  be  thought  un- 
sea.sonable  at  this  critical  time  to  offer  to  the 
public,  and  especially  to  the  more  religious 
part  of  it,  a  few  slight  observations,  occasioned 
by  the  late  famous  speech  of  Mr.  Dupont,  which 
exhibits  the  confession  of  faith  of  a  considerable 
member  of  the  French  national  convention. 
Though  the  speech  itself  has  been  pretty  gene¬ 
rally  read,  yet  it  was  thought  necessary  to  pre¬ 
fix  it  to  those  remarks,  lest  such  as  have  not  al- 
ready  perused  it,  might,  from  an  honest  reluc¬ 
tance  to  credit  the  existence  of  such  principles, 
dispute  its  authenticity,  and  accuse  the  remarks, 
if  unaccompanied  by  the  speech,  of  a  spirit  of 
invective,  and  unfair  exaggeration.  At  the  same 
time  it  must  be  confessed  that  its  impiety  is  so 
monstrous,  that  many  good  men  were  of  opinion 
that  it  ought  not  to  be  made  familiar  to  the 
minds  of  Englishmen  ;  for  there  are  crimes 
with  which  even  the  imagination  should  never 
come  in  contact,  and  which  it  is  almost  safer 
not  to  controvert  than  to  detail. 

But  as  an  ancient  nation  intoxicated  their  i 
slaves,  and  then  exposed  them  before  their  chil-  j 


dren,  in  order  to  increase  their  horror  of  intern 
perance;  so  it  is  hoped  that  this  piece  of  impi¬ 
ety  may  bo  placed  in  such  a  light  before  the 
eyes  of  the  Christian  reader,  that,  in  proportion 
as  his  detestation  is  raised,  his  faith,  instead  of 
being  shaken,  will  be  only  so  much  the  more 
strengthened. 

This  celebrated  speech,  though  delivered  in 
an  assembly  of  politicians,  is  not  on  a  question 
of  politics,  but  on  one  as  superior  to  all  political 
considerations  as  the  soul  is  to  the  body,  as  eter¬ 
nity  is  to  time.  The  object  of  this  oration  is  not 
to  dethrone  kings,  but  him  by  whom  kings  reign. 
It  does  not  excite  the  cry  of  indignation  in  the 
orator  that  Louis  the  Sixteenth  reigns,  but  that 
the  Lord  God  omnipotenth  reigneth  ! 

Nor  is  this  the  declaration  of  some  obscure 
and  anonymous  person,  but  it  is  an  exposition 
of  the  creed  of  a  public  leader.  It  is  not  a  sen¬ 
timent  hinted  in  a  journal,  hazarded  in  a  pam¬ 
phlet,  or  thrown  out  at  a  disputing  club  ;  but  it 
is  the  implied  faith  of  the  rulers  of  a  great  na¬ 
tion. 

Little  notice  would  have  been  due  to  this  fa- 


THE  WORKS  Of  HANNAH  MORE, 


no4 

iTious  speech,  if  it  conveyed  the  sentiments  of 
only  one  vain  orator  ;  but  it  should  be  observed, 
that  it  was  heard,  received,  applauded,  with  two 
or  three  exceptions  only — a  fact,  which  you, 
who  have  scarcely  believed  in  the  existence  of 
atheism,  will  hardly  credit,  and  which,  for  the 
honour  of  the  eighteenth  century,  it  is  hoped 
that  our  posterity  will  reject  as  totally  incredible. 

A  love  of  liberty,  generous  in  its  principle, 
inclines  some  well-meaning  but  mistaken  men 
still  to  favour  the  proceedings  of  the  national 
convention  of  France.  They  do  not  perceive 
that  the  licentious  wildness  which  has  been  ex¬ 
cited  in  that  country,  is  destructive  of  all  true 
Jappiness,  and  no  more  resembles  liberty,  than 
the  tumultuous  joys  of  the  drunkard  resemble 
the  cheerfulness  of  a  sober  and  well-regulated 
mind. 

To  those  who  do  not  know  of  what  strange 
inconsistencies  man  is  made  up ;  who  have  not 
considered  how  some  persons  having  at  first 
been  hastily  and  heedlessly  drawn  in  as  approv¬ 
ers,  by  a  sort  of  natural  progression,  soon  be¬ 
come  principals  : — to  those  who  have  never  ob¬ 
served  by  what  a  variety  of  strange  associations 
in  the  mind,  opinions  that  seem  the  most  irre¬ 
concilable  meet  at  some  unsuspected  turning, 
and  come  to  be  united  in  the  same  man ; — to  all 
such  it  may  appear  quite  incredible,  that  well 
meaning  and  even  pious  people  should  continue 
to  applaud  the  principles  of  a  set  of  men  who 
have  publicly  made  known  their  intention  of 
abolishing  Christianity,  as  far  as  the  demolition 
of  altars,  priests,  temples,  and  institutions,  can 
abolish  it.  As  to  the  religion  itself,  this  also 
they  may  traduce  and  reject,  but  we  know  from 
the  comfortable  promise  of  an  authority  still  sa¬ 
cred  in  this  country  at  least,  that  the  gates  of 
hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it. 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood  by  those  to 
whom  these  slight  remarks  are  principally  ad¬ 
dressed  ;  by  that  class  of  well-intentioned  but 
ill-judging  people,  who  favour  at  least,  if  they  do 
not  adopt,  the  prevailing  sentiments  of  the  new 
republic.  You  are  not  here  accused  of  being 
the  wilful  abettors  of  infidelity.  God  forbid  ! 
*  We  are  persuaded  better  things  of  you;  and 
things  which  accompany  salvation.’  But  this 
ignis  fatuus  of  liberty  and  universal  brother¬ 
hood,  which  the  French  are  madly  pursuing, 
with  the  insignia  of  freedom  in  one  hand,  and 
the  bloody  bayonet  in  the  other,  has  bewitched 
your  senses,  is  misleading  your  steps,  and  be¬ 
traying  you  to  ruin.  You  are  gazing  at  a  me¬ 
teor  raised  by  the  vapours  of  vanity,  which  these 
wild  and  infatuated  wanderers  are  pursuing  to 
their  destruction  ;  and  though  for  a  moment  you 
mistake  it  for  a  heaven  born  light,  which  leads 
to  the  perfection  of  human  freedom,  you  will, 
should  you  join  in  the  mad  pursuit,  soon  disco¬ 
ver  that  it  will  conduct  you  over  dreary  wilds 
and  sinking  bogs,  only  to  plunge  you  in  deep 
and  inevitable  destruction. 

Much,  very  much  is  to  be  said  in  vindication 
of  your  favouring  in  the  first  instance  their  po¬ 
litical  projects.  The  cause  they  took  in  hand 
seemed  to  be  the  groat  cause  of  human  kind. 
Its  very  name  insured  its  popularity.  What 
English  heart  did  not  exult  at  the  demolition  of 
the  Bastile  ?  What  lover  of  his  species  did  not 


triumph  in  the  warm  hope,  that  one  of  the  fines, 
countries  in  the  world  would  soon  be  one  of  the 
most  free  ?  Popery  and  despotism,  though  chain 
ed  by  the  gentle  influence  of  Louis  the  Six¬ 
teenth,  had  actually  slain  their  thousands.  Little 
was  it  then  imagined,that  Anarchy  and  Atheism, 
the  monsters  who  were  about  to  succeed  them, 
would  soon  slay  their  ten  thousands.  If  we  can 
not  regret  the  defeat  of  the  two  former  tyrants, 
what  must  they  be  who  can  triumph  in  the  mis¬ 
chiefs  of  the  two  latter  1  Who,  I  say,  that  had 
a  head  to  reason,  or  a  heart  to  feel,  did  not  glow 
with  the  hope,  that  from  the  ruins  of  tyranny, 
and  the  rubbish  of  popery,  a  beautiful  and  finely 
framed  edifice  would  in  time  have  been  con- 
structed,  and  that  ours  would  not  have  been  the 
only  country  in  which  the  patriot’s  fair  idea  of 
well-understood  liberty,  the  politician’s  view  of 
a  perfect  constitution,  together  with  the  esta¬ 
blishment  of  a  pure  and  reasonable,  a  sublime 
and  rectified  Christianity,  might  be  realized  ? 

But,  alas  !  it  frequently  happens  that  the  wise 
and  good  are  not  the  most  adventurous  in  attack 
ing  the  mischiefs  which  they  are  the  first  to 
perceive  and  lament.  With  a  timidity  in  some 
respects  virtuous,  they  fear  attempting  any  thing 
which  may  possibly  aggravate  the  evils  they  de¬ 
plore,  or  put  to  hazard  the  blessings  they  already 
enjoy.  They  dread  plucking  up  the  wheat  with 
the  tares,  and  are  rather  apt,  with  a  spirit  of 
hopeless  resignation, 

‘  To  bear  the  ills  they  have, 

‘  Than  fly  to  others  that  they  know  not  of.’ 

While  sober-minded  and  considerate  men, 
therefore,  sat  mourning  over  this  complicated 
mass  of  error,  and  waited  till  God,  in  his  own 
good  time,  should  open  the  blind  eyes  ;  the  vast 
seheme  of  reformation  was  left  to  that  set  of  rash 
and  presumptuous  adventurers  who  are  gene¬ 
rally  watching  how  they  may  convert  public 
grievances  to  their  own  personal  aceount.  It 
was  undertaken,  not  upon  the  broad  basis  of  a 
wise  and  well-digested  scheme,  of  which  all  the 
parts  should  contribute  to  the  perfection  of  one 
consistent  whole  :  it  was  carried  on,  not  by  those 
steady  measures,  founded  on  rational  delibera¬ 
tion,  which  are  calculated  to  accomplish  so  im- 
portant  an  end  ;  not  with  a  temperance  which 
indicated  a  sober  love  of  law,  or  a  sacred  regard 
for  religion ;  but  with  the  most  extravagant  lust 
of  power,  with  the  most  inordinate  vanity  which 
perhaps  ever  instigated  human  measures — a  lust 
of  power,  which  threatens  to  extend  its  desolat¬ 
ing  influence  over  the  whole  globe  ; — a  vanity 
of  the  same  destructive  species  with  that  which 
stimulated  the  celebrated  incendiary  of  Ephesus, 
who  being  weary  of  his  native  obscurity  and 
insignificance,  and  preferring  infamy  to  oblivion, 
could  contrive  no  other  road  to  fame  and  immor¬ 
tality,  than  that  of  setting  fire  to  the  exquisite 
temple  of  Diana.  He  was  remembered  indeed, 
as  he  desired  to  be,  but  it  was  only  to  be  e.xe- 
crated  ;  while  the  seventh  wonder  of  the  world 
lay  prostrate  through  his  crime. 

But  too  often  that  daring  boldness  which  ex¬ 
cites  admiration,  is  not  energy,  is  not  virtue,  is 
not  genius.  It  is  blindness  in  the  judgment,  is 
vanity  in  the  heart.  Strong  and  unprecedented 
measures,  plans  instantaneously  conceived,  and 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


305 


N 

as  rapidly  executed,  argue  not  ability  but  arro¬ 
gance.  A  mind  continually  driven  out  in  quest 
of  presumptuous  novelties,  is  commonly  a  mind 
void  of  real  resources  within,  and  incapable  of 
profiting  from  observation  without.  Sure  princi¬ 
ples  cannot  be  ascertained  without  experiment, 
and  experiment  requires  more  time  than  the  san¬ 
guine  can  spare,  and  more  patience  than  the  vain 
possess.  In  the  crude  speculations  of  these  rash 
reformists,  few  obstructions  occur.  It  is  like 
taking  a  journey,  not  on  a  road,  but  on  a  map. 
Difficulties  are  unseen,  or  are  kept  in  the  back 
ground.  Impossibilities  are  smothered,  or  rather 
they  are  not  suffered  to  be  born.  Nothing  is 
felt  but  the  ardour  of  enterprise,  nothing  is  seen 
but  the  certainy  of  success.  Whereas  if  diffi¬ 
culties  grow  out  of  sober  experiment,  the  disap¬ 
pointments  attending  them  generate  humility ; 
the  failures  inseparable  from  the  best  concerted 
human  undertakings,  serve  at  once  to  multiply 
resources,  and  to  excite  self-distrust ;  while 
ideal  projectors,  and  actual  demolishers,  are  the 
most  conceited  of  mortals.  It  never  occurs  to 
them  that  those  defects  of  old  institutions,  on 
which  they  frame  their  objections,  are  equally 
palpable  to  all  other  men.  It  never  occurs  to 
them  that  frenzy  can  demolish  faster  than  wis¬ 
dom  can  build ;  that  pulling  down  the  strongest 
edifice  is  far  more  easy  than  the  reconstruction 
of  the  meanest,  that  the  most  ignorant  labourer 
is  competent  to  the  one,  while  for  the  other  the 
skill  of  the  architect,  and  the  patient  industry 
of  the  workman  must  unite.  That  a  sound 
judgment  will  profit  by  the  errors  of  our  pre¬ 
decessors,  as  well  as  by  their  excellences. 
That  there  is  a  retrospective  wisdom  to  which 
much  of  our  prospective  wisdom  owes  its  birth  ; 
and  tliat  after  all,  neither  the  perfection  pro- 
tended,  nor  the  pride  which  accompanies  the 
pretension,  ‘  is  made  for  man.’ 

It  is  the  same  over-ruling  vanity  which  ope¬ 
rates  in  their  politics,  and  in  their  religion  which 
makes  Kersaint*  boast  of  carrying  his  destruc¬ 
tive  projects  from  the  Tagus  to  the  Brazils,  and 
from  Mexico  to  the  shores  of  the  Ganges ;  which 
makes  him  menace  to  outstrip  the  enterprise  of 
the  most  extravagant  hero  of  romance,  and  al¬ 
most  undertake  with  the  marvellous  celerity  of 
the  nimble-footed  Puck, 

‘To  put  a  girdle  round  about  the  earth 

In  forty  minutes.’ — 

It  is  the  same  vanity,  still  the  master-passion 
in  the  bosom  of  a  Frenchman,  which  leads  Du¬ 
pont  and  Manuel  to  undertake  in  their  orations 
to  abolish  tho-Sabbath,  to  exterminate  the  priest¬ 
hood,  to  erect  a  pantheon  for  the  world,  to  re- 
.store  the  peripatetic  philosophy,  and  in  short  to 
revive  every  thing  of  ancient  Greece,  except  the 
pure  taste,  the  profound  wisdom,  the  love  of  vir¬ 
tue,  the  veneration  of  the  laws,  and  that  higli 
degree  of  reverence  which  even  virtuous  Pagans 
profess  for  the  Deity. 

It  is  the  same  spirit  of  novelty,  and  the  same 
hostilit}’  to  established  opinions,  which  dictate 
the  preposterous  and  impious  doctrine  that  death 
is  an  eternal  sleep.  The  prophets  and  apostles 
assert  the  contrary.  David  expressly  says, 

•  See  his  sjiuech  enumerating  their  intended  projects. 

VoL.  I  U 


‘  when  I  ateaJee  up  after  thy  likeness  I  shall  be 
satisfied  implying  that  our  true  life  will  begin 
at  our  departure  out  of  this  world.  The  destruc¬ 
tion  or  dissolution  of  the  body  will  be  the  re¬ 
vival,  not  the  death,  of  the  soul. — -.It  is  to  the 
living  the  apostle  says,  ‘  awake  thou  that  sleep- 
est,  and  arise  from  the  DEit.n,  and  Christ  shall 
give  thee  light.’ 

It  is  surely  to  be  charged  to  the  inadequate 
and  wretched  hands  into  which  the  work  of 
reformation  fell,  and  not  to  the  impossibility  of 
amending  the  civil  and  religious  institutions  of 
France,  that  all  has  succeeded  so  ill.  It  can¬ 
not  be  denied  perhaps,  that  a  reforming  spirit 
was  wanted  in  that  country ;  tlieir  government 
was  not  more  despotic,  than,  their  church  was 
superstitious  and  corrupt. 

But  though  this  is  readily  granted,  and  though 
it  may  be  unfair  to  blame  those  who  in  the  Jirst 
outset  of  the  French  revolution,  rejoiced  even 
on  religious  motives  :  yet  it  is  astonishing,  how 
any  pious  person,  even  with  all  the  blinding 
power  of  prejudice,  can  think  without  horror  of 
the  present  state  of  France.  It  is  no  less  won- 
derful  how  any  rational  man  could,  even  in  the 
beginning  of  the  revolution,  transfer  that  reason¬ 
ing,  however  just  it  might  be,  when  applied  to 
France,  to  the  case  of  England.  For  what  can 
be  more  unreasonable,  than  to  draw  from  dif¬ 
ferent  and  even  opposite  premises,  the  same 
conclusion  ?  Must  a  revolution  be  equally  neces¬ 
sary  in  the  case  of  two  sorts  of  government,  and 
two  sorts  of  religion,  which  are  the  very  reverse 
of  each  other  ? — opposite  in  their  genius,  unlike 
in  their  fundamental  principles,  and  completely 
different  in  each  of  their  component  parts. 

That  despotism,  priestcraft,  intolerance,  and 
superstition  are  terrible  evils,  no  candid  Chris¬ 
tian  it  is  presumed  will  deny ;  but,  blessed  be 
God,  though  these  mischiefs  are  not  yet  entire¬ 
ly  banished  from  the  face  of  the  earth,  they 
have  scarcely  any  existence  in  this  happy  coun¬ 
try. 

To  guard  against  a  real  danger,  and  to  cure 
actual  abuses,  of  whicli  the  existence  has  been 
first  plainly  proved,  by  the  application  of  a 
suitable  remedy,  requires  diligence  as  well  as 
courage  ;  observation  as  well  as  genius ;  patiende 
and  temperance  as  well  as  zeal  and  spirit.  It 
requires  the  union  of  that  clear  head  and  sound 
heart  which  constitute  the  true  patriot.  But 
to  conjure  up  fancied  evils ;  or  even  greatly  to 
aggravate  real  ones ;  and  then  to  exhaust  our 
labour  in  combating  them,  is  the  characteristic 
of  a  distempered  imagination  and  an  ill  govern¬ 
ed  spirit. 

Romantic  crusades,  the  ordeal  trial,  drown¬ 
ing  of  witches,  the  torture,  and  the  inqui¬ 
sition,  have  been  justly  reprobated  as  the  foul¬ 
est  stains  of  the  respective  periods  in  whicli, 
to  the  disgrace  of  human  reason,  they  existed ; 
but  would  any  man  bo  rationally  employed, 
wlio  should  now  stand  up  gravely  to  declaim 
against  these  as  the  predominating  mischiefs 
of  the  present  century  ?  Even  the  whimsical 
knight  of  La  Mancha  himself,  would  not  fight 
wind-mills  that  wore  pulled  down ;  yet  I  will 
venture  to  say,  that  the  above-named  evils  are 
at  present  little  more  chimerical  than  some  of 
those  now  so  bitterly  complained  of  among  us 


306 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE- 


It  IS  not  as  Dryden  said,  when  one  of  his  works 
was  unmercifully  abused,  that  the  piece  has  not 
faults  enoug-h  in  it,  but  the  critics  have  not  had 
the  wit  to  fix  upon  the  right  ones. 

It  is  allowed  that,  as  a  nation,  we  do  not  want 
faults  ;  but  our  political  critics  err  in  the  objects 
of  their  censure.  They  say  little  of  those  real 
and  pressing  evils  resulting  from  our  own  cor¬ 
ruption,  of  that  depravity  which  constitutes  the 
actual  miseries  of  life;  while  they  gloomily 
speculate  upon  a  thousand  imaginary  political 
grievances,  and  fancy  that  the  reformation  of 
our  rulers  and  our  legislatures  is  all  that  is 
wanting  to  make  us  a  happy  people.  Alas ! 

How  small,  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure, 

That  part,  which  kings  or  laws  can  cause  or  cure. 

The  principles  of  just  and  equitable  govern¬ 
ment  were,  perhaps,  never  more  fully  establish¬ 
ed,  nor  was  public  justice  ever  more  exactly  ad¬ 
ministered.  Pure  and  undefiled  religion  was 
never  laid  more  open  to  all,  than  at  this  day.  I 
wish  I  could  say  we  were  a  religious  people; 
but  this  at  least  may  be  safely  asserted,  that  the 
great  truths  of  religion  were  never  better  un¬ 
derstood  ;  that  Christianity  was  never  more  com 
pletely  stripped  from  all  its  incumbrances  and 
disguises,  or  more  thoroughly  purged  from  hu¬ 
man  infusions,  and  from  whatever  is  debasing 
in  human  institutions,  than  it  is  at  this  day  in 
this  country. 

In  vain  we  look  around  us  to  discover  the 
ravages  of  religious  tyranny,  or  the  triumphs  of 
priestcraft  or  superstition.  Who  attempts  to 
impose  any  yoke  upon  our  reason  ?  Who  seeks 
to  put  any  blind  on  the  eyes  of  the  most  illite¬ 
rate  ?  Who  fetters  the  judgment  or  enslaves  the 
conscience  of  the  meanest  of  our  Protestant 
brethren  ?  Nay,  such  is  the  power  of  pure  Chris¬ 
tianity,  that  genuine  Christianity,  which  is  ex¬ 
hibited  in  our  liturgy  to  enlighten  the  under¬ 
standing,  as  well  as  to  reform  the  heart,  and 
such  are  the  advantages  which  the  most  abject 
in  this  country  possess  for  enjoying  its  privi¬ 
leges,  that  the  poorest  peasant  among  us,  if  he 
be  as  religious  as  multitudes  of  his  station  really 
are,  has  clear  ideas  of  God  and  his  own  soul, 
purer  notions  of  that  true  liberty  wherewith 
Christ  has  made  him  free,  than  the  mere  dis- 
puter  of  this  world,  though  he  possess  every 
splendid  advantage  which  education,  wi.sdom, 
and  genius  can  bestow.  I  am  not  speaking 
either  of  a.perfecl  form  of  government,  or  of  aper- 
fect  church  establishment,  because  I  am  speak¬ 
ing  of  institutions  which  are  human ;  and  the 
very  idea  of  their  being  human  involves  also 
the  idea  of  imperfection.  But  I  am  speaking 
of  the  best  constituted  government,  and  the  best 
constituted  national  church,  with  which  the 
history  of  mankind  is  yet  acquainted.  Time, 
that  silent  instructor,  and  experience,  that  great 
rectifier  of  the  judgment,  will  more  and  more 
discover  to  us  what  is  wanting  to  the  perfection 
of  both.  And  if  we  may  trust  to  the  active 
genius  of  Christian  liberty,  and  to  that  liberal 
and  candid  spirit  which  is  the  characteristic 
of  the  age  we  live  in,  there  is  little  doubt  but 
that  a  temperate  and  well  regulated  zeal  will,  at 
a  convenient  season,  correct  whatsoever  sound 


policy  shall  suggest  as  wise  and  expedient  tO 
he  corrected. 

If  there  are  errors  in  the  church,  and  it  does 
not  perhaps  require  the  sharp-sightedness  of  a. 
keen  observer  to  discover  that  there  are,  there 
is  at  least  nothing  like  fierce  intolerance,  or 
spiritual  usurpation.  A  fiery  zeal  and  unchari¬ 
table  bigotry  might  have  furnished  matter  for  a 
well  deserved  ecclesiastical  philipic  in  other 
times  ;  but  thanks  to  the  temper  of  the  present 
day,  unless  we  conjure  up  a  spirit  of  religious 
chivalry,  and  sally  forth  in  quest  of  imaginary 
evils,  we  shall  not  apprehend  any  danger  from 
persecution  or  enthusiasm.  If  grievances  there 
are,  they  do  not  appear  to  be  those  which  result 
from  polemic  pride,  and  rigid  bigotry,  but  are 
of  a  kind  far  dilferent. 

If  the  warm  sun  of  prosperity  has  unhappily 
produced  its  too  common  effect,  in  relaxing  the 
vigour  of  religious  exertion  ;  if,  in  too  many  in¬ 
stances,  security  has  engendered  sloth,  and 
affluence  produced  dissipation ;  let  us  implore 
the  Divine  grace,  that  the  present  alarming 
crisis  may  rouse  the  careless,  and  quicken  the 
supine  ;  that  our  pastors  may  be  convinced  that 
the  Church  has  less  to  fear  from  external  vio¬ 
lence,  than  from  internal  decay ;  nay,  that  even 
the  violence  of  attack  is  often  really  beneficial, 
by  exciting  that  activity  which  enables  us  to 
repel  danger,  and  that  increase  of  diligence  is 
the  truest  accession  of  strength.  May  they  be 
convinced  that  the  love  of  power,  with  which 
their  enemies  perhaps  unjustly  accuse  them,  is 
not  more  fatal  than  the  love  of  pleasure  ;  that  no 
stoutness  of  orthodoxy  in  opinion  can  atone  for 
a  too  close  assimilation  with  the  manners  of  the 
world  ;  that  heresy  without,  is  less  to  be  dread¬ 
ed  than  indifference  from  within  ;  that  the  most 
regular  clerical  education,  the  most  scrupulous 
attention  to  forms,  and  even  the  strictest  con¬ 
formity  to  the  established  discipline  and  opinions 
of  the  Church,  will  avail  but  little  to  the  en¬ 
largement  of  Christ’s  kingdom,  without  a  strict 
spirit  of  personal  watchfulness,  habitual  self- 
denial,  and  laborious  exertion. 

Though  it  is  not  here  intended  to  animadvert 
on  any  political  complaint  which  is  not  in  some 
sort  connected  with  religion  ;  yet  it  is  presumed 
it  may  not  be  thought  quite  foreign  to  the  pre¬ 
sent  purpose  to  remark,  that  among  the  reign 
ing  complaints  against  our  civil  administration, 
the  most  plausible  seems  to  be  that  excited  by 
the  supposed  danger  of  an  invasion  on  the  liberty 
of  the  press. — Were  this  apprehension  well 
founded,  we  should  indeed  be  threatened  by  one 
of  the  most  grievous  misfortunes  that  can  befall 
a  free  country.  The  liberty  of  the  press  is  not 
only  a  most  noble  privilege  itself,  but  the  guar¬ 
dian  of  all  our  other  liberties  and  privileges,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  abuse  which  has  lately 
been  made  of  this  valuable  possession,  yet  every 
man  of  a  sound  unprejudiced  mind  is  well 
aware  that  true  liberty  of  every  kind  is  scarcely 
inferior  in  importance  to  any  object  for  which 
human  activity  can  contend.  Nay,  the  very 
abuse  of  a  good,  often  makes  us  more  sensible 
of  the  value  of  the  good  itself.  Fair  and  well- 
proportioned  freedom  will  ever  retain  all  her 
native  beauty  to  a  judicious  eye,  nor  will  the 
genuine  loveliness  of  her  form  be  the  less  prized 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


307 


for  our  having  lately  contemplated  the  distorted 
features  and  false  colouring  of  her  caricature, 
as  presented  to  us  by  the  daubing  hand  of  Gallic 
patriots. 

But  highly  as  the  freedom  of  the  press  ought 
to  be  valued,  would  it  really  be  so  very  heavy  a 
misfortune,  if  corrupt  and  inflaming  publica¬ 
tions,  calculated  to  destroy  that  virtue  which 
every  good  man  is  anxious  to  preserve,  that 
peace  which  every  honest  man  is  struggling  to 
secure,  should,  just  at  this  alarming  period,  be 
somewhat  difficult  to  be  obtained  ?  Would  it  be 
so  very  grievous  a  national  calamity,  if  the 
crooked  progeny  of  treason  and  blasphemy 
should  find  it  a  little  inconvenient  to  venture 
forth  from  their  lurking  holes,  and  range  abroad 
in  open  day  ?  Is  the  cheapness  of  poison,  or  the 
facility  with  which  it  may  be  obtained,  to,  be 
reckoned  among  the  real  advantages  of  medici¬ 
nal  repositories  ?  And  can  the  easiness  of  ac¬ 
cess  to  seditious  or  atheistical  writings,  be  seri¬ 
ously  numbered  among  the  substantial  blessings 
of  any  country  ?  Would  France,  at  this  day, 
have  had  much  solid  cause  of  regret,  if  most  of 
the  writings  of  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  d’Alem¬ 
bert  (the  prolific  seed  of  their  wide-spreading 
tree)  had  found  more  difficulty  in  getting  into 
the  world,  or  been  less  profusely  circulated  when 
in  it  ?  And  might  not  England  at  this  moment 
have  been  just  as  happy  in  her  ignorance,  if  the 
famous  orations  of  citizen  Dupont  and  citizen 
Manuel,  had  been  confined  to  their  own  enlight¬ 
ened  and  philosophical  countries  ?* 

To  return  to  these  orations  : — We  have  too 
often,  in  our  own  nation,  seen  and  deplored  the 
mischiefs  of  irreligion,  arising  incidentally  from 
a  neglected  or  an  abused  education.  But  wbat 
mischiefs  will  not  irreligion  produce,  when,  in 
the  projected  schools  of  France,  as  announced 
to  us  by  the  two  metaphysical  legislators  above 
mentioned,  impiety  shall  be  taught  by  system  ? 
When  out  of  the  mouths  of  babes  and  sucklings 
the  monstrous  opinions,  exhibited  by  Dupont 
and  Manuel,  shall  be  perfected  ?  When  the 
fruits  of  atheism  dropping  from  their  newly 
planted  tree  of  liberty,  shall  pollute  the  very 
fountains  of  knowledge  ?  When  education  being 
poisoned  in  all  iier  springs,  the  rising  generation 
shall  be  taught  to  look  on  atheism  as  decorous, 

*  Extiact  from  Mons.  Marmp.ra  Letter  to  the  National 
Coiivmition.  flateil  .laniinry ‘20,,  1703. 

‘The  priests  of  a  ropiihlic  are  its  inaaisirates,  thn  law 
its  •rospel  What  tnission  can  be  itioro  august  than  that 
of  the  instructors  of  youth,  who  having  themselves  osca- 
peil  from  the  hereditary  [irejuiiicc  of  all  sects,  point  out 
to  the  human  taco  their  inaiienahle  rights,  founded  upon 
that  sublime  wisdom  which  pervades  all  nature.  Iteli- 
gions  faith  irnitres.sed  on  the  mind  of  an  infant  seven 
years  old,  will  lead  to  perfect  slavery :  or  dogmas  at  that 
age  are  only  arbitrary  commands.  Ah!  what  is  belief 
without  e.vamination,  without  chnviction.  It  renders 
men  either  nudancholy  or  mad,  &c. 

‘  Logisl.'itors I  Virtue  wants  neither  temples  nor  syna¬ 
gogues.  It  is  not  from  priests  we  learn  to  do  good  or 
noble  actions.  No  religion  must  be  taitght  in  schools 
which  are  to  bn  national  ones.  To  prescribe  one  would 
bn  to  prefer  it  to  all  others. — 'I'hero  history  must  sptuak 
of  sects,  as  she  s[K!aks  of  other  eviuits.  It  would  b(>come 
your  wisdom,  perhaps,  to  order  that  the  pupils  of  the  re¬ 
public  should  not  enter  the  temples  before  the  agr;  of 
seventeen,  Heasoti  must  be  taken  by  surpiise,  &,o. 
Hardly  were  ehibiren  born  before  they  fidl  into  the  hands 
of  priests,  who  hrst  blinded  tluur  eyes,  and  then  didiver- 
ed  them  over  to  kings.  Wherever  kings  cease  to  govern, 
priests  must  cease  to  educate  ’ 


and  Christianity  as  eccentric  ?  When  atheism 
shall  be  considered  as  a  proof  of  accomplished 
breeding,  and  religion  as  the  stamp  of  a  vulgar 
edueatlon  7  When  the  regular  course  of  obedi¬ 
ence  to  masters  and  tutors  will  consist  in  re¬ 
nouncing  the  hope  of  everlasting  happiness,  and 
in  deriding  the  idea  of  future  punishment? 
When  every  man  and  every  child,  in  conformity 
with  the  principles  professed  in  the  convention, 
shall  presume  to  say  with  his  tongue,  what  hither¬ 
to  even  the  fool  has  only  dared  to  say  in  heart, 
T/iat  there  is  no  God,* 

Christianity,  which  involves  the  whole  duty 
of  man,  divides  that  duty  into  two  portions — the 
love  of  God  and  the  love  of  our  neighbour.  Now, 
as  these  two  principles  have  their  being  from 
the  same  source,  and  derive  their  vitality  from 
the  union ;  so  impiety  furnishes  the  direct  con¬ 
verse — That  atheism  vvhich  destroys  all  belief 
in,  and  of  course  cuts  off  all  love  of,  and  com¬ 
munion  with  God,  disqualifies  for  the  due  per¬ 
formance  of  the  duties  of  civil  and  social  life. 
There  is,  in  its  way,  the  same  consistency,  agree¬ 
ment  and  uniformity,  between  the  principles 
which  constitute  an  infidel  and  a  bad  member 
of  society,  as  there  is  between  giving  ‘  glory  to 
God  in  the  highest,’  and  exercising  ‘  peace  and 
good  wilt  to  men.’ 

My  fellow  Christians  !  This  is  not  a  strife  of 
words  ;  this  is  not  a  controversy  about  opinions 
of  comparatively  small  importance,  such  as  you 
have  been  aceustomed  at  home  to  hear  even  good 
men  dispute  upon,  when  perhaps  they  would 
have  acted  a  more  wise  and  amiable  part  had 
they  retnained  silent,  sacrificing  their  mutual 
differences  on  the  altar  of  Christian  charity  : 
But  this  bold  renunciation  of  the  first  great  fun- 
damental  article  of  faith,  this  daring  rejection 
of  the  Supreme  Creator  and  Ruler  of  the  world, 
is  laying  the  axe  and  striking  with  a  vigorous 
stroke  at  the  root  of  all  human  happiness.  It  is 
tearing  up  the  very  foundation  of  human  hope, 
and  extirpating  every  true  principle  of  human 
excellence.  It  is  annihilating  the  very  exist¬ 
ence  of  virtue,  by  annihilating  its  motives,  its 
sanctions,  its  obligations,  its  object,  and  its 
end. 

That  atheism  will  bo  the  favoured  and  the 
popular  tenet  in  France  seems  highly  probable  ; 
whilst  in  the  wild  contempt  of  all  religion,  which 
has  lately  had  the  arrogance  to  call  itself  tolera¬ 
tion,  it  is  not  improbable  that  christianky  itself 
may  be  tolerated  in  that  country,  as  a  sect  not 
persecuted  perhaps,  but  derided.  It  is,  how¬ 
ever,  far  from  clear,  that  this  will  be  the  case, 
if  the  new  doctrines  should  become  generally 

*  It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance,  that  tlioiigh  the 
French  arc  contimially  binding  themselves  by  oaths, 
they  have  not  mentioned  the  name  of  Gml  in  any  oath 
w.hich  has  been  invented  since  the  revolution.  It  may 
also  appear  curious  to  the  English  readers,  that  though 
in  almost  all  the  addresses  of  congratulation,  which 
were  stmt  by  the  as.sociatod  clubs  from  this  country  to 
the  National  Con  vention.  the  succos.s  of  the  Fnmeharms 
was  in  part  ascribed  to  Divine  providence,  yet  in  none 
of  the  answers  was  the  least  notice  ever  taken  of  this. 
And  to  show  how  the  same  spirit  spreails  itself  among 
every  description  of  men  in  France,  thiur  admiral  La- 
touche,  after  having  described  the  dangers  to  which  his 
ship  wtis  e,\posed  in  a  storm,  says,  ‘we  owe  our  e.vist- 
ence  to  the  tutelary  Gtmius  which  walchtts  over  thn  des¬ 
tiny  of  till!  French  republic,  and  the  defetiders  of  liberty 
ami  cuuulity.’ 


308 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


prevalent.  Atheists  are  not  without  their  bigot¬ 
ry  ;  they  too  have  their  spirit  of  exclusion  and 
monopoly  in  a  degree  not  inferior  to  the  most 
superstitious  monks.  And  that  very  spirit  of 
intolerance  which  is  now  so  much  the  object  of 
their  invective,  would  probably  be  no  less  the 
rule  of  their  practicb,  if  their  will  should  ever 
be  backed  by  power.  It  is  true  that  Voltaire 
and  the  other  great  apostles  of  infidelity  have 
employed  all  the  acuteness  of  their  wit  to  con¬ 
vince  us  that  irreligion  never  persecutes.  To 
prove  this,  every  art  of  false  citation,  partial  ex¬ 
tract,  suppressed  evidence,  and  gross  misrepre¬ 
sentation,  has  been  put  in  practice.  But  if  this 
unsupported  assertion  were  true,  then  Polycarp, 
Ignatius,  Justin,  Cyprian,  and  Basil,  did  not 
suffer  for  the  faith  once  delivered  to  the  saints. 
Then  the  famous  Christian  apologists,  most  of 
them  learned  converts  from  the  pagan  philoso¬ 
phy,  idly  employed  their  zeal  to  abate  a  clamour 
which  did  not  exist,  and  to  propitiate  emperors 
who  did  not  persecute.  Then  Tacitus,  Trajan, 
Pliny,  and  Julian,  those  bitter  enemies  to  Chris¬ 
tianity,  are  suborned  witnesses  on  her  side. 
Then  ecclesiastical  history  is  a  series  of  false¬ 
hoods,  and  the  book  of  martyrs  a  legend  of  ro¬ 
mance.* 

That  one  extravagant  miscliief  should  produce 
its  opposite,  is  agreeable  to  the  ordinary  course 
of  human  events.  That  to  the  credulity  of  a 
dark  and  superstitious  religion,  a  wanton  con¬ 
tempt  of  all  decency,  and  an  unbridled  profane¬ 
ness  should  succeed,  that  to  a  government  abso¬ 
lutely  despotic,  an  utter  abhorrence  of  all  re¬ 
straint  and  subordination  should  follow,  though 
it  is  deplorable,  yet  it  is  not  strange.  The  hu¬ 
man  mind  in  flying  from  the  extreme  verge  of 
one  error,  seldom  stops  till  she  has  reached  the 
opposite  extremity.  She  generally  passes  by 
with  a  lofty  disdain  the  obvious  truth  which  lies 
directly  in  her  road,  and  which  is  indeed  com¬ 
monly  to  be  found  in  the  midway,  between  the 
error  she  is  flying  from,  and  the  error  she  is 
pursuing. 

Is  it  a  breach  of  Christian  charity  to  conclude, 
from  a  view  of  the  present  state  of  the  French, 
that  since  that  deluded  people  have  given  up 
God,  God,  by  a  righteous  retribution,  seems  to 
have  renounced  them  for  a  time,  and  to  have 
given  them  over  to  their  own  heart’s  lust,  to 
work  iniquity  with  greediness  ?  If  such  is  their 
present  career,  what  is  likely  to  be  their  appoint¬ 
ed  end  ?  How  fearfully  applicable  to  them  seems 
that  awful  denunciation  against  an  ancient, 
offending  people — ‘  The  Lord  shall  smite  thee 
with  madness,  and  blindness,  and  astonishment 
of  heart.’ 

It  is  no  part  of  the  present  design  to  enter  in¬ 
to  a  detail  of  their  political  conduct ;  but  I  can¬ 
not  omit  to  remark,  tliat  the  very  man  in  their 
long  list  of  kings  who  seemed  best  to  have  de¬ 
served  their  assumed  application  of  most  Chris¬ 
tian,  was  also  most  favourable  to  their  acquisi- 

*  It  may  be  objected  liere,  that  tfiis  is  not  applicable 
to  the  state  of  France;  for  that  the  Koinan  eini'“r‘’''^ 
were  not  atheists  or  deists,  but  polytheists,  with  an  cstji- 
blished  religion.  To  this  it  may  be  answered,  that  mo¬ 
dern  infidels  not  only  deny  the-  ten  pa^jan  |>(!r.=ecntions, 
but  accuse  Christianity  of  beine  the  only  pT.-^eciiting 
religion  ;  and  affirm  that  only  those  who  refuse  to  em- 
btacc  it  discover  a  spirit  of  toleration. 


ti'on  of  liberty  :*  his  moderation  and  humanity 
facilitated  their  plans  and  increased  their  power, 
which,  with  unparalleled  ingratitude,  they  em¬ 
ployed  to  degrade  his  person  and  character  in 
the  eyes  of  mankind,  by  the  blackest  and  most 
detestable  arts,  and  at  length  to  terminate  his 
calamities  by  a  crime  which  has  excited  the 
grief  and  indignation  of  all  Europe. 

On  the  trial  and  murder  of  that  most  unfortu¬ 
nate  king,  and  on  the  inhuman  proceedings 
which  accompanied  them,  I  shall  purposely 
avoid  dwelling,  for  it  is  not  the  design  of  these 
remarks  to  excite  the  passions.  I  will  only  say, 
that  so  monstrous  has  been  the  inversion  of  all 
order,  law,  humanity,  justice,  received  opinion, 
good  faith,  and  religion,  that  the  conduct  of  his 
bloody  executioners  seems  to  have  exhibited  the 
most  scrupulous  conformity  with  the  principles 
announced  in  the  speeches  we  have  been  con¬ 
sidering.  In  this  one  instance  we  must  not  call 
the  French  an  inconsequent  people.  Savage 
brutality,  rapine,  treason  and  murder  have  been 
the  noxious  fruit  gathered  from  these  thorns ; 
the  baneful  produce  of  these  thistles.  An  over¬ 
turn  of  all  morals  has  been  the  well-proportioned 
offspring  of  a  subversion  of  all  principle. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  consistency,  in  this 
instance,  between  cause  and  consequence  ;  so 
new  and  surprising  have  been  the  turns  in  their 
extraordinary  projects,  that  to  foretell  what  their 
next  enterprize  would  be  from  what  their  last 
has  been,  has  long  baffled  all  calculation,  has 
long  bid  defiance  to  all  conjecture.  Analogy 
from  history,  the  study  of  past  events,  and  an 
investigation  of  present  principles  and  passions  • 
judgment,  memory,  rt)raparison,  combination  and 
deduction,  afford  human  sagacity  but  very  slen¬ 
der  assistance  in  its  endeavours  todevelope  their 
future  plans.  We  have  not  even  the  data  of 
consistent  wickedness  on  which  to  build  rational 
conclusions.  Their  crimes,  though  visibly  con¬ 
nected  by  uniform  depravity,  are  yet  so  surpri 
singly  diversified  by  interfering  absurdities,  as 
to  furnish  no  ground  on  which  reasonable  argu¬ 
ment  can  be  founded.  Nay,  such  is  their  incre¬ 
dible  eccentricity,  that  it  is  hardly  extravagant 
to  affirm,  that  improbability  is  become  rather  an 
additional  reason  for  expecting  any  given  event 
to  take  place. 

But  let  us,  in  this  yet  happy  country,  learn  at 
least  one  great  and  important  trutli  from  the 
errors  of  this  distracted  people.  Tlieir  conduct 
has  always  illustrated  a  jiosition,  which  is  not 
the  less  sound  for  having  been  often  controvert¬ 
ed — J’hat  no  degree  of  wit  and  learning,  no  pro¬ 
gress  in  commerce,  no  advances  in  the  know 
ledge  of  nature,  or  in  the  embellishments  of  art, 
can  ever  thorouglily  tame  tliat  savage,  tlie  natu¬ 
ral  human  heart,  without  rei.igio.v.  The  arts 
of  social  life  may  give  sweetness  to  manners, 
and  grace  to  language,  and  induce,  in  some  de¬ 
gree,  a  respect  for  justice,  truth,  and  humanity  ; 
butattainments  derived  from  such  inferior  causes 
are  no  more  than  tlie  semblance  and  the  shadow 
of  the  qualities  derived  from  pure  Christianity. 
Varnish  is  an  extraneous  ornament,  but  true 

♦  Of  this  the  French  themselves  were  so  well  persna- 
(left,  that  the  title  of  Jifstorateur  lU  la  liberie  Fra:tcoi$e, 
was  solemnly  given  to  Liouis  XVltfi  by  the  Constituent 
Assembly. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


309 


polish  is  a  proof  of  the  solidity  of  the  body  on 
whose  surface  it  is  produced.  It  depends  greatly 
on  the  nature  of  the  substance,  is  not  superin¬ 
duced  by  accidental  causes,  but  in  a  good  mea¬ 
sure  proceeds  from  internal  soundness. 

The  poets  of  that  classic  country,  whose  style, 
sentiments,  manners,  and  religion,  the  French 
so  affectedly  labour  to  imitate,  have  left  keen 
and  biting  satires  on  the  Roman  vices.  Against 
the  late  proceedings  in  France,  no  satirist  need 
employ  his  pen ;  that  of  the  historian  will  be 
quite  sufficient.  Truth  will  be  the  severest  sa¬ 
tire  ;  fact  will  put  fable  out  of  countenance  ;  and 
the  crimes  which  are  usually  held  up  to  our  ab¬ 
horrence,  and  are  rejected  for  their  exaggera¬ 
tion  in  works  of  invention,  will  be  regarded  as 
flat  and  feeble  by  those  who  shall  peruse  the  re¬ 
cords  of  the  tenth  of  August,  of  tlie  second  and 
third  of  September,  and  of  the  twenty-first  of 
January. 

If  the  same  astonishing  degeneracy  in  taste, 
principle,  and  practice,  should  ever  come  to 
flourish  among  us,  Britain  may  still  live  to  exult 
in  the  desolation  of  her  cities,  and  in  the  de¬ 
struction  of  her  finest  monuments  of  art ;  she 
may  triuirfph  in  the  peopling  of  the  fortresses 
of  her  rocks  and  her  forests  ;  may  exult  in  be¬ 
ing  once  more  restored  to  that  glorious  state  of 
liberty  and  equality,  when  all  subsisted  by  ra¬ 
pine  and  the  chase ;  when  all,  O  enviable  privi¬ 
lege  !  were  equally  savage,  equally  indigent,  and 
equally  naked ;  her  sons  may  extol  it  as  the  re¬ 
storation  of  reason,  the  triumph  of  nature,  and 
the  consummation  of  liberty,  that  they  are  again 
brought  to  feed  on  acorns,  instead  of  bread  ! 
Groves  of  consecrated  misletoe  may  happily  suc¬ 
ceed  to  useless  cornfields  ;  and  Thor  and  Woden 
may  hope  once  more  to  be  invested  with  alt 
their  bloody  honours 

Let  not  any  serious  reader  feel  indignation, 
as  if  pains  were  ungenerously  taken  to  involve 
their  religious  with  their  political  opinions.  Far 
be  it  from  me  to  wound,  unnecessarily,  the  feel¬ 
ings  of  a  people,  many  of  whom  are  truly  esti¬ 
mable  :  but  it  is  much  to  be  suspected,  that  cer¬ 
tain  opinions  in  politics  have  a  tendency  to  lead 
to  certain  opinions  in  religion.  Where  so  much 
is  at  stake,  they  will  do  well  to  keep  their  con¬ 
sciences  tender,  in  order  to  which  they  should 
try  to  keep  their  discernment  acute.  They  will 
do  well  to  observe,  that  the  same  restless  spirit 
of  innovation  is  busily  operating  under  various, 
though  seemingly  unconnected  forms;  to  ob¬ 
serve,  that  the  same  impatience  of  restraint,  the 
same  contempt  of  order,  peace,  and  subordina¬ 
tion,  which  makes  men  bad  citizens,  makes  them 
bad  Christians ;  and  that  to  this  secret  and  al¬ 
most  infallible  connexion  between  religious  and 
political  sentiment,  does  France  owe  her  present 
unparalleled  anarchy  and  impiety. 

There  are  doubtless  in  that  unhappy  country 
multitudes  of  virtuous  and  reasonable  men,  who 
rather  silently  acquiesce  in  the  authority  of 
their  present  turbulent  government,  than  em¬ 
brace  its  principles  or  promote  its  projects  from 
the  sober  conviction  of  their  own  judgment. 
These,  together  with  those  conscientious  exiles 
whom  this  nation  so  honourably  protects,  may 
yet  live  to  rejoice  in  tlio  restoration  of  true  li¬ 
berty  and  solid  peace  to  their  native  country, 


when  light  and  order  shall  spring  from  the  pre. 
sent  darkness  and  confusion,  and  the  reign  of 
chaos  shall  be  np  more. 

May  I  be  permitted  a  short  digression  on  the 
subject  of  the  conduct  of  Great  Britain  to  these 
exiles  ?  It  shall  only  be  to  remark,  that  all  the 
boasted  conquests  of  our  Edwards  and  our  Hen- 
rys  over  the  French  nation,  do  not  confer  such 
substantial  glory  on  our  own  country,  as  she  de¬ 
rives  from  having  received,  protected,  and  sup¬ 
ported  among  innumerable  multitudes  of  other 
sufferers,  at  a  time  and  under  circumstances  so 
peculiarly  disadvantageous  to  herself,  three  thou¬ 
sand  priests,  of  a  nation  habitually  her  enemy, 
and  of  a  religion  intolerant  and  hostile  to  her 
own.  This  is  the  solid  triumph  of  true  Chris¬ 
tianity;  and  it  is  worth  remarking,  that  the 
deeds  which  poets  and  historians  celebrate  as 
rare  and  splendid  actions ;  which  they  record 
as  sublime  instances  of  greatness  of  soul,  in  the 
heroes  of  the  pagan  world,  are  but  the  ordinary 
and  habitual  virtues  which  occur  in  the  common 
course  of  action  among  Christians  ;  quietly  per¬ 
forming  without  effort  or  exertion,  and  with  no 
view’  to  renown  or  reward  ;  but  resulting  natu¬ 
rally  and  consequently  from  the  religion  to 
which  they  belong. 

So  predominating  is  the  power  of  an  example 
we  have  once  admired,  and  setup  as  a  standard 
of  imitation,  and  so  fascinating  has  been  the 
ascendency  of  the  convention  over  the  minds  of 
those  whose  approbation  of  French  politics  com¬ 
menced  in  the  earlier  periods  of  the  revolution, 
that  it  extends  to  the  most  trivial  circumstances. 

I  cannot  forbear  to  notice  this  in  an  instance 
which,  though  inconsiderable  in  itself,  yet  ceases 
to  bo  so  when  we  view’  it  in  the  light  of  a  pre¬ 
vailing  symptom  of  the  reigning  disease. 

While  the  fantastic  phraseology  of  the  new 
republic  is  such,  as  to  be  almost  as  disgusting  to 
sound  taste  as  their  doctrines  are  to  sound  mo¬ 
rals,  it  is  curious  to  observe  how  deeply  the  ad¬ 
dresses,  which  have  been  sent  to  it  from  the 
clubs*  in  this  country,  have  been  infected  with 
it,  as  far  at  least  as  phrases  and  terms  are  ob¬ 
jects  of  imitation.  In  the  more  leading  points 
it  is  but  justice  to  the  French  convention  to  con¬ 
fess,  that  they  are  hitherto  without  rivals  and 
without  imitators ;  for  w’ho  can  aspire  to  emu¬ 
late  that  compound  of  anarchy  and  atheism 
which  in  their  debates  is  mixed  up  with  the  pe¬ 
dantry  of  a  school-boy,  the  jargon  of  a  cabal, « 
and  the  vulgarity  and  ill-breeding  of  a  mob? 
One  instance  of  the  prevailing  cant  may  suffice, 
where  a  hundred  might  be  adduced,  and  it  is 
not  the  most  exceptionable.  To  demolish  every 
existing  law  and  establishment;  to  destroy  the 
fortunes  and  ruin  the  principles  of  every  coun¬ 
try  into  which  they  are  carrying  their  destruc¬ 
tive  arms  and  their  frantic  doctrines ;  to  untie 
or  cut  'asunder  every  bond  which  holds  society 
together;  to  impose  their  own  arbitrary  shac¬ 
kles  where  they  succeed,  anrl  to  demolish  every 
thing  where  they  fail.  This  desolating  system, 
by  a  most  unaccountable  perversion  of  language, 
they  are  pleased  to  call  by  the  etidearitig  name 
of  fraternization ;  and  fraternization  is  one  of 
the  favourite  terms  which  their  admirers  in  this 
country  have  adopted.  Little  would  a  simple 

*  See  the  collection  of  addretisea  from  England 


310 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


stranger,  uninitiated  in  this  new  and  surprising 
dialect,  uninstructed  by  the  political  lexicogra¬ 
phers  of  modern  France,  imagine  that  the  peace¬ 
ful  terms  of  fellow-citizen  and  of  brother,  the 
winning  offer  o? freedom  and  happiness,  and  the 
warm  embrace  of  fraternity,  were  only  watch¬ 
words  by  which  they,  in  effect, 

Cry  havoc, 

And  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war. 

In  numberless  other  instances,  the  fashiona¬ 
ble  language  of  France  at  this  day  would  be  as 
unintelligible  to  the  correct  writers  of  the  age 
of  Louis  the  XIV.  as  their  fashionable  notions 
of  liberty  would  be  irreconcilable  with  those  of 
the  true  revolution  patriots  of  his  great  contem¬ 
porary  and  victorious  rival  William  the  Third. 

Such  is  indeed  their  puerile  rage  for  novelty 
in  the  invention  of  new  words,  and  the  perver¬ 
sion  of  their  taste  in  the  use  of  old  ones,  that  the 
celebrated  Vossius,  whom  Christiana  of  Sweden 
oddly  complimented  by  saying,  that  he  was  so 
learned  as  not  only  to  know  whence  all  words 
came,  but  whither  they  were  going,  would,  were 
he  admitted  to  the  honour  of  a  sitting,  be  obliged 
to  confess,  that  he  was  equally  puzzled  to  tell 
the  one,  as  to  foretel  the  other. 

If  it  shall  please  the  Almighty  in  his  anger  to 
let  loose  this  infituated  people,  as  a  scourge  for 
the  iniquities  of  the  human  race ;  if  they  are  de¬ 
legated  by  infinite  justice  to  act  ‘as  storm  and 
tempest  fulfilling  his  word,’  if  they  are  commis¬ 
sioned  to  perform  the  errand  of  the  destroying 
lightning  or  the  avenging  thunderbolt,  let  us 
try  at  least  to  extract  personal  benefit  from  a 
national  calamity  ;  let  every  one  of  us,  high  and 
low,  rich  and  poor,  enter  upon  this  serious  and 
humbling  inquiry,  how  much  his  own  individual 
offences  have  contributed  to  that  awful  aggre¬ 
gate  of  public  guilt,  which  has  required  such  a 
visitation.  Let  us  carefully  examine  in  what 
proportion  we  have  separately  added  to  that 
common  stock  of  abounding  iniquity,  the  de¬ 
scription  of  which  formed  the  character  of  an 
ancient  nation,  and  is  so  peculiarly  applicable 
to  our  own — Pride,  fulness  of  bread,  and  abun¬ 
dance  of  idleness.  Let  every  one  of  us  humbly 
inquire,  in  the  self-suspecting  language  of  the 
disciples  of  tbeir  Divine  Piaster — hard,  is  it  I'l 
Let  us  learn  to  fear  the  fleets  and  armies  of  the 
enemy,  much  less  than  those  iniquities  at  home, 
which  this  alarming  dispensation  may  be  in¬ 
tended  to  chastise. 

The  war  which  the  French  had  declared 
against  us,  is  of  a  kind  altogether  unexampled 
in  every  respect;  insomuch  that  human  wisdom 
Is  baffled  when  it  would  pretend  to  conjecture 
what  may  be  the  event.  But  this  at  least  we 
may  safely  say,  that  it  is  not  so  much  the  force 
of  French  bayonets,  as  the  contamination  of 
French  principles,  that  ought  to  excite  our  ap¬ 
prehensions.  We  trust,  that  through  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  God  we  shall  be  defended  from  their  open 
hostilities,  by  the  temperate  wisdom  of  our  ru¬ 
lers,  and  the  bravery  of  our  fleets  and  armies ; 
but  the  domestic  danger  arising  from  licentious 
and  irreligious  principles  among  ourselves,  can  ! 
only  be  guarded  against  by  the  personal  care 
and  vigilance  of  every  one  of  us  who  values  re¬ 
ligion  and  the  good  order  of  society  in  this 
HTOild  and  an  eternity  of  happiness  in  the  next. 


God  grant  that  those  who  go  forth  to  fight 
our  battles,  instead  of  being  intimidated  by  the 
number  of  their  enemies,  may  bear  in  mind, 
that  ‘  there  is  no  restraint  with  God  to  save  by 
many  or  by  few.’  And  let  the  meanest  among 
us  who  remains  at  home  remember  also,  that 
even  he  may  contribute  to  the  internal  safety 
of  the  eountry,  by  the  integrity  of  his  private 
life,  and  to  the  success  of  her  defenders,  by  fol¬ 
lowing  them  with  his  fervent  prayers.  And  in 
what  war  can  the  sincere  Christian  ever  have 
stronger  inducements  and  more  reasonable  en- 
couragement  to  pray  for  the  success  of  his  coun¬ 
try,  than  in  this  ?  Without  entering  far  into  any 
political  principles,  the  discussion  of  which 
would  be  in  a  great  measure  foreign  to  the  de¬ 
sign  of  this  little  tract,  it  may  be  remarked,  that 
the  unchristian  principle  of  revenge  is  not  our 
motive  to  this  war  ;  conquest  is  not  our  object ; 
nor  have  we  had  recourse  to  hostility  in  order 
to  effect  a  change  in  the  internal  government 
of  France.*  The  present  war  is  undoubtedly 
undertaken  entirely  on  defensive  principles.  It 
is  in  defence  of  our  king,  our  constitution,  our 
religion,  our  laws,  and  consequently  our  liberty, 
in  the  sound,  sober,  and  rational  serrse  of  that 
term.  It  is  to  defend  ourselves  from  the  savage 
violence  of  a  crusade,  made  against  all  religion, 
as  well  as  all  government.  If  ever  therefore  a 
war  was  undertaken  on  the  ground  of  self-de¬ 
fence  and  necessity — if  ever  men  might  be  libe¬ 
rally  said  to  fight  pro  aris  et  focis,  this  seems 
to  be  the  occasion. 

The  ambition  of  conquerors  has  been  the 
source  of  great  and  extensive  evils  :  religious 
fanaticism,  of  still  greater.  But  little  as  I  am 
disposed  to  become  the  apologist  of  either  the 
one  principle  or  the  other,  there  is  no  extrava 
gance  in  asserting,  that  they  have  seemed  inca¬ 
pable  of  producing,  even  in  ages,  that  extent  of 
mischief,  that  variety  of  ruin,  that  comprehen¬ 
sive  desolation,  which  philosophy,  falsely  so  call¬ 
ed,  has  produced  in  three  years. 

Christians  !  it  is  not  a  small  thing — it  is  your 
life  I  The  pestilence  of  irreligion  which  you  de¬ 
test,  will  insinuate  itself  imperceptibly  with 
those  manners,  phrases,  and  principles  which 
you  admire  and  adopt.  It  is  the  humble  wisdom 
of  a  Christian,  to  shrink  from  the  most  distant 
approaches  of  sin  :  to  abstain  from  the  very  ap¬ 
pearance  of  evil.  If  we  would  fly  from  the  dead¬ 
ly  contagion  of  atheism,  let  us  fly  from  those 
seemingly  remote  but  not  very  indirect  paths 
which  lead  to  it.  Let  France  choose  this  day 
whom  she  will  serve ;  but  as  for  us  and  our 
houses,  we  will  serve  the  Lord. 

And,  O  gracious  and  long-suffering  God  !  be¬ 
fore  that  awful  period  arrives,  which  shall  ex¬ 
hibit  the  dreadful  effects  of  such  an  education 
as  the  French  nation  are  instituting ;  before  a 
race  of  men  can  be  trained  up,  not  only  without 
the  knowledge  of  Thee,  but  in  the  contempt  of 
Thy  most  holy  law,  do  Thou,  in  great  mercy 
change  the  heart  of  this  people  as  the  heart  of 
one  man.  Give  them  not  finally  over  to  their 
own  corrupt  imaginations,  to  their  own  heart’s 
lusts.  But  after  having  made  them  a  fearful 

*  See  the  report  of  Mr.  Pitt’s  speech  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  on  February  1'2,  17J3,  publishi’d  bv  VVoodtall. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


311 


exairrple  to  all  the  nations  of  the  earth,  what  a 
people  can  do,  who  have  cast  off  the  fear  of 
Thee,  do  Thou  graciously  bring  them  back  to  a 
sense  of  that' law  which  they  have  violated,  and 
to  a  participation  of  that  mercy  which  they  have 


abused;  so  that  they  may  happily  find,  whf. 
the  discovery  can  be  attended  vyith  hope  an|. 
consolation,  that  doubtless  there  is  a  reward  fit 
the  righteous  ;  verily,  there  is  a  God  who  judgetk 
the  earth. 


STRICTURES 

ON  THE  MODERN  SYSTEM  OF  FEMALE  EDUCATION 

WITH  A  VIEW  OF  THE  PRINCIPLES  AND  CONDUCT  PREVALENT  AMONG  WOMEN  OF  RANK  AND  FORTUNE. 

May  you  so  raise  your  character  that  you  may  help  to  make  the  next  age  a  better  thing,  and 
leave  posterity  in  your  debt,  for  the  advantage  it  shall  receive  by  your  example. — Lord  Halifax. 


Domestic  happiness,  thou  only  bliss 
Of  Paradise  that  has  survived  the  Fall ! 

Thou  art  not  known  where  Pleasure  is  ador’d, 
That  reeling  goddess  with  the  zoneless  waist. 
Forsaking  thee,  what  shipwreck  have  we  made 
Of  honour,  dignity,  and  fair  renown ! — Cowper. 


INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  a  l»k»gu!ar  injustice  which  is  often  exercised  towards  women,  first  to  give  them  a  very 
defective  education,  and  then  to  expect  from  them  the  most  undeviating  purity  of  conduct — to 
train  them  in  silch  a  manner  as  shall  lay  them  open  to  the  most  dangerous  faults,  and  then  to 
censure  them  for  not  proving  faultless.  Is  it  not  unreasonable  and  unjust  to  express  disappoint¬ 
ment  if  our  daughters  should,  in  their  subsequent  lives,  turn  out  precisely  that  very  kind  of 
character  for  which  it  would  be  evident  to  an  unprejudiced  by-stander  that  tlie  whole  scope  and 
tenor  of  their  instruction  had  been  systematically  preparing  them  ? 

Some  reflections  on  the  present  erroneous  systetDs.are  here  with  great  deference  submitted  to 
public  consideration.  The  author  is  apprehensive,' that  she  shall  bo  accused  of  betraying,  the 
interests  of  her  sex  by  laying  open  their  defects  :  bift'^urely  an  earnest  wish  to  turn  their  attention 
to  objects  calculated  to  promote  their  true  dignityjS^  not  the  office  of  an  enemy.  So  to  expose 
the  weakness  of  the  land  as  to  suggest  the  necessity  of  internal  improvement,  and  to  point  out 
the  means  of  effectual  defence,  is  not  treachery,  but  patriotism. 

Again,  it  may  bo  objected  to  this  little  work,  that  many  errors  are  here  ascribed  to  women 
which  by  no  means  belongs  to  them  exclusively,  and  that  it  seems  to  confine  to  the  sex  those  faults 
which  are  common  to  the  species:  but  this  is  in  some  measure  unavoidable.  In  speaking  on  the 
qualities  of  one  sex,  the  moralist  is  somewhat  in  the  situation  of  the  geographer,  who  is  treating 
on  the  nature  of  one  country  :  the  air,  soil,  and  produce  of  the  land  which  he  is  describing,  can¬ 
not  fail  in  many  essential  points  to  resemble  those  of  other  countries  under  the  same  parallel ;  yet 
it  is  his  business  to  descant  on  the  one  without  adveiting  to  the  other  ;  and  though  in  drawing  the 
map  he  may  happen  to  introduce  some  of  the  neighbouring  coast,  yet  his  principal  attention  must 
bo  confined  to  that  country  which  he  proposes  to  describe,  without  taking  into  account  the  resem¬ 
bling  circumstances  of  the  adjacent  shores. 

It  may  be  also  objected  that  the  opinion  here  suggested  on  the  state  of  manners  among  the 
higher  classes  of  our  countrywomen,  may  seem  to  controvert  the  just  encomiums  of  modern 
travellers,  who  generally  concur  in  ascribing  a  decided  superiority  to  the  ladies  of  this  country 
over  those  of  every  other.  But  such  is,  in  general,  the  state  of  foreign  manners,  that  the  com¬ 
parative  praise  is  almost  an  injury  to  English  women.  To  be  flattered  for  excelling  those  whose 
standard  of  excellence  is  very  low,  is  but  a  degrading  kind  of  commendation  ;  for  the  value  of  all 
praise  derived  from  superiority,  depends  on  the  worth  of  the  competitor.  The  character  of 
British  ladies,  with  all  the  unparalleled  advantages  they  possess,  must  never  be  determined  by 
comparison  with  the  women  of  other  nations,  but  by  comparing  them  with  what  they  themselves 
might  be  if  all  their  talents  and  unrivalled  opportunities  were  turned  to  the  best  account. 

Again,  it  may  be  said,  that  the  author  is  less  disposed  to  expatiate  on  excellence  than  error :  but 
the  office  of  the  historian  of  hun^an  manners  is  delineation  rather  than  panegyric.  •  Were  the  end 
in  view  eulogiurn  and  not  improvement,  eulogium  would  have  been  far  more  gratifying,  nor 
would  jnst  objects  for  praise  have  been  difficult  to  find.  Even  in  her  own  limited  sphere  of  ob¬ 
servation,  the  author  is  acquainted  with  much  excellence  in  the  class  of  which  she  treats — with 
women  who,  possessing  learning  which  would  be  thought  extensive  in  the  other  sex,  set  an  ex¬ 
ample  of  deep  humility  to  their  own — women  who,  distinguished  for  wit  and  genius,  are  erninen* 


312 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


for  domestic  qual  ties — who,  excelling’  in  the  fine  arts,  have  carefully  enriched  their  unde^stan<^. 
ings — who,  enjoying  great  influence,  devote  it  to  the  glory  of  God — who,  possessing  elevated  rank,, 
think  their  noblest  style  and  title  is  that  of  a  Christian. 

That  there  is  also  much  worth  which  is  little  known,  she  is  persuaded ;  for  it  is  the  modest 
nature  of  goodness  to  exert  itself  quietly,  while  a  few  characters  of  the  opposite  cast  seem,  by  the 
rumour  of  their  exploits,  to  fill  the  world  ;  and  by  their  noise  to  multiply  their  numbers.  It  often 
happens  that  a  very  small  party  of  people,  by  occupying  the  foreground,  by  seizing  the  public 
attention  and  monopolizing  the  public  talk,  contrive  to  appear  to  be  the  great  body :  a  few  active 
spirits,  provided  their  activity  take  the  wrong  turn,  and  support  the  wrong  cause,  seem  to  fill  the 
scene  ;  and  a  few  disturbers  of  order,  who  have  the  talent  of  thus  exciting  a  false  idea  of  their 
multitudes  by  their  mischiefs,  actually  gain  strength,  and  swell  their  numbers,  by  this  fallacious 
arithmetic. 

But  the  present  work  is  no  more  intended  for  a  panegyric  on  those  purer  characters  who  seek 
not  human  praise  because  they  act  from  a  higher  motive,  than  for  a  satire  on  the  avowedly 
licentious,  who,  urged  by  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  resist  no  inclination  ;  and  led  away  by  the 
love  of  fashion,  dislike  no  censure,  so  it  may  serve  to  reseue  them  from  neglect  or  oblivion. 

There  are,  however,  multitudes  of  the  young  and  the  well  disposed,  who  have  as  yet  taken  no 
decided  part,  who  are  just  launching  on  the  ocean  of  life,  just  about  to  lose  their  own  right  con¬ 
victions,  virtually  preparing  to  counteract  their  better  propensities,  and  unreluctantly  yielding 
themselves  to  be  carried  down  the  tide  of  popular  practices  :  sanguine,  thoughtless,  and  confident 
of  safety. — To  these  the  aut.hor  would  gently  hint,  that  when  once  embarked,  it  will  be  no  longer 
easy  to  say  to  their  passions,  or  even  to  their  principles,  ‘  Thus  far  shall  ye  go,  and  no  further.’ 
Their  struggles  will  grow  fainter,  their  resistance  will  become  feebler,  till  borne  down  by  the  con¬ 
fluence  of  example,  temptation,  appetite,  and  habit,  resistance  and  opposition  will  soon  be  the  only 
things  of  which  thy  will  learn  to  be  ashamed. 

Should  any  reader  revolt  at  what  is  conceived  to  be  unwarranted  strictr ess  in  this  little  book, 
let  it  not  be  thrown  by  in  disgust  before  the  following  short  consideration  be  weighed. — If  in  this 
Christian  country  we  are  actually  beginning  to  regard  the  solemn  office  of  Baptism  as  merely 
furnishing  an  article  to  the  parish  register — if  we  are  learning  from  our  indefatigable  teachers, 
to  consider  this  Christian  rite  as  a  legal  ceremony  retained  for  the  sole  purpose  of  recording  the 
age  of  our  children  ; — then,  indeed,  the  prevaling  system  of  education  and  manners  of  which 
these  pages  presume  to  animadvert  may  be  adopted  with  propriety,  and  persisted  in  with. safety, 
without  entailing  on  our  children  or  on  ourselves  the  peril  of  broken  promises  or  the  guilt  of  vio¬ 
lated  vows — But,  if  the  obligation  which  Christian  Baptism  imposes  he  really  binding — if  the  or¬ 
dinance  have,  indeed,  a  meaning  beyond  a  mere  secular  transaction,  beyond  a  record  of  names 
and  dates — if  it  be  an  institution  by  which  the  child  is  solemnly  devoted  to  God  as  his  Father,  to 
Jesus  Christ  as  his  Saviour,  and  to  the  Holy  Spirit  as  his  sanctifier  ;  if  there  be  no  definite  period 
assigned  when  the  obligation  of  fulfilling  the  duties  it  enjoins  shall  be  superseded — if,  having 
once  dedicated  our  offspring  to  their  Creator,  we  no  longer  dare  to  mock  Him  by  bringing  them  up 
in  ignorance  of  His  will  and  neglect  of  His  laws — if,  after  having  enlisted  them  under  the  banners 
of  Christ,  to  fight  manfully  against  the  three  great  enemies  of  mankind,  we  are  no  longer  at  liberty 
to  let  them  lay  down  their  arms ;  much  less  to  lead  them  to  act  as  if  they  were  in  alliance,  instead 
of  hostility  with  these  enemies — if,  after  having  promised  that  they  shall  renounce  (he  vanities 
of  the  world,  we  are  not  allowed  to  invalidate  the  engagement — if,  after  such  a  covenant  we 
should  tremble  to  make  these  renounced  vanities,  the  supreme  object  of  our  own  pursuit  or  of 
their  instruction — if  all  this  be  really  so,  then  the  Strictures  on  Modern  Education,  and  on  the 
Habits  of  Polished  Life,  will  not  be  found  so  repugnant  to  truth,  and  reason,  and  common  sense, 
as  may  on  a  first  view  be  supposed. 

But  if  on  candidly  summing  up  the  evidence,  the  design  and  scope  of  the  author  bo  fairly 
judged,  not  by  the  customs  or  opinions  of  the  worldly  (for  every  English  subject  has  a  right  to 
object  to  a  suspected  or  prejudiced  jury)  but  by  an  appeal  to  that  divine  law  which  is  the  only  in¬ 
fallible  rule  of  judgment ;  if  on  such  an  appeal  her  views  and  principles  shall  be  found  censurable 
for  their  rigour,  absurd  in  their  requisitions,  or  preposterous  in  their  restrictions,  she  will  have 
no  right  to  complain  of  such  a  verdict,  because  she  will  then  stand  condemned  by  that  court  to 
whoso  decision  she  implicitly  submits. 

Let  it  not  be  suspected  that  the  author  arrogantly  conceives  herself  to  be  exempt  from  that 
natural  corruption  of  the  heart  which  it  is  one  chief  object  of  this  slight  work  to  exhibit;  that 
she  superciliously  erects  herself  into  the  implacable  censor  of  her  sex  and  of  the  world  ,  as  if  from 
the  critic’s  chair  she  were  coldly  pointing  out  the  faults  and  errors  of  another  order  of  beings,  in 
whose  welfare  she  had  not  that  lively  interest  which  can  only  flow  from  the  tender  and  intimate 
participation  of  fellow-feeling. 

With  a  deep  self-abasement,  arising  from  a  strong  conviction  of  being  indeed  a  partaker  in  the 
same  corrupt  nature  ;  together  with  a  full  persuasion  of  the  many  and  great  defects  of  these 
pages,  and  a  sincere  consciousness  of  her  inability  to  do  justice  to  a  subject  which,  hewever,  a 
sense  of  duty  impelled  her  to  undertake,  she  commits  herself  to  the  candour  of  that  public,  which 
has  so  frequently,  in  her  instance,  accepted  a  right  intention  as  a  substitute  for  a  powerful  per 
forrnance. 

Bath,  March  14,  1 799. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


313 


STRICTURES 

ON  THE  MODERN  SYSTEM  OF  FEMALE  EDUCATION. 


CHAP.  I. 

Address  to  women  of  rank  and  fortune,  on  the 

effects  of  their  influence  on  society. — Sugges¬ 
tions  for  the  exertion  of  it  in  various  instances. 

Among  the  talents  for  the  applieation  of  which 
women  of  the  higher  class  will  be  peculiarly 
accountable,  there  is  one,  the  importance  of 
which  they  can  scarcely  rate  too  highly.  This 
talent  is  influence.  We  read  of  the  greatest 
orator  of  antiquity,  that  the  wisest  plans  which 
it  had  cost  him  years  to  frame,  a  woman  could 
overturn  in  a  single  day  ;  and  when  we  consider 
the  variety  of  mischiefs  which  an  ill-directed 
influence  has  been  known  to  produce,  we  are  led 
to  reflect  with  the  most  sanguine  hope  on  the 
beneficial  effects  to  be  expected  from  the  same 
powerful  force  when  exerted  in  its  true  direc¬ 
tion. 

The  general  state  of  civilized  society  depends, 
more  than  those  are  aware  who  are  not  accus¬ 
tomed  to  scrutinize  into  the  springs  of  human 
action,  on  the  prevailing  sentiments  and  habits 
of  women,  and  on  the  nature  and  degree  of  the 
estimation  in  which  they  are  held.  Even  those 
who  admit  the  power  of  female  elegance  on  the 
manners  of  men,  do  not  always  attend  to  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  female  principles  on  their  character. 
In  the  former  case,  indeed,  women  are  apt  to  be 
sufficiently  conscious  of  their  power,  and  not 
backward  in  turning  it  to  account.  But  there 
are  nobler  objects  to  be  effected  by  the  exertion 
of  their  powers,  and  unfortunately,  ladies,  who 
are  often  unreasonably  confident  where  they 
ought  to  he  diffident,  are  sometimes  capriciously 
diffident  just  when  they  ought  to  feel  where 
their  true  importance  lies  ;  and  feeling  to  exert 
it.  To  use  their  boasted  power  over  mankind 
to  no  higher  purpose  than  the  gratification  of 
vanity  or  the  indulgence  of  pleasure,  is  the  de¬ 
grading  triumph  of  those  fair  victims  to  luxury, 
caprice,  and  despotism,  whom  the  laws  and  the 
religion  of  the  voluptuous  prophet  of  Arabia  ex¬ 
clude  from  light,  and  liberty,  and  knowledge  : 
and  it  is  humbling  to  reflect,  that  in  those  coun¬ 
tries  in  which  fondness  for  the  mere  persons  of 
women  is  carried  to  the  highest  excess,  they  are 
slaves;  and  that  their  moral  and  intellectual 
degradation  increases  in  direct  proportion  to 
the  adoration  which  is  paid  to  mere  external 
charms. 

But  I  turn  to  the  bright  reverse  of  this  morti¬ 
fying  scene ;  to  a  country  where  our  sex  enjoys 
the  blessings  of  liberal  instruction,  of  reasonable 
laws,  of  a  pure  religion,  and  all  the  endearing 
pleasures  of  an  equal,  social,  virtuous,  and  de¬ 
lightful  intercourse.  I  turn,  with  an  earnest 
hope,  tliat  women  thus  richly  endowed  with  the 
bounties  of  Providence,  will  not  content  them¬ 
selves  witli  polishing  when  they  are  able  to  re¬ 
form  ;  with  entertaining  when  they  may  awaken ; 
and  with  captivating  for  a  day,  when  they  may 
bring  into  action  powers  of  which  the  effects 
may  be  commensurate  with  eternity. 

VoL.  I. 


In  this  moment  of  alarm  and  peril,  I  would 
call  on  them  with  a  ‘  warning  voice,’  which 
should  stir  up  every  latent  principle  in  their 
minds,  and  kindle  every  slumbering  energy  in 
their  hearts  :  I  would  call  on  them  to  come  for- 
ward,  and  contribute  their  full  and  fair  propor¬ 
tion  towards  the  saving  of  their  country.  But  I 
would  call  on  them  to  come  forward,  without 
departing  from  the  refinement  of  their  character, 
without  derogating  from  the  dignity  of  their 
rank,  without  blemishing  the  delicacy  of  their 
sex  ;  I  would  call  them  to  the  best  and  most  ap- 
propriate  exertion  of  their  power,  to  raise  the 
depressed  tone  of  public  morals,  and  to  awaken 
the  drowsy  spirit  of  religious  prineiple.  They 
know  too  well  how  arbitrarily  they  give  the  law 
to  manners,  and  with  how  despotic  a  sway  they 
fix  the  standard  of  fashion.  But  this  is  not 
enough  ;  this  is  a  low  mark,  a  prize  not  worthy 
of  their  high  and  holy  calling.  For,  on  the  use 
which  women  of  the  superior  class  may  now  be 
disposed  to  make  of  that  power  delegated  to 
them  by  the  courtesy  of  custom,  by  the  honest 
gallantry  of  the  heart,  by  the  imperious  control 
of  virtuous  affections,  by  the  habits  of  civilized 
states,  by  the  usages  of  polished  society  ;  on  the 
use,  I  say,  which  they  shall  hereafter  make  of 
this  influence,  will  depend,  in  no  low  degree, 
the  well-being  of  those  states,  and  the  virtue  and 
happiness,  nay  perhaps  the  very  existence,  of 
that  society. 

At  this  period  when  our  country  can  only  hope 
to  stand  by  opposing  a  bold  and  noble  unanimity 
to  the  most  tremendous  confederacies  against 
religion,  and  order,  and  governments,  which  the 
world  ever  saw,  what  an  accession  wnuld  it 
bring  to  the  public  strength,  could  we  prevail  on 
beauty,  and  rank,  and  talents,  and  virtue,  con¬ 
federating  their  several  powers,  to  exert  them¬ 
selves  with  a  patriotism  at  once  firm  and  femi-> 
nine,  for  the  general  good  !  I  am  not  sounding 
an  alarm  to  female  warriors,  or  exciting  female 
politicians  :  I  hardly  know  which  of  the  two  is 
the  most  disgusting  and  unnatural  character. 
Propriety  is  to  a  woman  what  the  great  Roman 
critic  says  action  is  to  an  orator  ;  it  is  the  first, 
the  second,  the  third  requisite.  A  woman  may 
be  knowing,  active,  witty  and  amusing;  but  with¬ 
out  propriety  she  cannot  be  amiable.  Propriety 
is  the  centre  in  which  all  the  lines  of  duty  and 
of  agreeableness  meet.  It  is  to  character  what 
proportion  is  to  fig^ure,  and  grace  to  attitude.  It 
does  not  depend  on  any  one  perfection,  but  it  is 
the  result  of  general  excellence.  It  shows  itself 
by  a  regular,  orderly,  undeviating  course ;  and 
never  starts  from  its  sober  orbit  into  any  splen¬ 
did  eccentricities ;  for  it  would  bo  ashamed  of 
such  praise  as  it  might  extort  by  any  deviations 
from  its  proi)or  path.  It  renounces  all  commen¬ 
dation  but  what  is  characteristic  ;  and  I  would 
make  it  the  criterion  of  true  taste,  right  princi¬ 
ple,  and  genuine  feeling,  in  a  woman,  whethec 
she  would  be  less  touched  with  all  the  flattery 
of  romantic  and  exaggerated  panegyric  than 


314 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


with  that  beautiful  picture  of  correct  and  elegant 
propriety  which  Milton  draws  of  our  first  mo¬ 
ther,  when  he  delineates 

‘  Those  thousand  decencies  which  daily  flow 

From  all  her  words  and  actions.’ 

Even  the  influence  of  religion  is  to  be  exer¬ 
cised  with  discretion.  A  female  Polemic  wan¬ 
ders  nearly  as  far  from  the  limits  prescribed 
to  her  sex,  as  a  female  Machiavel  or  warlike 
Thalestris.  Fierceness  has  made  almost  as  few 
converts  as  the  sword,  and  both  are  peculiarly 
ungraceful  in  a  female.  Even  religious  violence 
has  human  tempers  of  its  own  to  indulge,  and 
is  gratifying  itself  when  it  would  be  thought  to 
be  serving  God.  Let  not  the  bigot  place  her 
natural  passions  to  the  account  of  Christianity, 
or  imagine  she  is  pious  when  she  is  only  pas¬ 
sionate.  Let  her  bear  in  mind  that  a  Christian 
doctrine  is  always  to  be  defended  with  a  Chris¬ 
tian  spirit,  and  not  make  herself  amends  by  the 
stoutness  of  her  orthodoxy  for  the  badness  of 
her  temper.  Many,  because  they  defend  a  reli- 
gious  opinion  with  pertinacity,  seem  to  fancy 
that  they  thereby  acquire  a  kind  of  right  to 
withhold  the  meekness  and  obedience  which 
should  be  necessarily  involved  in  the  principle. 

But  the  character  of  a  consistent  Christian  is 
as  carefully  to  be  maintained  as  that  of  a  fiery 
disputant  is  to  be  avoided  ;  and  she  who  is  afraid 
to  avow  her  principles,  or  ashamed  to  defend 
them,  has  little  claim  to  that  honourable  title. 
A  profligate  who  laughs  at  the  most  sacred  in¬ 
stitutions  and  keeps  out  of  the  way  of  every 
thing  which  comes  under  the  appearance  of  for¬ 
mal  instruction,  may  be  disconcerted  by  the 
modest,  but  spirited  rebuke  of  a  delicate  woman, 
whose  life  adorns  the  doctrines  which  her  con¬ 
versation  defends  :  but  she  who  administers  re¬ 
proof  with  ill-breeding,  defeats  the  effect  of  her 
remedy.  On  the  other  hand,  there  is  a  dishonest 
way  of  labouring  to  conciliate  the  favour  of  a 
whole  company,  though  of  characters  and  prin¬ 
ciples  irreconcilably  opposite.  The  words  may 
be  so  guarded  as  not  to  shock  the  believer,  while 
the  eye  and  voice  may  be  so  accommodated,  as 
not  to  discourage  the  infidel.  She  who,  with  a 
half-earnestness  trims  between  the  truth  and  the 
fashion;  who  while  she  thinks  it  creditable  to 
defend  the  cause  of  religion,  yet  does  it  in  a 
faint  tone,  a  studied  ambiguity  of  phra.se,  and  a 
certain  expression  in  her  countenance,  which 
proves  that  she  is  not  displeased  with  what  she 
affects  to  censure,  or  that  she  is  afraid  to  lose 
her  reputation  for  wit,  in  proportion  as  she  ad¬ 
vances  her  credit  for  piety,  injures  the  cause 
more  than  he  who  attacked  it,  for  she  proves 
either  that  she  does  not  believe  what  she  pro¬ 
fesses,  or  that  she  does  not  reverence  what  fear 
compels  her  to  believe.  But  this  is  not  all :  she 
is  called  on,  not  barely  to  repress  impiety,  but 
to  excite,  to  encourage,  and  to  cherish  every 
tendency  to  serious  religion. 

Some  of  the  occasions  of  contributing  to  the 
general  good  which  are  daily  presenting  them¬ 
selves  to  ladies  are  almost  too  minute  to  bo 
pointed  out.  Yet  of  the  good  which  right  mind¬ 
ed  women,  anxiously  watching  these  minute  oc¬ 
casions,  and  adroitly  seizing  them,  might  ac¬ 
complish  we  may  form  sumo  idea  by  the  ill 


effects  which  we  actually  see  produced,  througfi 
the  mere  levity,  carelessness,  and  inattention 
(to  say  no  worse)  of  some  of  those  ladies  who 
are  looked  up  to  as  standards  in  the  fashionable 
world. 

I  am  persuaded  if  many  a  woman  of  fashion, 
who  is  now  disseminating  unintended  mischief, 
under  the  dangerous  notion  that  there  is  no 
harm  in  any  thing  short  of  positive  vice,  and 
under  the  false  colours  of  that  indolent  humility, 
‘  what  good  can  /  do?’  could  be  brought  to  see  in 
its  collected  force  the  annual  aggregate  of  the 
random  evil  she  is  daily  doing,  by  constantly 
throwing  a  Utile  casual  weight  into  the  wrong 
scale,  by  a  mere  inconsiderate  and  unguarded 
chat,  she  would  start  from  her  self-complacent 
dream.  If  she  could  conceive  how  much  she 
may  be  diminishing  the  good  impressions  of 
young  men;  and  if  she  could  imagine  how  little 
amiable  levity  or  irreligion  makes  her  appear  in 
the  eyes  of  those  who  are  older  and  abler  (how¬ 
ever  loose  their  own  principles  may  be)  she 
would  correct  herself  in  the  first  instance,  from 
pure  good  nature ;  and  in  the  second,  from 
worldly  prudence  and  mere  self-love. — But  on 
how  much  higher  principles  would  she  restrain 
herself,  if  she  habitually  took  into  account  the 
important  doctrine  of  consequences  :  and  if  she 
reflected  that  the  lesser  but  more  habitual  cor¬ 
ruptions  make  up  by  their  number,  what  they 
may  seem  to  come  short  of  by  their  weight : 
then  perhaps  she  would  find,  that  among  the 
higher  class  of  women,  inconsideration  is  adding 
more  to  the  daily  quantity  of  evil  than  almost  all 
other  causes  put  together. 

There  is  an  instrument  of  inconceivable  force, 
when  it  is  employed  against  the  interest  of 
Christianity  :  it  is  not  reasoning,  for  that  may 
be  answered  ;  it  is  not  learning,  for  luckily  the 
infidel  is  not  seldom  ignorant;  it  is  not  invec¬ 
tive,  for  we  leave  so  coarse  an  engine  to  the 
hands  of  the  vulgar  ;  it  is  not  evidence,  for  hap¬ 
pily  we  have  that  all  on  our  side  :  it  is  ridicule, 
tlie  most  deadly  weapon  in  the  whole  arsenal  of 
impiety,  and  which  becomes  an  almost  unerring 
shaft  when  directed  by  a  fair  and  fashionable 
hand.  No  maxim  has  been  more  readily  adopt¬ 
ed,  or  is  more  intrinsically  false,  than  that  which 
the  fascinating  eloquence  of  a  noble  sceptic  of 
the  last  age  contrived  to  render  so  popular,  that 
‘  ridicule  is  the  test  of  truth.’*  It  is  no  test  of 
truth  itself ;  but  of  their  firmness  who  assert 
the  cause  of  truth,  it  is  indeed  a  severe  test. 
This  light,  keen,  missile  weapon,  the  irresolute, 
unconfirmed  Christian  will  find  it  harder  to 
withstand,  than  the  whole  heavy  artillery  of  in¬ 
fidelity  united. 

A  young  man  of  the  better  sort,  has  perhaps 
just  entered  upon  the  world,  with  a  certain  share 
of  good  dispositions  and  right  feelings  ;  neither 
ignorant  of  the  evidences,  nor  destitute  if  the 
principles  of  Christianity  :  without  parting  with 
his  respect  for  religion,  ho  sets  out  with  the  too 
natural  wish  of  making  himself  a  reputation 
and  of  standing  well  with  the  fashionable  part 
of  the  female  world.  He  preserves  for  a  time  a 
horror  of  vice,  which  makes  it  not  difficult  for 
him  to  resist  the  grosser  corruptions  of  society; 
he  can  as  yet  repel  profaneness;  nay  he  can 
*  Lord  Shaftesbury. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


315 


withstand  the  banter  of  a  club.  He  has  sense 
enough  to  see  through  the  miserable  fallacies 
of  the  new  philosophy,  and  spirit  enough  to  ex¬ 
pose  its  malignity.  So  far  he  does  well,  and 
you  are  ready  to  congratulate  him  on  his  secu¬ 
rity.  You  are  mistaken:  the  principles  of  the 
ardent,  and  hitherto  promising  adventurer,  are 
shaken,  just  in  that  very  society  where,  while 
he  was  looking  for  pleasure,  he  doubted  not  of 
safety.  In  the  company  of  certain  women  of 
good  fashion  and  no  ill  fame,  he  makes  ship¬ 
wreck  of  his  religion.  He  sees  them  treat  with 
levity  or  derision  subjects  which  he  has  been 
used  to  hear  named  with  respect.  He  could 
confute  an  argument,  he  could  unravel  a  so¬ 
phistry  ;  but  he  cannot  stand  a  laugh.  A  sneer, 
not  at  the  truth  of  religion,  for  that  perhaps  is 
by  none  of  the  party  disbelieved,  but  at  its 
gravity,  its  unseasonableness,  its  dulness,  puts 
all  his  resolution  to  flight.  He  feels  his  mis¬ 
take,  and  struggles  to  recover  his  credit ;  in  or¬ 
der  to  which  he  adopts  the  gay  affectations 
of  trying  to  seem  worse  than  he  really  is ;  he 
goes  on  to  say  things  which  he  does  not  believe, 
and  to  deny  things  which  he  does  believe  ;  and 
all  to  efface  the  first  impression,  and  to  recover 
a  reputation  which  he  has  committed  to  their 
hands,  on  whose  report  he  knows  he  shall  stand 
or  fall,  in  those  circles  in  which  he  is  ambitious 
to  shine. 

That  cold  compound  of  irony,  irreligion, 
selfishness,  and  sneer,  which  make  up  what  the 
French  (from  whom  we  borrow  the  thing  as 
well  as  the  word)  so  well  express  by  the  term 
persiflage,  has  of  late  years  made  an  incredible 
progress  in  blasting  the  opening  buds  of  piety 
in  young  persons  of  fashion.  A  cold  pleasantry, 
a  temporary  cant  word,  the  jargon  of  the  day 
(for  the  ‘  great  vulgar’  have  their  jargon)  blights 
the  first  promise  of  seriousness.  The  ladies  of 
ton  have  certain  watch-words,  which  may  be 
detected  as  indications  of  this  spirit.  The 
clergy  are  spoken  of  under  the  contemptuous 
appellation  of  The  Parsons,  Some  ludicrous 
association  is  infallibly  combined  with  the  very 
idea  of  religion.  If  a  warm  hearted  youth  has 
ventured  to  name  with  enthusiasm  some  emi¬ 
nently  pious  character,  his  glowing  ardour  is 
extinguished  with  a  laugh  :  and  a  drawling  de¬ 
claration,  that  tl)e  person  in  question  is  really  a 
mighty  harmless  good  creature,  is  uttered  in  a 
tone  which  leads  the  youth  secretly  to  vow,  that' 
whatever  else  he  may  be,  he  will  never  bo  a 
good  harmless  creature. 

Nor  is  ridicule  more  dangerous  fo  true  piety 
than  to  true  taste.  An  age  which  values  itself 
on  parody,  burlesque,  irony,  and  caricature, 
produces  little  that  is  sublime,  either  in  genius 
or  in  virtue ;  but  they  amuse  and  we  live  in  an 
age  which  must  be  amused,  tliough  genius, 
feeling,  truth,  and  principle  be  the  sacrifice. 
Nothing  chills  the  ardours  of  devotion  like  a 
frigid  sarcasm  ;  and,  in  the  season  of  youth  the 
mind  should  be  kept  particularly  clear  of  all 
light  associations.  This  is  of  so  much  impor¬ 
tance,  that  I  have  known  persons  who,  having 
been  early  accustomed  to  certain  ludicrous  com¬ 
binations,  were  never  liable  to  get  their  minds 
cleansed  from  the  impurities  contracted  by  this 
habitual  levity,  even  after  thorough  reformation 


in  their  hearts  and  lives  had  taken  plaee  :  their 
principles  became  reformed,  but  their  imagina¬ 
tions  were  indelibly  soiled.  They  could  desist 
from  sins  which  the  strictness  of  Christianity 
would  not  allow  them  to  commit,  but  they  could 
not  dismiss  from  their  minds  images  which  her 
purity  forbade  them  to  entertain. 

There  was  a  time  when  a  variety  of  epithets 
were  thought  necessary  to  express  various  kinds 
of  excellence,  and  when  the  different  qualities 
of  the  mind  were  distinguished  by  appropriate 
and  discriminating  terms :  when  the  words 
venerable,  learned,  sagacious,  profound,  acute, 
pious,  worthy,  ingenious,  valuable,  elegant, 
agreeable,  wise,  or  witty,  were  used  as  specific 
marks  of  distinct  characters.  But  the  legisla¬ 
tors  of  fashion  have  of  late  years  thought  pro¬ 
per  to  comprise  all  merit  in  one  established 
epithet ;  an  epithet  which,  it  may  be  confessed, 
is  a  very  desirable  one  as  far  as  it  goes.  This 
term  is  exclusively  and  indiscriminately  applied 
whenever  commendation  is  intended.  The  word 
pleasant  now  serves  to  combine  and  express  all 
moral  and  intellectual  excellence.  Every  in¬ 
dividual,  from  the  gravest  professors,  of  the 
gravest  professions,  down  to  the  trifler  who  is 
of  no  profession  at  all,  must  earn  the  epithet  of 
pleasant,  or  must  be  contented  to  be  nothing ; 
and  must  be  consigned  over  to  ridicule,  under 
the  vulgar  and  inexpressive  cant  word  of  a  hore. 
This  is  the  mortifying  designation  of  many  a 
respectable  man,  who,  though  of  much  worth 
and  much  ability,  cannot  perhaps  clearly  make 
out  his  letters  patent  to  the  title  of  pleasant. 
For  according  to  this  modern  classification  there 
is  no  intermediate  state,  but  all  are  comprised 
within  the  ample  bounds  of  one  or  other  of 
these  two  comprehensive  terms. 

We  ought  to  be  more  on  our  guard  against 
this  spirit  of  ridicule,  because  whatever  may  be 
the  character  of  the  present  day,  its  faults  do 
not  spring  from  the  redundancies  of  great 
qualities,  or  the  overflowing  of  extravagant 
virtues.  It  is  well  if  more  correct  views  of  life, 
a  more  regular  administration  of  laws,  and  a 
more  settled  state  of  society,  have  helped  to  re¬ 
strain  the  excesses  of  the  heroic  ages,  when 
love  and  war  were  considered  as  the  great  and 
sole  business  of  human  life.  Yet,  if  that  period 
was  marked  by  a  romantic  extravagance,  and 
the  present  is  distinguished  by  an  indolent  sel¬ 
fishness,  our  superiority  is  not  so  triumphantly 
decisive,  as,  in  the  vanity  of  our  hearts  we  may 
be  ready  to  imagine. 

I  do  not  wish  to  bring  back  the  frantic  reign 
of  chivalry,  nor  to  reinstate  women  in  that  fan¬ 
tastic  empire  in  which  they  then  sat  enthroned 
in  the  hearts,  or  rather  in  the  imaginations  of 
men.  Common  sense  is  an  excellent  material 
of  universal  application,  which  the  sagacity  of 
latter  ages  has  seized  upon,  and  rationally  ap¬ 
plied  to  the  business  of  common  life.  But  let 
us  not  forget,  in  the  insolence  of  acknowledged, 
superiority,  that  it  was  religion  and  chastity, 
operating  on  the  romantic  spirit  of  those  times, 
which  established  the  despotic  sway  of  wo¬ 
man  ;  and  though  in  this  altered  scene  of  things, 
she  now  no  longer  looks  down  on  her  adoring 
votaries  from  the  pedestal  to  which  an  absurd 
idolatry  had  lifted  her :  yet  let  her  remember 


316 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  it  is  the  same  religion  and  the  same  chas¬ 
tity  which  once  raised  her  to  such  an  elevation, 
that  must  still  furnish  the  noblest  energies  of 
her  character,  must  still  attract  the  admiration, 
still  retain  the  respect  of  the  other  sex. 

While  we  lawfully  ridicule  the  absurdities 
which  we  have  abandoned,  let  us  not  plume 
ourselves  on  tliat  spirit  of  novelty  which  glories 
in  tlie  opposite  extreme.  If  the  manners  of  the 
period  in  question  were  affected,  and  if  the 
gallantly  was  unnatural,  yet  the  tone  of  virtue 
was  high  :  and  let  us  remember  that  constancy, 
purity,  and  honour,  are  not  ridiculous  in  them¬ 
selves,  though  they  may  unluckily  be  associated 
with  qualities  which  are  so :  and  women  of  de¬ 
licacy  would  do  well  to  reflect,  when  descanting 
on  those  exploded  manners,  how  far  it  be  de¬ 
corous  to  deride  with  too  broad  a  laugh,  attach¬ 
ments  which  could  subsist  on  remote  gratifica¬ 
tions  ;  or  grossly  to  ridicule  the  taste  which  led 
the  admirer  to  sacrifice  pleasure  to  respect,  and 
inclination  to  honour  ;  how  far  it  be  delicate  to 
sneer  at  that  purity  which  made  self-denial  a 
proof  of  affection  ;  to  call  in  question  the  sound 
understanding  of  him  who  preferred  the  fame 
of  his  mistress  to  his  own  indulgence ;  to  bur¬ 
lesque  that  antiquated  refinement  which  con¬ 
sidered  dignity  and  reserve  as  additional  titles 
to  affection  and  reverence. 

We  cannot  but  be  struck  with  the  wonderful 
contrast  exhibited  to  our  view,  when  we  con¬ 
template  the  opposite  manners  of  the  two  periods 
in  question.  In  the  former  all  the  flower  of 
Europe  smit  with  a  delirious  gallantry ;  all  that 
was  young,  and  noble,  and  brave,  and  great, 
with  a  frantic  frenzv,  and  preposterous  con¬ 
tempt  of  danger,  t  ^.versed  seas  and  scaled 
mountains  and  compassed  a  large  portion  of 
the  globe,  at  the  expense  of  ease,  and  fortune, 
and  life,  for  the  unprofitable  project  of  rescuing, 
Dy  force  of  arms,  from  the  hands  of  infidels,  the 
sepulchre  of  that  Saviour,  whom,  in  the  other 
period,  their  posterity  would  think  it  the  height 
of  fanaticism  so  much.as  to  name  in  good  com¬ 
pany.  That  Saviour,  whose  altars  they  desert, 
whose  temples  they  neglect ;  and  though  in 
more  than  one  country  at  least  they  still  call 
themselves  by  his  name,  yet  too  many,  it  is  to 
be  feared,  contemn  his  precepts,  still  more  are 
ashamed  of  his  doctrines,  and  not  a  few  reject 
his  sacrifice.  Too  many  consider  Christianity 
rather  as  a  political  than  a  religious  distinction  ; 
too  many  claim  the  appellation  of  Christians,  in 
mere  opposition  to  that  democracy  with  which 
they  conceive  infidelity  to  be  associated,  rather 
than  from  an  abhorrence  of  impiety  for  its  own 
sake  ;  too  many  deprecate  the  charge  of  irre- 
ligion,  as  the  supposed  badge  of  a  reprobated 
party,  more  than  on  account  of  that  moral  cor¬ 
ruption  which  is  its  inseparable  concomitant ! 

On  tlie  other  hand,  in  an  age  when  inversion 
is  the  character  of  the  day,  the  modern  idea  of 
improvement  does  not  consist  in  altering,  but 
extirpating.  We  do  not  reform,  but  subvert. 
We  do  not  correct  old  systems  but  demolish 
them,  fancying  that  when  every  thing  shall  be 
new  it  will  be  perfect.  Not  to  have  been  wrong, 
but  to  have  been  at  all,  is  the  crime.  Existence 
is  sin.  Excellence  is  no  longer  considered  as 
an  experimental  thing  which  is  to  grow  gra¬ 


dually  out  of  observation  and  practice,  and  to  oe 
improved  by  the  accumulating  additions  brought 
by  the  wisdom  of  successive  ages.  Our  wisdom 
is  not  a  creature  slowly  brought  by  ripening 
time  and  gradual  growth  to  perfection  ;  but  is  an 
instantaneously  created  goddess,  which  starts 
at  once,  full  grown,  mature,  armed  cap-a-pee, 
from  the  heads  of  our  modern  thunderers.  Or 
rather,  if  I  may  change  the  allusion,  a  perfect 
saystem  is  now  expected  inevitably  to  spring 
spontaneously  at  once,  like  the  fabled  bird  of 
Arabia,  from  the  ashes  of  its  parent ;  and,  like 
that,  can  receive  its  birth  no  other  way  but  by 
the  destruction  of  its  predecessor. 

Instead  of  clearing  away  what  is  redundant, 
pruning  what  is  cumbersome,  supplying  what 
is  defective,  and  amending  what  is  wrong,  we 
adopt  the  indefinite  rage  for  radical  reform  of 
Jack,  who,  in  altering  lord  Peter’s*  coat,  showed 
his  zeal  by  crying  out,  ‘  Tear  away,  brother 
Martin,  for  the  love  of  heaven  ;  never  mind,  so 
you  do  but  tear  away.’ 

This  tearing  system  has  unquestionably  rent 
away  some  valuable  parts  of  that  strong,  rich 
native  stuff,  which  formed  the  ancient  texture 
of  British  manners.  That  we  have  gained  much 
I  am  persuaded ;  that  we  have  lost  nothing  I 
dare  not  therefore  affirm.  But  though  it  fairly 
exhibits  a  mark  of  our  improved  judgment  to 
ridicule  the  fantastic  notions  of  love  and  honour 
in  the  heroic  ages ;  let  us  not  rejoice  that  the 
spirit  of  generosity  in  sentiment,  and  of  ardour 
in  piety,  the  exuberances  of  which  were  then  so 
inconvenient,  are  now  sunk  as  unreasonably  low. 
That  revolution  of  taste  and  manners  which  the 
unparalleled  wit  and  genius  of  Don  Quixote  so 
happily  effected  throughout  all  the  polished 
countries  of  Europe,  by  abolishing  extravagan* 
cies  the  most  absurd  and  pernicious,  was  so  far 
imperfect,  that  some  virtues  which  he  never 
meant  to  expose,  unjustly  fell  into  disrepute 
with  the  absurdities  which  he  did :  and  it  is  be¬ 
come  the  turn  of  the  present  taste  inseparably 
to  attach  in  no  small  degree  that  which  is  ridi¬ 
culous  to  that  which  is  serious  and  heroic. 
Some  modern  works  of  wit  have  assisted  in 
bringing  piety  and  some  of  the  noblest  virtues 
into  contempt,  by  studiously  associating  them 
with  oddity,  childish  simplicity,  and  ignorance 
of  the  world  :  and  unnecessary  pains  have  been 
taken  to  extinguish  that  zeal  and  ardour,  wliich 
however  liable  to  excess  and  error,  are  yet  the 
spring  of  whatever  is  great  and  excellent  in  the 
human  character.  The  novel  of  Cervantes  is 
incomparable;  the  Tartuffe  of  Moliere  is  un¬ 
equalled  ;  but  true  generosity  and  true  religion 
will  never  lose  any  thing  of  their  intrinsic  value, 
because  knight-errantry  and  hypocrisy  are  legi¬ 
timate  objects  for  satire. 

But  to  return  from  this  too  long  digression, 
to  the  subject  of  female  infiucnco.  Those  who 
have  not  watched  the  united  op>eration  of  vanity 
and  feeling  on  a  youthful  mind,  will  not  conceive 
how  much  less  formidable  the  ridicule  of  all  his 
own  sex  will  be  to  a  very  young  man,  than  that 
of  those  women  to  whom  ho  has  been  taught  to 
look  up  as  the  arbiters  of  elegance.  Such  a 
youth,  I  doubt  not,  might  be  able  to  work  him- 

Swifl’s  Tale  of  a  Tub  , 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


317 


self  up,  by  the  force  of  genuine  Christian  prin- 1 
ciple,  to  such  a  pitch  of  true  heroism,  as  to  re¬ 
fuse  a  challenge  (and  it  requires  more  real  cou- 1 
rage  to  refuse  a  challenge  than  to  accept  one) 
who  would  yet  be  in  danger  of  relapsing  into 
the  dreadful  pusillanimity  of  the  world,  when  he 
is  told  that  no  woman  of  fashion  will  hereafter 
look  on  him  but  with  contempt.  While  we  have 
cleared  away  the  rubbish  of  the  Gothic  ages,  it 
were  to  be  wished  we  had  not  retained  the  most 
criminal  of  all  their  insiitutions.  Why  chivalry 
should  indicate  a  madman,  while  its  leading  ob¬ 
ject,  the  single  combat,  should  designate  a  gen¬ 
tleman,  has  not  yet  been  explained.  Nay,  the 
plausible  original  motive  is  lost,  while  the  sinful 
practice  is  continued  ;  for  the  fighter  of  the  duel 
no  longer  pr^ends  to  be  a  glorious  redresser  of 
the  wrongs  of  strangers ;  no  longer  considers 
himself  as  piously  appealing  to  heaven  for  the 
justice  of  his  cause;  but  from  the  slavish  fear 
of  unmerited  reproach,  often  selfishly  hazards 
the  happiness  of  his  nearest  connexions,  and  al¬ 
ways  comes  forth  in  direct  defiance  of  an  ac¬ 
knowledged  command  of  the  Almighty.  Per¬ 
haps  there  are  few  occasions  on  which  female 
influence  might  be  exerted  to  a  higher  purpose 
than  on  this,  in  which  laws  and  conscience  have 
hitherto  effected  so  little.  But  while  the  duellist 
(who  perhaps  becomes  a  duellist  only  because 
he  was  first  a  seducer)  is  welcomed  with  smiles ; 
the  more  hardy  dignified  youth,  who,  not  be¬ 
cause  he  fears  man  but  God,  declines  a  challenge, 
who  is  resolved  to  brave  disgrace  rather  than 
commit  sin,  would  be  treated  with  cool  contempt 
by  those  very  persons  to  whose  esteem  he  might 
reasonably  have  looked,  as  one  of  the  rewards 
of  his  true  and  substantial  fortitude. 

How  then  is  it  to  be  reconciled  with  the  deci¬ 
sions  of  principle,  that  delicate  women  should 
receive  with  complacency  the  successful  liber¬ 
tine,  who  has  been  detected  by  the  wretched  fa¬ 
ther  or  the  injured  husband  in  a  criminal  com¬ 
merce,  the  discovery  of  which  has  too  justly  ba¬ 
nished  the  unhappy  partner  of  his  crime  from' 
virtuous  society  ?  Nay,  if  he  happens  to  be 
very  handsome,  or  very  brave,  or  very  fashion¬ 
able,  is  there  not  sometimes  a  kind  of  disho¬ 
nourable  competition  for  his  favour  ?  Is  there 
not  a  sort  of  bad  popularity  attached  to  his  atten¬ 
tions  ?  But,  whether  his  flattering  reception  be 
derived  from  birth,  or  parts,  or  person,  or  (what 
is  often  a  substitute  for  all)  from  his  having 
made  his  way  into  good  company,  vj omen  of  dis¬ 
tinction  sully  the  sanctity  of  virtue  by  the  too 
visible  pleasure  they  sometimes  express  at  the 
attentions  of  such  a  popular  libertine,  whose  vo¬ 
luble  small-talk  they  admire,  whoso  sprightly 
nothings  tlicy  quote,  whoso  vices  they  justify  or 
extenuate,  and  wliom  perhajrs  their  very  favour 
tends  to  prevent  from  becoming  a  better  charac¬ 
ter,  because  he  finds  himself  more  acceptable  as 
be  is. 

May  I  bo  allowed  to  introduce  a  new  part  of 
my  subject,  by  remarking  tliat  it  is  a  matter  of 
mcoriceivable  importance,  though  not  perliaps 
sufficiently  considered,  when  any  iiopular  work, 
not  on  a  religious  topic,  but  on  any  common 
subject,  such  as  politics,  history  or  science,  has 
happened  to  be  written  by  an  author  of  sound 
Christian  principles  ?  It  may  not  have  been  ne- 


I  cessary ;  nor  prudently  practicable,  to  have  a 
I  single  page  in  the  whole  work  professedly  reli- 
I  gious ;  but  still,  when  the  living  principle  in- 
forms  the  mind  of  the  writer,  it  is  almost  im¬ 
possible  but  that  something  of  its  spirit  will  dif¬ 
fuse  itself  even  into  subjects  with  wiiich  it 
should  seem  but  remotely  connected.  It  is  at 
least  a  comfort  to  the  reader,  to  feel  that  honest 
confidence  which  results  from  knowing  that  ho 
has  put  himself  into  safe  hands ;  that  he  has 
committed  himself  to  an  author,  whose  known 
principles  are  a  pledge  that  his  reader  need  not 
be  driven  to  watch  himself  at  every  step  with 
anxious  circumspection;  that  he  need  not  be 
looking  on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  as  if ' 
he  knew  there  were  pitfalls  under  the  flowers 
which  are  delighting  him.  And  it  is  no  small 
point  gained,  that  on  subjects  in  which  you  do 
not  look  to  improve  your  religion,  it  is  at  least 
secured  from  deterioration.  If  the  Athenian 
laws  were  so  delicate  that  they  disgraced  any 
one  who  showed  an  inquiring  traveller  the 
wrong  road,  what  disgrace  among  Christians, 
should  attach  to  that  author,  who  when  a  youth 
is  inquiring  the  road  to  history  or  philosophy, 
directs  him  to  blasphemy  and  unbeliefi* 

In  animadverting  farther  on  the  reigning 
evils  which  the  times  more  particularly  demand 
that  women  of  rank  and  influence  should  re¬ 
press,  Christianity  calls  upon  them  to  bear  their 
decided  testimony  against  every  thing  which  is 
notoriously  contributing  to  the  public  corrup¬ 
tion.  It  calls  upon  them  to  banish  from  their 
dressing  rooms  (and  oh,  that  their  influence 
could  banish  from  the  libraries  of  their  sons 
and  husbands)  that  sober  and  unsuspected  mass 
of  mischief,  which,  by  assuming  the  plausible 
names  of  science,  of  philosophy,  of  arts,  of 
belles  lottres,  is  gradually  administering  death 
to  the  principles  of  those  who  would  be  on  their 
guard,  had  the  poison  been  labelled  with  its  own 
pernicious  title.  Avowed  attacks  upon  revela¬ 
tion  are  more  easily  resisted,  because  the  ma¬ 
lignity  is  advertised.  But  who  suspects  the  de¬ 
struction  which  lurks  under  the  harmless  or  in¬ 
structive  names  of  general  history,  natural  his¬ 
tory,  travels,  voyages,  lives,  encyclopedias,  criti¬ 
cism,  and  romance^  Who  will  deny  that  many 
of  these  works  contain  much  admirable  matter  ; 
brilliant  passages,  important  facts,  just  descrip¬ 
tions,  faithful  pictures  of  nature,  and  valuable 
illustrations  of  science  ?  But  while  ‘  the  dead 
fly  lies  at  the  bottom,’  the  whole  w'ill  exhale  a 
corrupt  and  pestilential  stench. 

*  The  author  has  often  heard  it  mentioned  as  matter 
of  refiret,  that  Mr.  Gibbon  should  have  blemished  his 
elesaut  history  with  the  two  notoriously  ofRnsive  chap¬ 
ters  ajainst  Cltristianity.  But  does  not  this  reyret  seem 
to  imply  that  the  work  would,  by  this  omission,  havo 
been  left  safe  and  unexceptionable  ?  May  we  not  rather 
consider  these  chapters  as  a  fatal  rock  indeed  ;  but  as  a 
rock  enlightened  by  a  beacon,  fairly  and  uuetpiivocally 
warning  us  of  the  surrounding  perils?  To  change  the 
metaphor— Had  not  the  mischiefs  of  these  chapters  been 
rendered  thus  cotispicuous,  the  incautious  reader  would 
have  been  still  lelY  exitosed  to  the  fatal  efh-cts  of  the 
more  disguised  poison  which  is  infused  through  almost 
all  parts  of  the  volumes.  Is  it  not  obvious  that  a  spirit 
so  virulent  against  revealed  religion  as  those  two  chap¬ 
ters  indicate,  would  bn  incessantly  pouring  out  soma 
of  its  infecliotis  matter  on  every  occasion  ;  and  would 
even  indu.striously  make  the  opportunities  which  it  did 
not  find  ? 


318 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Novels,  which  chiefly  used  to  be  dangerous 
in  one  respect,  are  now  become  mischievous  in 
a  thousand.  They  are  continually  shifting  their 
ground,  and  enlarging  their  sphere,  and  are 
daily  becoming  vehicles  of  wider  mischief. 
Sometimes  they  concentrate  their  force,  and  are 
at  once  employed  to  diffuse  destructive  politics, 
deplorable  profligacy,  and  impudent  infidelity. 
Rousseau  was  the  first  popular  dispenser  of  this 
complicated  drug,  in  which  the  deleterious  in¬ 
fusion  was  strong,  and  the  effect  proportionably 
fatal.  For  he  does  not  attempt  to  seduce  the  af¬ 
fections  but  through  the  medium  of  the  princi¬ 
ples.  He  does  not  paint  an  innocent  woman 
ruined,  repenting,  and  restored  ;  but  with  a  far 
more  mischievous  refinement,  he  annihilates  the 
value  of  chastity,  and  with  pernicious  subtlety 
attempts  to  make  this  heroine  appear  almost 
more  amiable  without  it.  He  exhibits  a  virtuous 
woman  tlie  victim,  not  of  temptation,  but  of  rea¬ 
son  ;  not  of  vice,  but  of  sentiment ;  not  of  pas¬ 
sion,  but  of  conviction  ;  and  strikes  at  the  very 
root  of  honour,  by  elevating  a  crime  into  a  prin¬ 
ciple.  With  a  metaphysical  sophistry  the  most 
plausible,  he  debauclies  the  heart  of  woman,  by 
cherishing  her  vanity  in  the  erection  of  a  system 
of  male  virtues,  to  which,  with  a  lofty  derelic¬ 
tion  of  those  that  are  her  more  peculiar  and  cha¬ 
racteristic  praise,  he  tempts  her  to  aspire;  pow¬ 
erfully  insinuating,  that  to  this  splendid  system 
chastity  does  not  necessarily  belong  :  thus  cor¬ 
rupting  the  judgment,  and  bewildering  the  un¬ 
derstanding,  as  the  most  effectual  way  to  in¬ 
flame  the  imagination  and  deprave  the  heart. 
The  rare  mischief  of  this  author,  consists  in  his 
power  of  seducing  by  falsehood  those  who  love 
truth,  but  whose  minds  are  still  wavering,  and 
whose  principles  are  not  yet  formed.  He  allures 
the  warm-hearted  to  embrace  vice,  not  because 
they  prefer  vice,  but  because  he  gives  to  vice  so 
natural  an  air  of  virtue  :  and  ardent  and  enthu¬ 
siastic  youth,  too  confidently  trusting  in  their 
integrity  and  in  their  teacher,  will  be  undone, 
while  they  fancy  they  are  indulging  in  the  no¬ 
blest  feelings  of  their  nature.  Many  authors 
W’ill  more  infallibly  complete  the  ruin  of  the 
loose  and  ill-disposed  :  but  perhaps  there  never 
was  a  net  of  such  exquisite  art,  and  inextrica¬ 
ble  workmanship,  spread  to  entangle  innocence, 
and  ensnare  inexperience,  as  the  writings  of 
Rousseau;  and,  unhappily,  the  victim  does  not 
even  struggle  in  the  toils,  because  part  of  the 
delusion  consists  in  his  imagining  that  he  is  set 
at  liberty. 

Some  of  our  recent  popular  publications  have 
adopted  and  enlarged  all  the  mischiefs  of  this 
school ;  and  the  principal  evil  arising  from  them 
is,  that  the  virtues  they  exhibit  are  almost  more 
dangerous  than  the  vices.  The  chief  materials 
out  of  which  these  delusive  systems  are  framed, 
are  characters  who  practice  superfluous  acts  of 
generosity,  while  they  are  trampling  on  obvious 
and  commanded  duties,  who  combine  inflated 
sentiments  of  honour  with  actions  the  most  fla¬ 
gitious  ;  a  high  tone  of  self-confidence,  with  a 
perpetual  neglect  of  self-denial ;  pathetic  apos¬ 
trophes  to  the  passions,  but  no  attempt  to  resist 
them.  They  teach  that  chastity  is  only  indi¬ 
vidual  attachment ;  that  no  duty  exists  which 
is  not  prompted  by  feeling ;  that  impulse  is  the 


main-spring  of  virtuous  actions,  while  laws  and 
religion  are  only  unjust  restraints  ;  the  former 
imposed  by  arbitrary  men,  the  latter  by  the  ab¬ 
surd  prejudices  of  timorous  and  unenlightened 
conscience.  Alas !  they  do  not  know  that  the 
best  creature  of  impulse  that  ever  lived,  is  but  a 
wayward,  unfixed,  unprincipled  being  !  That 
the  best  natural  man  requires  a  curb  ;  and  needs 
that  balance  to  the  affections  which  Christianity 
alane  can  furnish,  and  without  which  benevolent 
{  densities  are  no  security  to  virtue.  And 
ptirfiaps  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  in  spite  of  the 
monopoly  of  benevolence  to  which  the  new  phi¬ 
losophy  lays  claim,  that  the  human  duties  of  the 
second  table  have  never  once  been  well  perform¬ 
ed  by  any  of  the  rejectors  of  that  previous  por¬ 
tion  of  the  decalogue  which  enjoins  duty  to  God. 

In  some  of  the  most  splendid  of  these  charac¬ 
ters  compassion  is  erected  into  the  throne  o{ 
justice,  and  justice  degraded  into  the  rank  of 
plebian  virtues.  It  is  considered  as  a  noble  ex¬ 
emplification  of  sentiment  that  creditors  should 
be  defrauded,  while  the  money  due  to  them  is 
lavished  in  dazzling  acts  of  charity  to  some  ob¬ 
ject  that  affects  the  senses ;  which  paroxysms 
of  charity  are  made  the  sponge  of  every  sin,  and 
the  substitute  of  every  virtue  :  the  whole  indi¬ 
rectly  tending  to  intimate  how  very  benevolent 
people  are  who  are  not  Christians.  From  many 
of  these  compositions,  indeed,  Christianity  is 
systematically,  and  always  virtually,  excluded  ; 
for  the  law,  and  the  prophets,  and  the  gospel, 
can  make  no  part  of  a  scheme  in  which  this 
world  is  looked  upon  as  all  in  all ;  in  which 
want  and  misery  are  considered  as  evils  arising 
solely  from  the  defects  of  human  governments, 
and  not  as  making  part  of  the  dispensations  of 
God  ;  in  which  poverty  is  represented  as  merely 
a  political  evil,  and  the  restraints  which  tend  to 
keep  the  poor  honest,  are  painted  as  the  most 
flagrant  injustice.  The  Gospel  can  make  no 
part  of  a  system  in  which  the  absurd  idea  of 
perfectibility  is  considered  as  applicable  to  fallen 
creatures ;  in  which  the  chimerical  project  of 
consummate  earthly  happiness,  (founded  on  the 
mad  pretence  of  loving  the  poor  better  than  God 
loves  them)  would  defeat  the  divine  plan,  which 
meant  this  world  for  a  scene  of  discipline,  not 
of  remuneration.  The  Gospel  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  a  system  in  which  sin  is  reduced  to 
a  little  human  imperfection,  and  Old  Baily 
crimes  are  softened  down  to  a  few  engaging 
weaknesses;  and  in  which  the  turpitude  of  all 
the  vices  a  man  himself  commits,  is  done  away 
by  his  candour  in  tolerating  all  the  vices  com¬ 
mitted  by  others.* 

But  the  part  of  the  system  the  most  fatal  to 
that  class  whom  I  am  addressing  is,  that  even 
in  those  works  which  do  not  go  all  the  length  of 
treating  marriage  as  an  unjust  infringement  on 
liberty,  and  a  tyrannical  deduction  from  gene¬ 
ral  happiness;  yet  it  commonly  happens  that 

*  It  is  to  he  lamented  that  some,  even  of  those  more 
virtiious  novel  writers,  who  inlevd  to  espouse  the  cause 
of  relipion,  yet  exhibit  such  false  views  of  it.  I  have 
lately  seen  a  work  of  some  merit  in  this  way,  which  was 
meritoriously  desijrhed  to  e.xpose  the  impieties  of  the 
new  philosophy.  Hut  the  writer  betrayed  hi.s  own  ini- 
i  perfect  knowledijeof  tire  Christianity  he  was  defendina, 
by  makin<r  his  hero,  whom  he  proposed  as  a  pattern, 

'  fisht  a  da  '/ 


THK  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


319 


the  hero  or  heroine,  who  has  particularly  viola¬ 
ted  the  letter  of  the  seventh  commandment,  and 
continues  to  live  in  the  allowed  violation  of  its 
spirit,  is  painted  as  so  amiable,  and  so  benevo¬ 
lent,  so  tender  or  so  brave ;  and  the  temptation 
is  represented  as  so  irresistible,  (for  all  these 
philosophers  are  fatalists)  the  predominant  and 
cherished  sin  is  so  filtered  and  defected  of  its 
pollutions,  and  is  so  sheltered  and  surrounded, 
and  relieved  with  shining-  qualities,  that  the  in¬ 
nocent  and  impressible  young  reader  is  brought 
to  lose  all  horror  of  the  awful  crime  in  question, 
in  the  complacency  she  feels  for  the  engaging 
virtues  of  the  criminal- 

There  is  another  object  to  which  I  would  di¬ 
rect  the  exertion  of  that  power  of  female  influ¬ 
ence  of  which  I  am  speaking.  Those  ladies 
who  take  the  lead  in  society,  are  loudly  called 
upon  to  act  as.  the  guardians  of  the  public  taste, 
as  well  as  of  the  public  virtue.  They  are  called 
upon,  therefore,  to  oppose  with  the  whole  weight 
of  their  influence,  the  irruption  of  those  swarms 
of  publications  now  daily  issuing  from  the  banks 
of  the  Danube,  which,  like  their  ravaging  pre¬ 
decessors  of  the  darker  ages,  though  with  far 
other  and  more  fatal  arms,  are  overrunning  ci¬ 
vilized  society.  Those  readers,  whose  purer 
taste  has  been  formed  on  the  correct  models  of 
the  old  classic  school,  see  with  indignation  and 
astonishment  the  Huns  and  Vandals  once  more 
overpowering  the  Greeks  and  Romans.  They 
behold  our  minds,  with  a  retrograde  but  rapid 
motion,  hurried  back  to  the  reign  of  ‘  chaos  and 
old  night,’  by  distorted  and  unprincipled  compo¬ 
sitions,  which,  in  spite  of  strong  flashes  of  geni¬ 
us,  unite  the  taste  of  the  Goths  with  the  morals 
of  Bags  hot  ;*  ' 

Gorgons  and  Hydras,  and  Chimeras  dire ! 

These  compositions  terrify  the  weak,  and  amaze 
and  enchant  the  idle  ;  while  they  disgust  the 
discerning,  by  wild  and  misshapen  superstitions, 
in  which,  with  that  consistency  which  forms  so 
striking  a  feature  of  the  new  philosophy,  those 
who  most  earnestly  deny  the  immortality  of  the 
soul,  are  most  eager  to  introduce  the  machinery 
of  ghosts. 

The  writings  of  the  French  infidels  were  some 
years  ago  circulated  in  England  with  uncommon 
industry,  and  with  some  effect :  but  the  plain 
sense  and  good  principles  of  the  far  greater  part 
of  our  countrymen,  resisted  the  attack,  and  rose 
superior  to  the  trial.  Of  the  doctrines  and  prin¬ 
ciples  here  alluded  to,  the  dreadful  consequen¬ 
ces,  not  only  in  the  unhappy  country  where  they 
originated,  and  were  almost  universally  adopted, 
but  in  every  part  of  Europe  wiiere  they  have 
been  received,  have  been  such  as  to  serve  as  a 
beacon  to  surrounding  nations,  if  any  warning 
can  preserve  them  from  destruction.  In  this 
country  the  subject  is  now  so  well  understood, 
that  every  thing  which  issues  from  the  French 
press  is  received  with  jealousy;  and  a  work,  on 
the  first  appearance  of  its  exhibiting  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  Voltaire  and  his  associates,  is  rejected 
with  indignation. 

*  The  newspapers  announce  that  Schiller’s  tragorly  of 
the  Robher*,  which  inflamed  the  young  nobility  of  Ger- 
jiianv  to  enlist  Iheiuselvcis  into  a  band  of  highwaymen 
to  rob  in  the  forests  of  Bohemia,  is  now  acting  in  En¬ 
gland  by  persons  of  quality.' 


But  let  us  not  on  account  of  this  victory  re¬ 
pose  in  confident  security.  The  modern  apos¬ 
tles  of  infidelity  and  immorality,  little  less  inde¬ 
fatigable  in  dispersing  their  pernicious  doctrines 
than  the  first  apostles  were  in  propagating  Gos¬ 
pel  truths,  have  indeed  changed  their  weapons, 
but  they  have  by  no  means  desisted  from  the 
attack.  To  destroy  the  principles  of  Christiani¬ 
ty  in  this  island,  appears  at  the  present  moment 
to  be  their  grand  aim.  Deprived  of  the  assist 
anco  of  the  French  press,  they  are  now  attempt¬ 
ing  to  attain  their  object  under  the  close  and 
more  artificial  veil  of  German  literature.  Con 
scious  that  religion  and  morals  will  stand  or  fall 
together,  their  attacks  are  sometimes  levelled 
against  the  one,  and  sometimes  against  the  other. 
With  strong  occasional  professions  of  general 
attachment  to  both  of  these,  they  endeavour  to 
interest  the  feelings  of  the  reader,  sometimes  in 
favour  of  some  one  particular  vice,  at  other  times 
on  the  subject  of  some  one  objection  to  revealed 
religion.  Poetry  as  well  as  prose,  romance  as 
well  as  history,  writings  on  philosophical  as  well 
as  on  political  subjects,  have  thus  been  employ¬ 
ed  to  instil  the  principles  of  TUuminism,  while 
incredible  pains  have  Seen  taken  to  obtain  able 
translations  ot  every  book  which  was  supposed 
likely  to  be  of  use  in  corrupting  the  heart  or  mis¬ 
leading  the  understanding.  In  many  of  these 
translations,  certain  bolder  passages,  which, 
though  well  received  in  Germany,  would  have 
excited  disgust  in  England,  are  wholly  omitted, 
in  ordgr  that  the  mind  may  be  more  certainly, 
though  more  slowly,  prepared  for  the  full  effect 
of  the  same  poison  to  be  administered  in  a  strong¬ 
er  degree  at  another  period. 

I.et  not  those  to  whom  these  pages  are  ad¬ 
dressed  deceive  themselves,  by  supposing  this 
to  be  a  fable  ;  and  let  them  inquire  most  seri¬ 
ously  whether  I  speak  truth,  in  asserting  that 
tlie  attacks  of  infidelity  in  Great  Britain  are  at 
this  moment  principally  directed  against  the  fe¬ 
male  breast.  Conscious  of  the  influence  of  wo¬ 
men  in  civil  society,  conscious  of  the  effect 
which  female  infidelity  produced  in  France, 
they  attribute  the  ill  success  of  their  attempts  in 
this  country  to  their  having  been  hitherto  chiefly 
addressed  to  the  male  sex.  They  are  now  sedu¬ 
lously  labouring  to  destroy  the  religious  princi¬ 
ples  of  women,  and  in  too  many  instances  have 
fatally  succeeded.  For  this  purpose,  not  only 
novels  and  romances  have  been  made  the  vehi¬ 
cles  of  vice  and  infidelity,  but  the  same  allure¬ 
ment  has  been  held  out  to  the  women  of  our 
country,  which  was  employed  by  the  first  phi- 
losophists  to  the  first  sinner — Knowledge.  Lis- 
ten  to  the  precepts  of  the  new  German  enlight¬ 
eners,  and  you  need  no  longer  remain  in  that 
situation  in  which  Providence  has  placed  you  ! 
Follow  their  example,  and  you  shall  be  permit¬ 
ted  to  indulge  in  all  those  gratifications  which 
custom,  and  not  religion  has  tolerated  in  the 
male  sex. 

I/ot  us  jealously  watch  every  deepening  shade 
in  the  change  of  manners;  let  us  mark  every 
step,  however  inconsiderable,  who.se  tendency  is 
downwards.  Corruption  is  noitlier  stationary 
nor  retrograde;  and  to  have  departed  from  mo¬ 
desty,  simplicity,  and  truth,  is  already  to  have 
nude  a  progress.  It  is  not  only  awfully  true. 


320 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  since  the  new  principles  have  been  afloat, 
women  have  been  too  eagerly  inquisitive  after 
these  monstrous  compositions ;  but  it  is  true 
also,  that  with  a  new  and  offensive  renunciation 
of  their  native  delicacy,  many  women  of  charac¬ 
ter  make  little  hesitation  in  avowing  their  fami¬ 
liarity  with  works  abounding  with  principles, 
sentiments,  and  descriptions,  ‘  which  should  not 
be  so  much  as  named  among  them.  By  allow¬ 
ing  their  minds  to  come  in  contact  with  such 
contagious  matter,  they  are  irrecoverably  taint¬ 
ing  them ;  and  by  acknowledging  that  they  are 
actually  conversant  with  such  corruptions  (with 
whatever  reprobation  of  the  author  they  may 
qualify  their  perusal  of  the  book)  they  are  exci¬ 
ting  in  others  a  most  mischievous  curiosity  for 
the  same  unhallowed  gratification.  Thus  they 
are  daily  diminishing  in  the  young  and  timid 
those  wholesome  scruples,  by  which,  when  a  ten¬ 
der  conscience  ceases  to  be  intrenched,  all  the 
subsequent  stages  of  ruin  are  gradually  facili- 
tated. 

We  have  hitherto  spoken  only  of  the  German 
writings  ;  but  because  there  are  multitudes  who 
seldom  read,  equal  pains  have  been  taken  to 
promote  the  same  object  through  the  medium 
of  the  stage  :  and  this  weapon  is,  of  all  others, 
that  against  which  it  is,  at  the  present  moment, 
the  most  important  to  warn  the  more  ineonsi- 
derate  of  my  countrywomen. 

As  a  specimen  of  the  German  drama,  it  may 
not  be  unseasonable  to  offer  a  few  remarks  on 
the  admired  play  of  the  Stranger.  In  this  piece 
the  character  of  an  adultress,  which,  in  affperi- 
ods  of  the  world,  ancient  as  well  as  modern,  in 
all  countries,  heathen  ap  well  as  Christian,  has 
hitherto  been  held  in  detestation,  and  has  never 
been  introduced  but  to  be  reprobated,  is  for  the 
first  time  presented  to  our  view  in  the  most 
pleasing  and  fascinating  colours.  The  heroine 
is  a  woman  who  forsook  a  husband  the  most 
affectionate  and  the  most  amiable,  and  lived  for 
some  time  in  a  criminal  commerce  with  her 
seducer.  Repenting  at  length  of  her  crime,  she 
buries  herself  in  retirement. — The  talents  of  the 
poet  during  the  whole  piece  are  exerted  in  at¬ 
tempting  to  render  this  woman  the  object  not 
only  of  the  compassion  and  forgiveness,  but  of 
the  esteem  and  affection  of  the  audience.  The 
injured  husband,  convinced  of  his  wife’s  repent¬ 
ance,  forms  a  resolution  which  every  man  of 
true  feeling  and  Christian  piety  will  probably  ap¬ 
prove.  He  forgives  her  offence,  and  promises 
her  through  life,  his  advice,  protection  and  for¬ 
tune,  together  with  every  thing  which  can  alle¬ 
viate  the  misery  of  her  condition,  but  refuses  to 
replace  her  in  the  situation  of  his  wife !  But 
this  is  not  sufficient  for  the  German  author.  His 
efforts  are  employed,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  but 
too  successfully,  in  making  the  audience  consi¬ 
der  the  husband  as  an  unrelenting  savage,  while 
they  are  led  by  the  art  of  the  poet  anxiously  to 
w  ish  to  see  an  adultress  restored  to  that  rank  of 
w’omen  who  have  not  violated  the  most  solemn 
covenant  that  can  bo  made  with  man,  nor  dis¬ 
obeyed  one  of  the  most  positive  laws  which  has 
been  enjoined  by  God. 

About  the  same  time  that  this  first  attempt  at 
representing  an  adultress  in  an  exemplary  light 
was  made  by  a  German  dramatist,  which  forms 


an  sera  in  manners,  a  direct  vindication  of  adul¬ 
tery  was  for  the  first  time  attempted  by  a  woman. 
a  professed  admirer  and  imitator  of  the  German 
suicide  Werter.  The  female  Werter,  as  she  is 
stjded  by  her  biographer,  asserts  in  a  work  en¬ 
titled,  ‘The  Wrongs  of  Women,’  that  adultery 
is  justifiable,  and  that  the  restrictions  placed  on 
it  by  the  laws  of  England,  constitute  one  of  the 
Wrongs  of  Wo7nen. 

This  leads  me  to  dwell  a  little  longer  on  this 
most  destructive  class  in  the  whole  wide  range 
of  modern  corrupters,  who  effect  the  most  des¬ 
perate  work  of  the  passions  without  so  much  as 
pretending  to  urge  their  violence,  in  extenuation 
of  the  guilt  of  indulging  them.  They  solicit 
this  very  indulgence  with  a  sort  of  cold  blooded 
speculation,  and  invite  the  reader  to  the  most 
unbounded  gratifications,  with  all  tlm  saturnine 
coolness  of  a  geometrical  calculation.  Theirs 
is  an  iniquity  rather  of  phlegm  than  of  spirit : 
and  in  the  pestilent  atmosphere  they  raise  about 
them,  as  in  the  infernal  climate  described  by 
Milton — 

The  parching  air* 

Burns  frore,  and  frost  performs  th’  effects  of  lire. 

This  cool,  calculating,  intellectual  wickedness 
eats  out  the  very  heart  and  core  of  virtue,  and 
like  a  deadly  mildew  blights  and  shrivels  the 
blooming  promise  of  the  human  spring.  Its  be¬ 
numbing  touch  communicates  a  torpid  sluggish¬ 
ness  which  paralyses  the  soul.  It  descants  on 
depravity  as  gravely,  and  details  its  grossest  acts 
as  frigidly  as  if  its  object  w'ere  to  allay  the  tu¬ 
mult  of  the  passions,  while  it  is  letting  them 
loose  on  mankind,  by  ‘  plucking  off  the  muzzle 
of  present  restraint  and  future  accountableness.’ 
The  system  is  a  dire  infusion,  compounded  of 
bold  impiety,  brutish  sensuality,  and  exquisite 
folly,  which  creeping  fatally  about  the  heart, 
checks  the  moral  circulation, 'and  totally  stops 
the  pulse  of  goodness  by  the  extinction  of  the 
vital  principle  :  thus  not  only  choking  the  stream 
of  actual  virtue,  but  drying  up  the  very  fountain 
of  future  remorse  and  remote  repentance. 

The  ravages  which  some  of  the  old  offenders 
against  purity  made  in  the  youthful  heart,  by 
the  exercise  of  fervid  but  licentious  imagination 
on  the  passions,  resembled  the  mischief  effected 
by  floods,  cataracts,  and  volcanos.  The  desola¬ 
tion  indeed  was  terrible,  and  the  ruin  was  tre¬ 
mendous  ;  yet  it  was  a  train  which  did  not  in¬ 
fallibly  preclude  the  possibility  of  recovery.  The 
country,  though  deluged,  and  devastated,  was 
not  utterly  put  beyond  the  power  of  restoration. 
The  harvests  indeed  were  destroyed,  and  all  was 
wide  sterility.  But  though  the  crops  were  lost, 
the  seeds  of  vegetation  were  not  absolutely  era¬ 
dicated  ;  so  that,  after  a  long  and  barren  blank, 
fertility  might  finally  return. 

But  the  heart  once  infected  with  this  newly 
medicated  venom,  subtile  though  sluggish  in  its 
op>eration,  resembles  what  travellers  relate  of 
that  blasted  spot  the  dead  sea,  where  those  de¬ 
voted  cities  once  stood,  which  for  their  pollutions 
were  burnt  with  fire  from  heaven-  It  continues 
a  stagnant  lake  of  putrifying  waters.  No  whole- 

*  ‘  When  the  nnrtli  wind  Woweth  it  devonreth  the 
inniintains,  and  bnrneth  the  wilderness,  and  consunietb 
the  grass  as  fire  I'  Eccles.  xl.  20. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


321 


some  blade  ever  more  shoots  up ;  the  air  is  so 
tainted  that  no  living  thing  subsists  within  its 
influence.  Near  the  sulphureous  pool  the  very 
principle  of  being  is  annihilated.  All  is  death, 

Death,  unrepealable,  eternal  death  1 

But  let  us  take  comfort,  These  projects  are 
not  yet  generally  realized.  These  atrocious 
principles  are  not  yet  adopted  into  common 
practice.  Though  corruption  seems  with  a 
confluent  tide  to  be  pouring  in  upon  us  from 
every  quarter,  yet  there  is  still  left  among  us  a 
discriminating  judgment.  Clear  and  strongly 
marked  distinctions  between  right  and  wrong 
still  subsist.  While  we  continue  to  cherish  this 
sanity  of  mind,  the  case  is  not  desperate. 
Though  that  crime,  the  growth  of  which  al¬ 
ways  exhibits  the  most  irrefragable  proof  of  the 
dissoluteness  of  public  manners ;  though  that 
crime,  which  cuts  up  order  and  virtue  by  the 
roots,  and  violates  the  sanctity  of  vows,  is  aw¬ 
fully  increasing, 

’Til!  senates  seem, 

For  purposes  of  empire  less  conven’d 
Than  to  release  the  adult’ress  from  her  bonds : 

yet,  thanks  to  the  surviving  efficacy  of  a  holy 
religion,  to  the  operation  of  virtuous  laws,  and 
to  the  energy  and  unshaken  integrity  with 
which  these  law's  are  now  administered ;  and, 
most  of  all,  perhaps,  to  a  standard  of  morals 
which  continues  in  force,  when  the  principles 
which  sanctioned  it  are  no  more  ;  this  crime,  in 
the  female  sex  at  least,  is  still  held  in  just  ab¬ 
horrence.  If  it  be  practised,  it  is  not  honoura¬ 
ble  ;  if  it  be  committed,  it  is  not  justified ;  we 
do  not  yet  affect  to  palliate  its  turpitude  ;  as  yet 
it  hides  its  abhorred  head  in  lurking  privacy  ; 
and  reprobation  hitherto  follows  its  publicity. 

But  on  your  exerting  your  influence,  with 
just  application  and  increasing  energy,  may  in 
no  small  degree,  depend  whether  this  corruption 
shall  still  continue  to  be  resisted.  For  the  abhor¬ 
rence  ofa  practice  will  too  probably  diminish,  of 
which  the  theory  is  perused  with  enthusiasm. 
From  admiring  to  adopting,  the  step  is  short,  and 
the  progress  rapid  ;  and  it  is  in  the  moral  as  in 
the  natural  world ;  the  motion,  in  the  case  of 
minds  as  well  as  of  bodies,  is  accelerated  as  they 
approach  the  centre  to  which  they  are  tending. 

O  ye  to  whom  this  address  is  particularly  di¬ 
rected  !  an  awful  charge  is,  in  this  instance, 
committed  to  your  hands ;  as  you  discharge  it 
or  shrink  from  it,  you  promote  or  injure  the  ho¬ 
nour  of  your  daughters  and  the  happiness  of 
your  sons,  of  both  of  which  you  are  the  deposi¬ 
tories.  And,  while  you  resolutely  persevere  in 
making  a  stand  against  the  encroachments  of 
this  crime,  suflTer  not  your  firmness  to  be  shaken 
by  that  affectation  of  charity,  which  is  growing 
into  a  general  substitute  for  principle.  Abuse 
not  so  noble  a  quality  as  Cliristian  candour,  by 
misemploying  it  in  instances  to  which  it  does 
not  apply.  Pity  the  wretched  woman  you  dare 
not  countenance  ;  and  bless  Him  who  has  ‘made 
you  to  differ.’  If  unhappily  she  be  your  rela¬ 
tion  or  friend,  anxiously  watch  for  the  period 
when  she  shall  be  deserted  by  her  betrayer ; 
and  see  if,  by  your  Christian  offices,  she  can  be 
snatched  frsm  a  perpetuity  of  vice.  But  if, 
VoL.  I  X 


thiough  the  Divine  blessing  on  your  patient  en . 
deavours,  she  should  ever  be  awakened  to  re¬ 
morse,  be  not  anxious  to  restore  the  forlorn  peni- 
tent  to  that  society  against  whose  laws  she  has 
so  grievously  offended ;  and  remember  that  her 
soliciting  such  a  restoration,  furnishes  but  too 
plain  a  proof  that  she  is  not  the  penitent  your 
partiality  would  believe  ;  since  penitence  is 
more  anxious  to  make  its  peace  with  heaven 
than  with  the  world.  Joyfully  would  a  truly 
contrite  spirit  commute  an  earthly  for  an  ever¬ 
lasting  reprobation !  To  restore  a  eriminal  to 
public  society,  is  perhaps  to  tempt  her  to  repeat 
her  crime,  or  to  deaden  her  repentance  for  hav¬ 
ing  committed  it,  as  well  as  to  insult  and  to  in¬ 
jure  that  society ;  while  to  restore  a  strayed  soul 
to  God  will  add  lustre  to  your  Christian  charac¬ 
ter,  and  brighten  your  eternal  crown. 

In  the  mean  time,  there  are  other  evils,  ulti- 
mately  perhaps  tending  to  this,  into  which  we 
are  falling,  through  that  sort  of  fashionable  can¬ 
dour,  which,  as  was  hinted  above,  is  among  the 
mischievous  characteristics  of  the  present  day ; 
of  which  period  perhaps  it  is  not  the  smallest 
evil,  that  vices  are  made  to  look  so  like  virtues 
and  are  so  assimilated  to  them,  that  it  requires 
watchfulness  and  judgment  sufficient  to  analyze 
and  discriminate.  There  are  certain  women  ot 
good  fashion  who  practice  irregularities  not  con¬ 
sistent  with  the  strictness  of  virtue  ;  while  their 
good  sense  and  knowledge  of  the  world  make 
them  at  the  same  time  keenly  alive  to  the  value 
of  reputation.  They  want  to  retain  their  indul¬ 
gences,  without  quite  forfeiting  their  credit; 
but  finding  their  fame  fast  declining,  they  cling, 
by  flattery  and  marked  attentions,  to  a  few  per¬ 
sons  of  more  than  ordinary  character ;  and  thus, 
till  they  are  driven  to  let  go  their  hold,  continue 
to  prop  a  falling  fame. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  not  wanting  wo¬ 
men  of  distinction  of  very  correct  general  con¬ 
duct,  and  of  no  ordinary  sense  and  virtue,  who 
confiding  with  a  high  mind  on  what  they  too 
confidently  call  the  integrity  of  their  own  hearts, 
anxious  to  deserve  a  good  fame  on  the  one  hand, 
by  a  life  free  from  reproach,  yet  secretly  too  de¬ 
sirous  on  the  other  of  securing  a  worldly  and 
fashionable  reputation  ;  while  their  general  as¬ 
sociates  are  persons  of  honour,  and  their  general 
resort  places  of  safety  ;  yet  allow  themselves  to 
be  occasionally  present  at  the  midnight  orgies 
of  revelry  and  gaming,  in  houses  of  no  honour¬ 
able  estimation  ;  and  thus  help  to  keep  up  cha¬ 
racters,  which  without  their  sustaining  hand, 
would  sink  to  their  just  level  of  contempt  and 
reprobation.  While  they  are  holding  out  this 
plank  to  a  drowning  reputation,  rather,  it  is  to 
to  be  feared,  showing  their  own  strength  than 
assisting  another’s  weakness,  they  value  them¬ 
selves,  perhaps,  on  not  partaking  of  the  worse 
parts  of  the  amusements  which  may  be  carry 
ing  on  ;  but  they  sanction  them  by  their  pre¬ 
sence  ;  they  lend  their  countenance  to  corrup- 
tions  they  should  abhor,  and  their  example  to 
the  young  and  inexperienced,  who  are  looking 
about  for  some  such  sanction  to  justify  them  in 
that  to  which  they  wore  before  inclined,  but 
were  too  timid  to  have  ventured  upon  without 
the  protection  of  such  unsullied  names.  Thus 
these  respectable  characters,  without  looking  to 


322 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


the  general  consequences  of  their  indiscretion, 
are  thoughtlessly  employed  in  breaking  down, 
as  it  were,  the  broad  fence  which  should  ever 
separate  two  very  different  sorts  of  society, 
and  are  becoming  a  kind  of  unnatural  link  be¬ 
tween  vice  and  virtue. 

There  is  a  gross  deception  which  even  per¬ 
sons  of  reputation  practise  on  themselves.  They 
loudly  condemn  vice  and  irregularity  as  an  ab¬ 
stract  principle,  nay,  they  stigmatise  them  in 
persons  of  an  opposite  party,  or  in  those  from 
whom  they  themselves  have  no  prospect  of  per¬ 
sonal  advantage  or  amusement,  and  in  whom 
therefore  they  have  no  particular  interest  to  to¬ 
lerate  evil.  But  the  same  disorders  are  viewed 
without  abhorrence  when  practised  by  those 
who  in  any  way  minister  to  their  pleasures.  Re¬ 
fined  entertainments,  luxurious  decorations,  se¬ 
lect  music  ;  whatever  furnishes  any  delight  rare 
and  exquisite  to  the  sense,  these  soften  the  se¬ 
verity  of  criticism;  these  palliate  sins;  these 
varnish  over  the  flaws  of  a  broken  character,  and 
extort  not  pardon  merely  but  justification,  coun¬ 
tenance,  intimacy  !  The  more  respectable  will 
not,  perhaps,  go  all  the  length  of  vindicating  the 
disreputable  vice,  but  they  affect  to  disbelieve  its 
existence  in  the  individual  instance ;  or,  failing 
in  this,  they  will  bury  its  acknowledged  turpi¬ 
tude  in  the  seducing  qualities  of  the  agreeable 
delinquent.  Talents  of  every  kind  are  consider¬ 
ed  as  a  commutation  for  a  few  vices  ;  and  such 
talents  are  made  a  passport  to  introduce  into 
honourable  society,  characters  whom  their  pro¬ 
fligacy  ought  to  exclude  from  it. 

But  the  great  object  to  which  you,  who  are  or 
may  be  mothers,  are  more  especially  called,  is 
the  education  of  your  children.  If  we  are  re¬ 
sponsible  for  the  use  of  influence  in  the  case  of 
those  over  whom  we  have  no  immediate  control, 
in  the  case  of  our  children  we  are  responsible 
for  the  exercise  of  acknowledged  power;  a 
power  wide  in  its  extent,  indefinite  in  its  effects, 
and  inestimable  in  its  importance.  On  you  de¬ 
pend  in  no  small  degree  the  principles  of  the 
whole  rising  generation.  To  your  direction  the 
daughters  are  almost  exclusively  committed; 
and  until  a  certain  age,  to  you  also  is  consigned 
the  mighty  privilege  of  forming  the  hearts  and 
minds  of  your  infant  sons.  To  you  is  made  over 
the  awfully  important  trust  of  infusing  the  first 
principles  of  piety  into  the  tender  minds  of  those 
who  may  be  one  day  called  to  instruct,  not  fa¬ 
milies  merely,  but  districts;  to  influence,  not 
individuals,  but  senates.  Your  private  exertions 
may  at  this  moment  be  contributing  to  the  fu¬ 
ture  happiness,  your  domestic  neglect,  to  the 
future  ruin  of  your  country.  And  may  you  never 
forget,  in  this  your  early  instruction  of  your  off¬ 
spring,  nor  they,  in  their  future  application  of 
it,  that  religion  is  the  only  sure  ground  of  mo¬ 
rals  ;  that  private  principle  is  the  only  solid  ba¬ 
sis  of  public  virtue.  O  think  that  they  both  may 
be  fixed  or  forfeited  for  ever  according  to  the 
use  you  are  now  making  of  that  power  which 
God  has  delegated  to  you,  and  of  which  he  will 
demand  a  strict  account.  By  his  blessing  on 
your  pious  labours  may  both  sons  and  daughters 
hereafter  ‘  arise  and  call  you  blessed.’  And  in 
the  great  day  of  general  account,  may  every 
Christian  mother  be  enabled  through  divine 


grace  to  say,  with  humble  confidence,  to  her 
Maker  and  Redeemer,  ‘  Behold  the  children 
whom  thou  hast  given  me  !’ 

Christianity,  driven  out  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  has  still,  blessed  be  God  !  a  ‘  strong  hold* 
in  this  country.  And  though  it  be  the  special 
duty  of  the  appointed  ‘  watchman  now  that  he 
seeth  the  sword  come  upon  the  land,  to  blow 
the  trumpet  and  warn  the  people,  which  if  he 
neglect  to  do,  their  blood  shall  be  required  of  the 
watchman’s  hand  yet,  in  this  sacred  garri¬ 
son,  impregnable  but  by  neglect,  you  too  have  an 
awful  post,  that  of  arming  the  minds  of  the 
rising  race  with  the  ‘  shield  of  faith,  whereby 
they  shall  be  able  to  quench  the  fiery  darts  of 
the  wicked  ;’  ‘  that  of  girding  them  with  that 
sword  of  the  Spirit  which  is  the  word  of  God.’ 
Let  that  very  period  which  is  desecrated  in  a 
neighbouring  country,  by  a  formal  renunciation 
of  religion,  be  solemnly  marked  by  you  to  pur¬ 
poses  diametrically  opposite.  Let  that  disho¬ 
noured  sera  in  which  they  avowed  their  resolu¬ 
tion  to  exclude  Christianity  from  the  national 
education,  be  the  precise  moment  seized  upon 
by  YOU  for  its  more  sedulous  inculcation.  And 
while  their  children  are  systematically  trained 
to  live  without  God  in  the  world,’  let  yours, 
with  a  more  decided  emphasis,  be  consecrated 
to  promote  his  glory  in  it. 

If  you  neglect  this  your  bounden  duty,  you 
will  have  effectually  contributed  to  expel  Chris¬ 
tianity  from  her  last  citadel.  And  remember, 
that  the  dignity  of  the  work  to  which  you  are 
called,  is  no  less  than  that  of  ‘  preserving  the 
ark  of  the  Lord.’ 


CHAP.  II. 

On  the  education  of  women. —  The  prevailing  syg» 
tern  tends  to  establish  the  errors  which  it  ought 
to  correct. — Dangers  arising  from  an  exces¬ 
sive  cultivation  of  the  arts. 

It  is  far  from  being  the  object  of  this  slight 
work  to  offer  a  regular  plan  of  female  education, 
a  task  which  has  been  often  more  properly  as¬ 
sumed  by  far  abler  writers ;  but  it  is  intended 
rather  to  suggest  a  few  remarks  on  the  reigning 
mode,  which  though  it  has  had  many  panegy¬ 
rists,  appears  to  be  defective,  not  only  in  certain 
particulars,  but  as  a  general  system.  There  are 
indeed  numberless  honourable  e.xceptions  to  an 
observation  which  will  be  thought  severe ;  yet 
tlie  author  would  ask,  whether  it  bo  not  the  na¬ 
tural  tendency  of  the  prevailing  and  popular 
mode  to  excite  and  promote  those  very  evils 
which  it  ought  to  be  the  main  end  and  objects 
of  Christian  instruction  to  remove  ?  whether  the 
reigning  system  does  not  tend  to  weaken  the 
principles  it  ought  to  strengthen,  and  to  dissolve 
the  heart  it  should  fortify  ?  whether,  instead  of 
directing  the  grand  and  important  engine  of 
education  to  attack  and  destroy  vanity,  selfish¬ 
ness,  and  inconsidcration,  that  triple  alliance  in 
strict  and  constant  league  against  female  virtue; 
the  combined  powers  of  instruction  are  not 
sedulously  confederated  in  confirming  their 
strengtli  and  establishing  their  empire? 

*  Ezekiel,  zzxiii.  6. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


323 


If  indeed  the  7naterial  substance  ;  if  the  body 
and  limbs,  with  the  organs  and  senses,  be  really 
the  more  valuable  objects  of  attention,  then  there 
is  little  room  for  animadversion  and  improve¬ 
ment  :  but  if  the  immaterial  and  immortal  mind  ; 
if  the  heart,  ‘  out  of  which  are  the  issues  of  life,’ 
be  the  main  concern  ;  if  the  great  business  of 
education  be  to  implant  right  ideas,  to  commu¬ 
nicate  useful  knowledge,  to  form  a  taste  and  a 
sound  judgment,  to  resist  evil  propensities,  and 
above  all  to  seize  the  favourable  season  for  in¬ 
fusing  principles  and  confirming  habits ;  if 
education  be  a  school  to  fit  us  for  life,  and  life 
be  a  school  to  fit  us  for  eternity  ;  if  such,  I  re¬ 
peat  it,  be  the  chief  work  and  grand  ends  of 
education,  it  may  then  be  worth  enquiring  how 
far  these  ends  are  likely  to  be  effected  by  the 
prevailing  system. 

Is  it  not  a  fundamental  error  to  consider  chil¬ 
dren  as  innocent  beings,  whose  little  weaknesses 
may  perhaps  want  some  correction,  rather  than 
as  beings  who  bring  into  the  world  a  corrupt 
nature  and  evil  dispositions,  which  it  should  be 
the  great  end  of  education  to  rectify  ?  This 
appears  to  be  such  a  foundation-truth,  that  if  I 
were  asked  what  quality  is  most  important  in  an 
instructor  of  youth,  I  should  not  hesitate  to  re¬ 
ply,  such  a  strong  impression  of  the  corruption 
of  our  nature,  as  should  insure  a  disposition  to 
counteract  it ;  together  with  such  a  deep  view 
and  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
as  should  be  necessary  for  developing  and  con¬ 
trolling  its  most  secret  and  complicated  workings. 
And  let  us  remember  that  to  know  the  world,  as 
it  is  called,  that  is  to  know  its  local  manners, 
temporary  usages  and  evanescent  fashions,  is 
not  to  know  human  nature  :  and  that  where  this 
prime  knowledge  is  wanting,  those  natural  evils 
which  ought  to  be  counteracted  will  be  fostered. 

Vanity,  for  instance,  is  reckoned  among  the 
light  and  venial  errors  of  youth ;  nay,  so  far 
from  being  treated  as  a  dangerous  enemy,  it  is 
often  caked  in  as  an  auxiliary.  At  worst,  it  is 
considered  as  a  harmless  weakness,  which  sub¬ 
tracts  little  from  the  value  of  a  character ;  as  a 
natural  effervescence,  which  will  subside  of  it¬ 
self,  when  the  first  ferment  of  the  youthful  pas¬ 
sions  shall  have  done  working.  But  those  per¬ 
sons  know  little  of  the  conformation  of  the  hu¬ 
man,  and  especially  of  the  female  heart,  who 
fancy  that  vanity  is  ever  exhausted,  by  the  mere 
operation  of  time  and  events.  Let  those  who 
maintain  this  opinion  look  into  our  places  of 
public  resort,  and  there  behold  if  the  ghost  of 
departed  beauty  is  not  to  its  last  flitting,  fond 
of  haunting  the  scenes  of  its  past  pleasures. 
The  soul,  unwilling  (if  I  may  borrow  an  allusion 
from  the  Platonic  mythology)  to  quit  the  spot  in 
which  the  body  enjoyed  its  former  delights, 
still  continues  to  hover  about  the  same  place, 
though  the  same  pleasures  are  no  longer  to  be 
found  there.  Disappointments  indeed  may  di¬ 
vert  vanity  into  a  new  direction  ;  prudence  may 
prevent  it  from  breaking  out  into  excesses,  and 
age  may  prove  that  it  is  ‘  vexation  of  spirit 
but  neither  disappointment,  prudence,  nor  age 
can  cure  it :  for  they  do  not  correct  the  princi¬ 
ple.  Nay,  the  very  disappointment  itself  serves 
as  a  painful  evidence  of  its  protracted  existence. 

Since  then  there  is  a  season  when  the  youth¬ 


ful  must  cease  to  be  young,  and  the  beautiful  to 
excite  admiration,  to  learn  how  to  grow  old 
gracefully  is  perhaps  one  of  the  rarest  and  most 
valuable  arts  which  can  be  taught  to  woman. 
And  it  must  be  confessed  it  is  a  most  severe  trial 
for  those  women  to  be  called  to  lay  down  beauty, 
who  have  nothing  else  to  take  up.  It  is  for 
this  sober  season  of  life  that  education  should 
lay  up  its  rich  resources.  However  disregarded 
they  may  hitherto  have  been,  they  will  be 
wanted  now.  When  admirers  fall  away,  and 
flatterers  become  mute,  the  mind  will  be  driven 
to  retire  into  itself,  and  if  it  find  no  entertain¬ 
ment  at  home,  it  will  be  driven  back  again  upon 
the  world  with  increased  force.  Yet  forgetting 
this,  do  we  not  seem  to  educate  our  daughters 
exclusively  for  the  transient  period  of  youth, 
when  it  is  to  maturer  life  we  ought  to  advert  ? 
Do  we  not  educate  them  for  a  crowd,  forgetting 
that  they  are  to  live  at  home  7  for  the  world,  and 
not  for  themselves  ?  for  show,  and  not  for  use  ? 
for  time,  and  not  for  eternity  ? 

Vanity  (and  the  same  may  be  said  of  self¬ 
ishness)  is  not  to  be  resisted  like  any  other  vice, 
which  is  sometimes  busy  and  sometimes  quiet ; 
it  is  not  to  be  attacked  as  a  single  fault  which 
is  indulged  in  opposition  to  a  single  virtue  ;  but 
it  is  uniformly  to  be  controlled,  as  an  active,  a 
restless,  a  growing  principle,  at  constant  war 
with  all  the  Christian  graces ;  which  not  only 
mixes  itself  into  all  our  faults,  but  insinuates 
into  all  our  virtues  too ;  and  will,  if  not  check¬ 
ed  effectually,  rob  our  best  actions  of  their 
rewards.  Vanity,  if  I  may  use  the  analogy, 
is  with  respect  to  the  other  vices,  what  feel- 
ing  is  in  regard  to  the  other  senses ;  it  is  not 
confined  in  its  operation  to  the  eye,  or  the  ear, 
or  any  single  organ,  but  is  diffused  through  the 
whole  being,  alive  in  every  part,  awakened  and 
communica.ted  by  the  slightest  touch. 

Not  a  few  of  the  evils  of  the  present  day  arise 
from  a  new  and  perverted  application  of  terms  . 
among  these,  perhaps,  there  is  not  one  more 
absurd,  misunderstood,  or  misapplied,  than  the 
term  acco?nplishments.  This  word  in  its  original 
meaning  signifies  completeness,  perfection.  Buj 
I  may  safely  appeal  to  the  observation  of  man 
kind,  whether  they  do  not  meet  with  swarms  of 
youthful  -females,  issuing  from  our  boarding 
schools,  as  well  as  emerging  from  the  more  pri¬ 
vate  scenes  of  domestic  education,  who  are  intro¬ 
duced  into  the  world,  under  the  broad  and  uni- 
versal  title  of  accomplished  young  ladies,  of  aU 
of  whom  it  cannot  very  truly  and  correctly  be 
pronounced,  that  they  illustrate  the  definition, 
by  a  completeness  which  leaves  nothing  to  bo 
added,  and  a  perfection  which  leaves  nothing  to 
be  desired. 

This  frenzy  of  accomplishments,  unhappily, 
is  no  longer  restricted  within  the  usual  limits 
of  rank  and  fortune ;  the  middle  orders  have 
caught  the  contagion,  and  it  rages  downward 
with  increasing  and  destructive  violence,  from 
the  elegantly  dressed  but  slenderly  portioned 
curate’s  danghter  to  the  equally  fasliioned 
daughter  of  the  little  tradesman,  and  of  the 
more  opulent  but  not  more  judicious  farmer. 
And  is  it  not  obvious,  that  as  far  as  this  epidemi 
cal  mania  has  spread,  this  very  valuable  part  of 
society  is  declining  in  usefulness,  as  it  rises  in 


4 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


324 

its  ill-found5d  pretensions  to  elegance  ?  till  this 
rapid  revolution  of  tlie  manners  of  the  middle 
class  has  so  far  altered  the  character  of  the  age, 
as  to  be  in  danger  of  rendering  obsolete  the 
heretofore  common  saying,  '  that  most  worth 
and  virtue  are  to  be  found  in  the  middle  station.’ 
For  I  do  not  scruple  to  assert,  that  in  general, 
as  far  as  my  little  observation  has  extended, 
this  class  of  females,  in  what  relates  both  to 
religious  knowledge  and  to  practical  industry, 
falls  short  both  of  the  very  high  and  the  very 
low.  Their  new  course  of  education,  and  the 
indolent  habits  of  life  and  elegance  of  dress 
connected  with  it,  peculiarly  unfits  them  for  the 
active  duties  of  their  own  very  important  con¬ 
dition  ;  while,  with  frivolous  eagerness,  and  se¬ 
cond-hand  opportunities,  they  run  to  snatch  a 
few  of  those  showy  acquirements  which  decorate 
the  great.  This  is  done  apparently  with  one 
or  other  of  these  views ;  either  to  make  their 
fortunes  by  marriage,  or  if  that  fail,  to  qualify 
them  to  become  teachers  of  others  :  hence  the 
abundant  multiplication  of  superficial  wives, 
and  of  incompetent  and  illiterate  governesses. 
The  use  of  the  pencil,  the  performance  of  ex¬ 
quisite  but  unnecessary  works,  the  study  of 
foreign  languages  and  of  music,  require  (with 
some  exceptions  which  should  always  be  made 
in  favour  of  great  natural  genius)  a  degree 
of  leisure  which  belongs  exclusively  to  af¬ 
fluence.*  One  use  of  learning  languages  is, 
not  that  we  may  know  what  the  terms  which 
express  the  articles  of  our  dress  and  our  table 
are  called  in  French  or  Italian;  nor  that  we 
may  think  over  a  few  ordinary  phrases  in 
English,  and  then  translate  them,  without  one 
foreign  idiom ;  for  he  who  cannot  tliinlt  in  a 
language  cannot  be  said  to  understand  it :  but 
the  great  use  of  acquiring  any  foreign  language 
is,  either  that  it  enables  us  occasionally  to  con¬ 
verse  with  foreigners,  unacquainted  with  any 
other,  or  that  it  is  a  key  to  the  literature  of  the 
country  to  which  it  belongs.  Now  those  hum¬ 
bler  females,  the  chief  part  of  whose  time  is  re¬ 
quired  for  domestic  offices,  are  little  likely  to  fall 
in  the  way  of  foreigners  ;  and  so  far  from  enjoy- 
ing  opportunities  for  the  acquisition  of  foreign 
literature,  they  have  seldom  time  to  possess 
themselves  of  much  of  the  valuable  knowledge 
‘which  the  books  of  their  own  country  so  abun¬ 
dantly  furnish ;  and  the  acquisition  of  whicli 
would  bo  so  much  more  useful  and  honourable 
than  the  paltry  accessions  they  make  by  liam- 
mering  out  the  meaning  of  a  few  passages  in  a 
tongue  they  but  imperfectly  understand,  and 
of  which  they  are  never  likely  to  make  any  use. 

It  would  be  well  if  tlie  reflection,  how  eagerly 
this  redundancy  of  accomplishments  is  seized 
on  by  their  inferiors,  were  to  operate  as  in  the 
case  of  other  absurd  fashions  ;  the  rich  and  great 
being  seldom  brought  to  renounce  any  mode  of 
custom,  from  the  mere  consideration  that  it  is 
preposterous,  or  that  it  is  wrong  ;  while  they  are 
frightened  into  its  immediate  relinquishment, 
from  the  pressing  consideration  that  the  vulgar 
are  beginning  to  adopt  it. 

*  Those  amonsr  the  class  in  question,  whose  own 
j[00(i  sense  leails  tlieiii  to  avoid  tlies<*  mistaken  pursuits, 
cannot  be  olleiidecl  at  a  reproof  vvliich  does  not  belong 
to  them. 


But  to  return  to  that  more  elevated,  and  on  ac¬ 
count  of  their  more  extended  influence  only, 
that  more  important  class  of  females,  to  whose 
use  this  little  book  is  more  immediately  dedicat¬ 
ed.  Some  popular  authors,  on  the  subject  of 
female  instruction,  had  for  a  time  established  a 
fantastic  code  of  artificial  manners.  They  had 
refined  elegance  into  insipidity,  frittered  down 
delicacy  into  frivolousness,  and  reduced  manner 
into  minauderie,  ‘But  to  lisp,  and  to  amble, 
and  to  nick-name  God’s  creatures,’  has  nothing 
to  do  with  true  gentlenses  of  mind  ;  and  to  be 
silly  makes  no  necessary  part  of  softness.  An¬ 
other  class  of  contemporary  authors  turned  all 
the  force  of  their  talents  to  excite  emotions,  to 
inspire  sentiment,  and  to  reduce  all  mental  and 
moral  excellence  into  sympathy  and  feeling. 
These  softer  qualities  w’ere  elevated  at  the  ex- 
pense  of  principle  ;  and  young  women  were  in¬ 
cessantly  hearing  unqualified  sensibility  extolled 
as  the  perfection  of  their  nature  ;  till  those  who 
really  possessed  this  amiable  quality,  instead  of 
directing,  and  chastising,  and  restraining  it, 
were  in  danger  of  fostering  it  to  their  hurt,  and 
began  to  consider  themselves  as  deriving  their 
excellence  from  its  excess  ;  while  those  less  in¬ 
teresting  damsels,  who  happened  not  to  find  any 
of  this  amiable  sensibility  in  their  hearts,  but 
thought  it  creditable  to  have  it  somewhere, 
fancied  its  seat  was  in  the  nerucs;  and  here  in¬ 
deed  it  was  easily  founder  feigned  ;  tillafalseand 
excessive  display  of  feeling  became  so  predomi¬ 
nant,  as  to  bring  in  question  the  actual  existence 
of  that  true  tenderness,  without  which-  though  a 
woman  may  be  worthy,  she  can  never  be  amiable. 

Fashion  then,  by  one  of  her  sudden  and  rapid 
turns,  instantaneously  struck  out  both  real  sen 
sibility  and  the  affectation  of  it  from  the  stand¬ 
ing  list  of  female  perfections  ;  and,  by  a  quick 
touch  of  her  magic  wand,  shifted  the  scene,  and 
at  once  produced  the  bold  and  independent 
beauty,  the  intrepid  female,  the  hoyden,  the 
huntress,  and  the  archer ;  the  swinging  arms, 
the  confident  address,  the  regimental,  and  the 
four-in-hand.  Such  self-complacent  heroines 
made  us  ready  to  regret  their  softer  predecessors, 
who  had  aimed  only  at  pleasing  the  other  sex, 
while  these  aspiring  fair  ones  struggled  for  the 
bolder  renown  of  rivalling  them  :  the  project 
failed  ;  for,  whereas  the  former  had  sued  for  ad¬ 
miration,  the  latter  challenged,  seized,  compelled 
it ;  but  the  men,  as  was  natural,  continued  to 
prefer  the  more  modest  claimant  to  the  sturdy 
competitor. 

It  would  be  well  if  we,  who  have  the  advan¬ 
tage  of  contemplating  the  errors  of  the  two  ex¬ 
tremes,  were  to  seek  for  trutli  where  she  is 
commonly  to  be  found,  in  the  plain  and  obvious 
middle  path,  equally  remote  from  each  excess; 
and  while  we  bear  in  mind  that  helplessness  is 
not  delicacy,  let  us  also  remember  that  mascu¬ 
line  manners  do  not  necessarily  include  strength 
of  character,  nor  vigour  of  intellect.  Should  we 
not  reflect  also,  that  we  are  neither  to  train  up 
Amazons  nor  Circassians,  hut  that  it  isour  busi¬ 
ness  to  form  Christians  ?  that  wo  have  to  edu¬ 
cate  not  only  rational,  but  accountable  beings  ? 
and,  remembering  this,  should  we  not  be  soli¬ 
citous  to  let  our  daughters  learn*  of  the  well- 
taught,  and  associate  with  the  well-bred  ?  la 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


325 


training  them,  should  we  not  carefully  cultivate 
intellect,  implant  religion,  and  cherish  modesty  ? 
Then,  whatever  is  engaging  in  manners  would 
be  the  natural  result  of  whatever  is  just  in  sen¬ 
timent,  and  correct  in  principle  ;  softness  would 
grow  out  of  humility,  and  external  delicacy 
would  spring  from  purity  of  heart.  Then  the 
decorums^  the  proprieties,  the  elegances,  and 
even  the  graces,  as  far  as  they  are  simple,  pure, 
and  honest,  would  follow  as  an  almost  inevitable 
consequence  ;  for  to  follow  in  the  train  of  the 
Christian  virtues,  and  not  to  take  the  lead  of 
them,  is  the  proper  place  which  religion  assigns 
to  the  graces. 

Whether  we  have  made  the  best  use  of  the 
errors  of  our  predecessors,  and  of  our  own  num¬ 
berless  advantages,  and  whether  the  prevailing 
system  be  really  consistent  with  sound  policy, 
true  taste,  or  Christian  principle,  it  may  he  worth 
our  while  to  inquire. 

Would  not  a  stranger  be  led  to  imagine  by  a 
view  of  the  reigning  mode  of  female  education, 
that  human  life  consisted  of  one  universal  holi¬ 
day,  and  that  the  grand  contest  between  the 
several  competitors  was,  who  should  be  most 
eminently  qualified  to  excel,  and  carry  otF  the 
prize,  in  the  various  shows  and  games  which 
were  intended  to  be  exhibited  in  it  ?  And  to 
the  exhibitors  themselves,  would  he  not  be  ready 
to  apply  sir  Francis  Bacon’s  observations  on  the 
Olympian  victors,  that  they  were  so  excellent 
in  these  unnecessary  things,  that  their  perfection 
must  needs  have  been  acquired  by  the  neglect 
of  whatever  was  necessary  1 

What  would  the  polished  Addison  who  thought 
that  one  great  end  of  a  lady’s  learning  to  dance 
was,  that  she  might  know  how  to  sit  still  grace¬ 
fully  ;  what  would  even  the  pagan  historian*  of 
the  great  Roman  conspirator,  who  could  com¬ 
memorate  it  among  the  defects  of  this  hero’s  ac- 
complished  mistress,  ‘  that  she  was  too  good  a 
singer  and  dancer  for  a  virtuous  woman ;’ — 
what  would  these  refined  critics  have  said,  had 
they  lived  as  we  have  done,  to  see  the  art  of 
dancing  lifted  into  such  importance  that  it  can¬ 
not  with  any  degree  of  safety  be  confided  to  one 
instructor  ;  but  a  whole  train  of  successive  mas¬ 
ters  are  considered  as  absolutely  essential  to  its 
perfection  ?  What  would  these  accurate  judges 
of  female  manners  have  said,  to  see  a  modest 
young  lady  first  delivered  into  the  hands  of  a 
military  sergeant  to  instruct  her  in  the  feminine 
art  of  marching?  and  when  this  delicate  acqui¬ 
sition  is  attained,  to  see  her  transferred  to  a  pro¬ 
fessor,  who  is  to  teach  her  the  Scotch  steps ; 
which  professor,  having  communicated  his  in¬ 
dispensable  portion  of  this  indispensable  art, 
makes  way  for  the  professor  of  French  dances : 
and  all,  perhaps,  in  their  turn,  either  yield  to,  or 
have  the  honour  to  co-operate  with,  a  finishing 
master;  each  probably  receiving  a  stipend  whieh 
would  rnako  the  pious  curate  or  the  learned 
chaplain  rich  and  happy  ? 

The  science  of  music,  which  used  to  be  com¬ 
municated  in  so  competent  a  degree  to  a  young 
lady  by  one  able  instructor,  is  now  distributed 
among  a  whole  band.  She  now  requires,  not  a 
master,  but  an  orchestra.  And  my  country 
readers  would  accuse  mo  of  exaggeration,  were 
•*  Sallust* 


I  to  hazard  enumerating  the  variety  of  musical 
teachers  who  attend  at  the  same  time  in  the 
same  family  ;  the  daughters  of  which  are  sum¬ 
moned  by  at  least  as  many  instruments  as  the 
subjects  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  to  worship  the  idol 
which  fashion  has  set  up.  They  would  be  in¬ 
credulous  were  I  to  produce  real  instances,  in 
which  the  delighted  mother  has  been  heard  to 
declare,  that  the  visits  of  masters  of  every  art, 
and  the  different  masters  for  various  gradations 
of  the  same  art,  followed  each  other  in  such 
close  and  rapid  succession  during  the  whole 
London  residence,  that  her  girls  had  not  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  interval  to  look  into  a  book ;  nor  could 
she  contrive  any  method  to  introduce  one,  till 
she  happily  devised  the  scheme  of  reading  to 
them  herself  for  half  an  hour  while  they  were 
drawing,  by  which  means  no  time  was  lost.* 
Before  the  evil  has  past  redress,  it  will  be  pru¬ 
dent  to  reflect  that  in  all  polished  countries  an 
entire  devotedness  to  the  fine  arts  has  been  one 
grand  source  of  the  corruption  of  the  women  , 
and  so  justly  were  these  pernicious  consequen¬ 
ces  appreciated  by  the  Greeks,  among  whom 
these  arts  were  carried  to  the  highest  possible 
perfection,  that  they  seldom  allowed  them  to  be 
cultivated  to  a  very  exquisite  degree  by  women 
of  great  purity  of  character.  And  if  the  ambi¬ 
tion  of  an  elegant  British  lady  should  be  fired 
by  the  idea  that  the  accomplished  females  of 
those  polished  states  were  the  admired  compa¬ 
nions  of  the  philosophers,  the  poets,  the  wits, 
and  the  artists  of  Athens  ;  and  their  beauty  or 
talents,  so  much  the  favourite  subjects  of  the 
muse,  the  lyre,  the  pencil,  and  the  chissel,  that 
their  pictures  and  statues  furnished  the  most 
consummate  models  of  Grecian  art :  if,  I  say,  the 
accomplished  females  of  our  day  are  panting 
for  similar  renown,  let  their  modesty  chastise 
their  ambition,  by  recollecting  that  these  cele¬ 
brated  women  are  not  to  be  found  among  the 
chaste  wives  and  the  virtuous  daughters  of  the 
Aristideses,  the  Agises,  and  the  Phocions ;  but 
that  they  are  to  be  looked  for  among  the  Phrynes, 
the  Laises,  the  Aspasias,  and  the  Glyceras.  I 
am  persuaded  the  truly  Christian  female,  what¬ 
ever  be  her  taste  or  talents,  will  renounce  the 
desire  of  any  celebrity  when  attached  to  impu¬ 
rity  of  character,  with  the  same  noble  indigna¬ 
tion  wi^h  which  the  virtuous  biographer  of  the 
above-named  heroes  renounced  any  kind  of  fame 
which  might  be  dishonestly  attained,  by  exclaim¬ 
ing,  ‘  I  had  rather  it  should  be  said  there  never 
was  a  Plutarch,  than  that  they  should  say  Plu¬ 
tarch  was  malignant,  unjust,  or  envious.’i 

*  Since  the  first  edition  of  this  work  appeared  tlio  au¬ 
thor  has  received  from  a  person  of  great  eminence  the 
following  statement,  ascertaining  the  time  employed  in 
the  acquisition  of  music,  in  one  instance.  As  a  general 
calculation,  it  will  perhaps  be  found  to  be  so  far  from 
exaggerated,  as  to  be  below  the  truth.  The  statement 
concludes  with  remarking,  that  the  individual  who  is  the 
subject  of  it  is  now  married  to  a  man  who  dislikes  music! 

Suppose  your  pupil  to  begin  at  six  years  of  age.  and  to 
continue  at  the  average  of  four  hours  a  day  only,  Sun¬ 
day  excepted,  and  thirteen  days  alloweil  for  travelling 
annually,  till  she  is  eighteen,  the  statement  stands  thus; 
301)  days  multiplied  by  four,  the  number  of  hours  amount 
to  liiOU  ;  that  number  multiplied  by  twelve,  which  is  the 
number  of  years,  amounts  to  14,400  hours! 

(■  No  censure  is  levelled  at  the  exertions  of  real  genius, 
which  is  as  valuable  as  it  is  rare  ;  but  at  the  absunlity 
of  that  system  which  is  erecting  the  whole  sex  into 
artists; 


326 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


And  while  this  corruption  brought  on  by  an 
excessive  cultivation  of  the  arts,  has  contributed 
its  full  share  to  the  decline  of  states,  it  has  al¬ 
ways  furnished  an  infallible  symptom  of  their 
impending  fall.  The  satires  of  the  most  pene¬ 
trating  and  judicious  of  the  Roman  poets,  cor¬ 
roborating  the  testimonies  of  the  most  accurate 
of  their  historians,  abound  with  invectives  against 
the  general  depravity  of  manners  introduced  by 
the  corrupt  habits  of  female  education.  The 
bitterness  and  gross  indelicacy  of  some  of  these 
satirists  (too  gross  to  be  either  quoted  or  refer¬ 
red  to)  make  little  against  their  authority  in 
these  points  ;  for  how  shocking  must  those  cor¬ 
ruptions  have  been,  and  how  obviously  offensive 
their  causes,  which  could  have  appeared  so  high¬ 
ly  disgusting  to  minds  so  coarse  as  not  likely  to 
be  scandalized  by  slight  deviations  from  decen¬ 
cy  !  The  famous  ode  of  Horace,  attributing  the 
vices  and  disasters  of  his  degenerate  country  to 
the  same  cause,  might,  were  it  quite  free  from 
the  above  objections,  be  produced,  I  will  not 
presume  to  say  as  an  exact  picture  of  the  exist¬ 
ing  manners  of  this  country ;  but  may  I  not 
venture  to  say,  as  a  prophecy,  the  fulfilment  of 
which  cannot  be  very  remote  1  It  may  however 
be  observed,  that  the  modesty  of  the  Roman 
matron,  and  the  chaste  demeanour  of  her  virgin 
daughters,  which  amidst  the  stern  virtues  of  the 
state  were  as  immaculate  and  pure  as  the  honour 
of  the  Roman  citizen,  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  luxu¬ 
rious  dissipation  brought  in  by  their  Asiatic 
conquests ;  after  which  the  females  were  soon 
taught  a  complete  change  of  character.  They 
were  instructed  to  accommodate  their  talents  of 
pleasing  to  the  more  vitiated  tastes  of  the  other 
sex;  and  began  to  study  every  grace  and  every 
art,  which  might  captivate  the  exhausted  hearts 
and  excite  the  wearied  and  capricious  inclina¬ 
tions  of  the  men  ;  till  by  a  rapid  and  at  length 
complete  enervation,  the  Roman  character  lost 
its  signature,  and  through  a  quick  succession 
of  slavery,  effeminacy,  and  vice,  sunk  into  that 
degeneracy  of  which  some  of  the  modern  Italian 
states  serve  to  furnish  a  too  just  specimen. 

It  is  of  the  essence  of  human  things  that  the 
same  objects  which  are  highly  useful  in  their 
season,  measure,  and  degree,  become  mischiev¬ 
ous  in  their  excess,  at  other  periods  and  under 
other  circumstances.  In  a  state  of  barbarism, 
the  arts  are  among  the  best  reformers ;  and  they 
go  on  to  be  improved  themselves,  and  improving 
those  who  cultivate  them,  till  having  reached  a 
certain  point,  those  very  arts  which  were  the  in¬ 
struments  of  civilization  and  refinement,  become 
instruments  of  corruption  and  decay;  enervating 
and  depraving  in  the  second  instance,  by  the  ex¬ 
cess  and  universality  of  their  cultivation,  as  cer¬ 
tainly  as  they  refined  in  the  first.  They  become 
agents  of  voluptuousness. — They  excite  the  ima¬ 
gination  ;  and  the  imagination  thus  excited,  and 
no  longer  under  the  government  of  strict  prin¬ 
ciple,  becomes  the  most  dangerous  stimulant  of 
the  passions ;  promotes  a  too  keen  relish  fbr 
pleasure,  teaching  how  to  multiply  its  sources, 
and  inventing  new  and  pernicious  modes  of  ar¬ 
tificial  gratification. 

May  we  not  rank  among  the  present  corrupt 
consequences  of  this  unbounded  cultivation,  the 
imchaste  costume,  the  impure  style  of  dress,  and  1 


that  indelicate  statue-like  exhibition  of  the  fe- 
male  figure,  which  by  its  artfully  disposed  folds, 
its  seemingly  wet  and  adhesive  drapery,  so  de- 
fines  the  form  as  to  prevent  covering  itself  from 
becoming  a  veil  ?  This  licentious  mode,  as  the 
acute  Montesquieu  observed  on  the  dances  of 
the  Spartan  virgins,  has  taught  us  ‘  to  strip 
chastity  itself  of  modesty.’ 

May  the  author  be  allowed  to  address  to  our 
own  country  and  our  own  circumstances,  to 
both  of  which  they  seem  peculiarly  applicable, 
the  spirit  of  that  beautiful  apostrophe  of  the 
most  polished  poet  of  antiquity  to  the  most  vic¬ 
torious  nation  ?  ‘  Let  us  Rave  to  the  inhabilanta 
of  conquered  countries  the  praise  of  carrying  to 
the  very  highest  degree  of  perfection,  sculpture 
and  the  sister  arts ;  but  let  this  country  direct 
her  own  exertions  to  the  art  of  governing  man 
kind  in  equity  and  peace,  of  showing  mercy  t« 
the  submissive,  and  of  abasing  the  proud  among 
surrounding  nations.’* 


CHAP.  III. 

External  improvement.  Children's  halls.  French 
governesses. 

Let  me  not  however  be  misunderstood. — Th? 
customs  which  fashion  has  established,  when 
they  are  not  in  opposition  to  what  is  right,  when 
they  are  not  hostile  to  virtue,  should  unquestion 
ably  be  pursued  in  the  education  of  ladies.  Piety 
maintains  no  natural  war  with  elegance,  and 
Christianity  would  be  no  gainer  by  making  her 
disciples  unamiable.  Religion  does  not  forbid 
that  the  exterior  be  made  to  a  certain  degree 
the  object  of  attention.  But  the  admiration  be¬ 
stowed,  the  sums  expended,  and  the  time  lavish¬ 
ed  on  arts,  which  add  little  to  the  intrinsic  value 
of  life,  should  have  limitations.  While  these 
arts  should  be  admired,  let  them  not  be  admired 
above  their  just  value  :  while  they  are  practised, 
let  it  not  be  to  the  exclusion  of  higher  employ¬ 
ments  :  while  they  are  cultivated,  let  it  be  to 
amuse  leisure,  not  to  engross  life. 

But  it  happens  unfortunately,  that  to  ordinary 
observers,  the  girl  who  is  really  receiving  the 
worst  instruction  often  makes  the  best  figure ; 
while  in  the  more  correct  but  less  ostensible  edu¬ 
cation,  the  deep  and  sure  foundations  to  which 
the  edifice  will  owe  its  strength  and  stability  lie 
out  of  sight.  The  outward  accomplishments 
have  the  dangerous  advantage  of  addressing 
themselves  more  immediately  to  the  senses,  and 

*  Let  me  not  be  suspected  of  bringing  into  any  sort  of 
comparison  the  gentleness  of  British  government  with 
the  rapacity  of  Roman  conquests,  or  the  tyrannical  prin¬ 
ciples  of  Roman  dominion.  To  spoil,  to  butcher,  and  to 
commit  every  kind  of  violence,  they  call,  says  one  of  the 
ablest  of  their  historians,  by  the  lying  name  of  g-orern- 
merit,  and  when  they  have  spread  a  general  desolation, 
they  call  it  peace.  (1) 

With  such  dictatorial,  or  as  we  might  now  read,  direc¬ 
torial,  inquisitors,  we  can  have  no  point  of  contact :  and 
if  I  have  applied  the  servile  tiattery  of  a  delightful  poet 
to  the  purpose  of  English  happiness,  it  was  only  to  show 
wherein  true  national  grandeur  consists,  and  that  every 
country  pays  too  dear  a  price  for  those  arts  and  embel¬ 
lishments  of  society  which  endanger  the  loss  of  its  mo¬ 
rals  and  manners. 

(1)  Tacitus’  Life  of  Agricola,  speecli  of  Galgaous  to 
his  soldiers! 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


327 


of  course  meet  every  where  with  those  who  can 
in  some  measure  appreciate  as  well  as  admire 
them;  for  all  can  see  and  hear,  but  all  cannot 
scrutinize  and  discriminate,  External  acquire¬ 
ments  too  recommend  themselves  the  more  be¬ 
cause  they  are  more  rapidly,  as  well  as  more 
visibly  progressive ;  while  the  mind  is  led  on  to 
improvement  by  slow  motions  and  impercepti¬ 
ble  degrees ;  while  the  heart  must  now  be  ad¬ 
monished  by  reproof,  and  now  allured  by  kind¬ 
ness  ;  its  liveliest  advances  being  suddenly  im¬ 
peded  by  obstinacy,  and  its  brightest  prospects 
often  obscured  by  passion  ;  it  is  slow  in  its  ac¬ 
quisitions  of  virtue,  and  reluctant  in  its  ap¬ 
proaches  to  piety  ;  and  its  progress,  when  any 
progress  is  made,  does  not  obtrude  itself  to  vul¬ 
gar  observation. — The  unruly  and  turbulent 
propensities  of  the  mind  are  not  so  obedient  to 
the  forming  hand  as  defects  of  manner  or  awk¬ 
wardness  of  gait.  Often  when  wo  fancy  that  a 
troublesome  passion  is  completely  crushed,  we 
have  the  mortification  to  find  that  we  have 
‘  scotch’d  the  snake,  not  kill’d  it.’  One  evil  tem¬ 
per  starts  up  before  another  is  conquered.  The 
subduing  hand  cannot  cut  off  the  ever-sprouting 
heads  so  fast  as  the  prolific  hydra  can  reproduce 
them,  nor  fell  the  stubborn  Antosus  so  often  as 
he  can  recruit  his  strength,  and  rise  in  vigorous 
and  repeated  opposition. 

Hired  teachers  are  also  under  a  disadvantage 
resembling  tenants  at  rack-rent ;  it  is  their  in¬ 
terest  to  bring  in  an  immediate  revenue  of  praise 
and  profit;  and,  for  the  sake  of  a  present  rich 
crop,  those  who  are  not  strictly  conscientious, 
do  not  care  how  much  the  ground  is  impoverish¬ 
ed  for  future  produce.  But  parents,  who  are  the 
lords  of  the  soil,  must  look  to  permanent  value, 
and  to  continued  fruitfulness.  The  best  effects 
of  a  careful  education  are  often  very  remote ; 
they  are  to  be  discovered  in  future  scenes,  and 
exhibited  in  as  yet  untried  connexions.  Every 
event  of  life  will  be  putting  the  heart  into  fresh 
situations,  and  making  new  demands  on  its  pru¬ 
dence,  its  firmness,  its  integrity,  or  its  forbear¬ 
ance.  Those  whose  business  it  is  to  form  and 
model  it,  cannot  foresee  those  contingent  situa¬ 
tions  specifically  and  distinctly  :  yet,  as  far  as 
human  wisdom  wilt  allow,  they  must  enable  it 
to  prepare  for  them  all  by  general  principles, 
correct  habits,  and  an  unremitted  sense  of  de¬ 
pendence  on  the  Great  Disposer  of  events.  As 
the  soldier  must  learn  and  practise  all  his  evo¬ 
lutions,  though  he  do  not  know  on  what  service 
his  leader  may  command  him,  by  what  particu¬ 
lar  foe  he  shall  be  most  assailed,  nor  what  mode 
of  attack  the  enemy  may  employ  ;  so  must  the 
young  Christian  militant  be  prepared  by  pre¬ 
vious  discipline  for  actual  duty. 

But  the  contrary  of  all  this  is  the  case  with 
external  acquisitions.  The  master,  it  is  his  in¬ 
terest,  will  industriously  instruct  his  young  pu¬ 
pil  to  set  all  her  improvements  in  the  most  im¬ 
mediate  and  conspicuous  point  of  view.  To  at¬ 
tract  admiration  is  the  great  principle  sedu- 
lously  inculcated  into  her  young  heart ;  and  is 
considered  as  the  fundamental  maxim :  and, 
perhaps,  if  we  were  required  to  condense  the 
reigning  system  of  the  brilliant  education  of  a 
lady  into  an  aphorism,  it  might  be  comprised 
into  this  short  sentence,  To  allure  and  to  shine. 


This  system  however  is  the  fruitful  germ,  from 
which  a  thousand  yet  unborn  vanities,  with  all 
their  multiplied  ramifications,  will  spring.  A 
tender  mother  cannot  but  feel  an  honest  triumph 
in  contemplating  those  talents  in  her  daughter, 
which  will  necessarily  excite  admiration  ;  but 
she  will  also  shudder  at  the  vanity  that  admira¬ 
tion  may  excite,  and  at  the  new  ideas  it  will 
awaken :  and,  startling  as  it  may  sound,  tho 
labours  of  a  wise  mother,  anxious  for  her  daugh¬ 
ter’s  best  interests,  will  seem  to  be  at  variance 
with  those  of  all  her  teachers.  She  will  indeed 
rejoice  at  her  progress,  but  she  will  rejoice  with 
trembling;  for  she  is  fully  aware  that  if  all  pos¬ 
sible  accomplishments  could  bo  bought  at  the 
price  of  a  single  virtue,  of  a  single  principle, 
the  purchase  would  be  infinitely  dear,  and  she 
would  reject  the  dazzling  but  destructive  acqui¬ 
sition.  She  knows  that  the  superstructure  of 
the  accomplishments  can  be  alone  safely  erected 
on  the  broad  and  solid  basis  of  Christian  hu¬ 
mility  :  nay  more,  that  as  the  materials  of  which 
that  superstructure  is  to  be  composed,  are  in 
themselves  of  so  unstable  and  tottering  a  nature, 
the  foundation  must  be  deepened  and  enlarged 
with  more  abundant  care,  otherwise  the  fabric 
will  be  overloaded  with  its  own  ornaments,  and 
what  was  intended  only  to  embellish  the  build¬ 
ing,  will  prove  the  occasion  of  its  fall. 

‘  To  every  thing  there  is  a  season,  and  a  time 
for  every  purpose  under  heaven,’  said  the  wise 
man ;  but  he  said  it  before  the  invention  of 
BABY-BALLS ;  an  invention  which  has  formed  a 
kind  of  sera,  and  a  most  inauspicious  one,  in 
the  annals  of  polished  education.  This  modern 
device  is  a  sort  of  triple  conspiracy  against  the 
innocence,  the  health,  and  the  happiness  of 
children.  Thus  by  factitious  amusements,  to 
rob  them  of  a  relish  for  the  simple  joys,  the  un¬ 
bought  delights,  which  naturally  belong  to  their 
blooming  season,  is  like  blotting  out  spring  from 
the  year.  To  sacrifice  the  true  and  proper  en¬ 
joyments  of  sprightly  and  happy  children,  is  to 
make  them  pay  a  dear  and  disproportionate 
price  for  their  artificial  pleasures.  They  step 
at  once  from  the  nursery  to  the  ball-room  ;  and, 
by  a  change  of  habits  as  new  as  it  is  prepos¬ 
terous,  are  thinking  of  dressing  themselves,  at 
an  age  when  they  used  to  be  dressing  their 
dolls.  Instead  of  bounding  with  the  unrestrain¬ 
ed  freedom  of  little  wood-nymphs  over  hill  and 
dale,  their  cheeks  flushed  with  health,  and  their 
hearts  overflowing  with  happiness,  these  gay 
little  creatures  are  shut  up  all  the  morning,  de¬ 
murely  practising  the  pas  grave,  and  transacting 
the  serious  business  of  acquiring  a  new  step  for 
the  evening,  with  more  cost  of  time  and  pains 
than  it  would  have  taken  them  to  acquire  twenty 
new  ideas. 

Thus  they  lose  the  amusements  which  proper¬ 
ly  belong  to  their  smiling  period,  and  unnatu¬ 
rally  anticipate  those  pleasures  (such  as  they 
are)  which  would  come  in,  too  much  of  course, 
on  their  introduction  into  fashionable  life.  The 
true  pleasures  of  childhood  are  cheap  and  natu¬ 
ral  ;  for  every  object  teems  with  delight  to  eyes 
and  hearts  new  to  the  enjoyment  of  life  ;  nay, 
the  hearts  of  healthy  children  abound  with  a 
general  disposition  to  mirth  and  joyfulness,  even 
without  a  specific  object  to  excite  it :  like  our 


328 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


first  parent,  in  the  world’s  first  spring,  when  all 
was  new  and  fresh,  and  gay  about  him, 

tliey  live  and  move, 

And  feel  that  they  are  happier  than  they  know. 
Only  furnish  them  with  a  few  simple  and  harm¬ 
less  materials,  and  a  little,  but  not  too  much, 
leisure,  and  they  will  manufacture  their  own 
pleasure  with  more  skill  and  success,  and  satis¬ 
faction,  than  they  will  receive  from  all  that  your 
money  can  purchase.  Their  bodily  recreations 
should  be  such  as  will  promote  their  health, 
quicken  their  activity,  enliven  their  spirits,  whet 
their  ingenuity,  and  qualify  them  for  their  men¬ 
tal  work.  But,  if  you  begin  thus  early  to  create 
wants,  to  invent  gratifications,  to  multiply  de¬ 
sires,  to  waken  dormant  sensibilities,  to  stir  up 
hidden  fires,  you  are  studiously  laying  up  for 
your  children  a  store  of  premature  caprice  and 
irritability,  of  impatience  and  discontent. 

While  childhood  preserves  its  native  simpli¬ 
city,  every  little  change  is  interesting,  every 
gratification  is  a  luxury.  A  ride  or  a  walk,  a 
garland  of  flowers  of  her  own  forming,  a  plant 
of  her  own  cultivating,  will  be  a  delightful 
amusement  to  a  child  in  her  natural  state  ;  but 
these  harmless  and  interesting  recreations  will 
he  dull  and  tasteless  to  a  sophisticated  little 
creature,  nursed  in  such  forced,  and  costly,  and 
vapid  pleasures.  Alas  !  that  wm  should  throw 
away  this  first  grand  opportunity  of  working 
into  a  practical  habit  the  moral  of  this  impor¬ 
tant  truth,  that  the  chief  source  of  human  dis¬ 
content  is  to  be  looked  for,  not  in  our  real,  but 
in  our  factitious  wants  ;  not  in  the  demands  of 
nature,  but  in  the  insatiable  cravings  of  artifi¬ 
cial  desire ! 

When  we  see  the  growing  zeal  to  crowd  the 
midnight  ball  with  these  pretty  fairies,  we 
should  be  almost  tempted  to  fancy  it  was  a  kind 
of  pious  emulation  among  the  mothers  to  cure 
their  infants  of  a  fondness  for  vain  and  foolish 
pleasures,  by  tiring  them  out  by  this  premature 
familiarity  with  them.  And  we  should  bo  so 
desirous  to  invent  an  excuse  for  a  practice  so 
inexcusable,  that  we  should  be  ready  to  hope 
that  they  were  actuated  by  something  of  the 
same  principle  which  led  the  Spartans  to  intro¬ 
duce  their  sons  to  scenes  of  riot,  that  they  might 
conceive  an  early  disgust  at  vice  !  or  possibly, 
that  they  imitated  those  Scythian  mothers  who 
used  to  plunge  their  new-born  infants  into  the 
flood,  thinking  none  to  be  worth  saving  who 
could  not  stand  this  early  struggle  for  their  lives; 
the  greater  part,  indeed,  as  might  have  been  ex¬ 
pected,  perished ;  but  the  parents  took  comfort, 
that  if  they  were  lost,  the  few  who  escaped 
would  be  the  stronger  for  having  been  thus  ex¬ 
posed  ! 

To  behold  Lilliputian  coquettes,  projecting 
dresses,  studying  colours,  assorting  ribands, 
mixing  flowers,  and  choosing  feathers ;  their 
little  hearts  beating  with  hopes  about  partners 
and  fears  about  rivals  ;  to  see  their  fresh  cheeks 
pale  after  the  midnight  sup[>er,  their  aching 
heads  and  unbraced  nerves,  disqualifying  the 
little  languid  beings  for  the  next  day’s  task  ; 
and  to  hear  the  grave  apology,  ‘  that  it  is  owing 
to  the  wine,  the  crowd,  the  lieated  room  of  the 
last  night’s  ball ;’  all  this,  I  say,  would  really  be 
as  ludicrous,  if  the  mischief  of  the  thing  did  not 


take  off  from  the  merriment  of  it,  as  any  of  the 
ridiculous  and  preposterous  disproportions  in  the 
diverting  travels  of  captain  Lemuel  Gulliver. 

Under  a  just  impression  of  the  evils  which, 
we  are  sustaining  from  the  principles  and  the 
practices  of  modem  France,  we  are  apt  to  lose 
sight  of  those  deep  and  lasting  mischiefs  which 
so  long,  so  regularly,  and  so  systematically  we 
have  been  importing  from  the  same  country, 
though  in  another  form,  and  under  another  go¬ 
vernment.  In  one  respect,  indeed,  the  first  were 
the  more  formidable,  because  we  embraced  the 
ruin  without  suspecting  it;  while  we  defeat  the 
malignity  of  the  latter,  by  detecting  the  turpi¬ 
tude,  and  defending  ourselves  against  its  conta¬ 
gion.  This  is  not  the  place  to  descant  on  that 
levity  of  manners,  that  contempt  of  the  sabbath, 
that  fatal  familiarity  with  loose  principles,  and 
those  relaxed  notions  of  conjugal  fidelity,  which, 
have  ofteen  been  transplanted  into  this  country 
by  women  of  fashion,  as  a  too  common  effect  of 
a  long  residence  In  a  neighbouring  nation  ;  but 
it  is  peculiarly  suitable  to  my  subject  to  advert 
to  another  domestic  mischief  derived  from  the 
same  foreign  extraction ;  I  mean  the  risks  that 
have  been  run,  and  th«  sacrifices  which  have 
been  made,  in  order  to  furnish  our  young  ladies 
with  the  means  of  acquiring  the  French  lan¬ 
guage  in  the  greatest  possible  purity.  Perfec¬ 
tion  in  this  accomplishment  has  been  so  long 
established  as  the  supreme  object ;  so  long  con¬ 
sidered  as  the  predominant  excellence  to  which 
all  other  excellencies  must  bow  down,  that  it 
would  be  hopeless  to  attack  a  law  which  fashion 
has  immutably  decreed,  and  which  has  received 
the  stamp  of  long  prescription.  Wo  must,  there¬ 
fore,  be  contented  with  expressing  a  wish,  that 
this  indispensable  perfection  could  have  been 
attained  at  the  expense  of  sacrifices  less  impor¬ 
tant.  It  is  with  the  greater  regret  I  animad 
vert  on  this  and  some  other  prevailing  practices 
as  they  are  errors  into  which  the  wise  and  re¬ 
spectable  have  through  want  of  consideration, 
or  rather  through  want  of  firmness  to  resist  the 
tyranny  of  fashion,  sometimes  fallen.  It  has 
not  been  unusual  when  mothers  of  rank  and  re¬ 
putation  have  been  asked  how  they  ventured  to 
intrust  their  daughters  to  foreigners,  of  whose 
principles  they  knew  nothing,  except  that  they 
were  Roman  Catholics,  to  answer,  ‘  That  they 
had  taken  care  to  be  secure  on  that  subject ;  for 
that  it  had  been  stipulated  that  the  question  of 
religion  should  never  be  agitated  between  the 
teacher  and  the  pupil.'  This,  it  must  be  con¬ 
fessed,  is  a  most  desperate  remedy ;  it  is  like 
starving  to  death  to  avoid  being  poisoned.  And 
who  can  help  trembling  for  the  event  of  that 
education,  from  which  religion,  as  far  as  the  go¬ 
verness  is  concerned,  is  thus  formally  and  sys¬ 
tematically  excluded.  Surely  it  would  not  be 
exacting  too  much,  to  suggest  at  least  that  an 
attention  no  less  scrupulous  should  be  exerted 
to  insure  the  character  of  our  children’s  in¬ 
structor,  for  piety  and  knowledge,  than  ia 
thought  necessary  to  ascertain  that  she  has  no¬ 
thing /ratois  in  ner  dialect. 

I  would  rate  a  correct  pronunciation  and  an 
elegant  phraseology  at  their  just  priee,  and  I 
would  not  rate  them  low ;  but  I  w’ould  not  offer 
up  piety  and  principle  as  victims  to  sounds  and. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


329 


accents.  And  the  matter  is  now  made  more 
easy ;  for  whatever  disgrace  it  might  once  have 
brought  on  an  English  lady  to  have  had  it  sus¬ 
pected  from  her  accent  that  she  had  the  misfor¬ 
tune  not  to  be  born  in  a  neighbouring  country  ; 
some  recent  events  may  serve  to  reconcile  her 
to  the  suspicion  of  having  been  bred  in  her  own. 
A  country,  to  which,  (with  all  its  sins,  which 
are  many  !)  the  whole  world  is  looking  up  with 
envy  and  admiration,  as  the  seat  of  true  glory 
and  of  comparative  happiness  I  A  country,  in 
which  the  exile,  driven  out  by  the  crimes  of  his 
own,  finds  a  home  !  A  country,  to  obtain  the 
protection  of  which  it  was  claim  enough  to  be 
unfortunate ;  and  no  impediment  to  have  been 
the  subject  of  her  direst  foe  !  A  country,  which, 
in  this  respect,  humbly  imitating  the  Father  of 
compassion,  when  it  offered  mercy  to  a  suppli¬ 
ant  enemy,  never  conditioned  for  merit,  nor  in¬ 
sisted  on  the  virtues  of  the  miserable  as  a  pre¬ 
liminary  to  its  own  bounty  ! 

‘England!  with  all  thy  faults,  I  love  thee  still.’ 
CHAP.  IV. 

Comparison  of  the  mode  of  female  education  in 
the  last  age  with  the  present. 

To  return,  however,  to  the  subject  of  general 
education.  We  admit  that  a  young  lady  may 
excel  in  speaking  French  and  Italian ;  may  re¬ 
peat  a  few  passages  from  a  volume  of  extracts  ; 
play  like  a  professor,  and  sing  like  a  syren  ; 
have  her  dressing-room  decorated  with  her  own 
drawings,  tables,  stands,  flower-pots,  screens 
and  cabinets;  nay,  she  may  dance  like  Senipro- 
nia*  herself,  and  yet  we  shall  insist  that  she 
may  have  been  very  badly  educated.  I  am  far 
from  meaning  to  set  no  value  whatever  on  these 
qualifications ;  they  are  all  of  them  elegant,  and 
many  of  them  properly  tend  to  the  perfecting 
of  a  polite  education.  These  things  in  their 
measure  and  degree  may  be  done,  but  there  are 
others  which  should  not  be  left  nndone.  Many 
things  are  becoming,  but  ‘one  thing  is  needful.’ 
Besides,  as  the  world  seems  to  be  fully  apprised 
of  the  value  of  whatever  tends  to  embellish  life, 
there  is  less  occasion  here  to  insist  on  its  impor¬ 
tance. 

But  though  a  well-bred  youug  lady  may  law¬ 
fully  learn  most  of  the  fashionable  arts  ;  yet,  let 
me  ask,  does  it  seem  to  be  the  true  end  of  educa¬ 
tion  to  make  women  of  fashion  dancers,  singers, 
players,  painters,  actresses,  sculptors,  gilders, 
varnishers,  engravers,  and  embroiderers  1  Most 
men  are  commonly  destined  to  some  profession, 
and  their  minds  are  consequently  turned  each 
to  its  respective  object.  Would  it  not  be  strange 
if  they  were  called  out  to  exercise  their  profes¬ 
sion,  or  to  set  up  their  trade,  with  only  a  little 
general  knowledge  of  the  trades  and  profes¬ 
sions  of  all  other  men,  and  without  any  previous 
definite  application  to  their  own  peculiar  call¬ 
ing  ?  The  professions  of  ladies,  to  which  the 
bent  of  their  instruction  should  be  turned,  is 
that  of  daughters,  wives,  mothers,  and  mistresses 
of  families.  They  should  be  therefore  trained 
with  a  view  to  these  several  conditions,  and  be 
*  See  Cataline’s  Conspiracy, 


furnished  with  a  stock  of  ideas,  and  principles, 
and  qualifications  and  habits,  ready  to  be  applied 
and  appropriated,  as  occasion  may  demand,  to 
each  of  these  respective  situations.  For  though 
the  arts  which  merely  embellish  life  must  claim 
admiration  ;  yet  when  a  man  of  sense  comes  to 
marry,  it  is  a  companion  whom  he  wants,  and 
not  an  artist.  It  is  not  merely  a  creature  who 
can  paint,  and  play,  and  sing,  and  draw,  and 
dress,  and  dance ;  it  is  a  being  who  can  com¬ 
fort  and  counsel  him;  one  who  can  reason,  and 
reflect,  and  feel  and  judge,  and  discourse  and 
discriminate ;  one  who  can  assist  him  in  his 
affairs,  lighten  his  cares,  sooth  his  sorrows, 
purify  his  joys,  strengthen  his  principles,  and 
educate  his  chidren. 

Almost  any  ornamental  acquirement  is  a  good 
thing,  when  it  is  not  the  best  thing  a  woman 
has  ;  and  talents  are  admirable  when  not  made 
to  stand  proxy  for  virtues.  The  w’riter  of  these 
pages  is  intimately  acquainted  with  several 
ladies  who,  excelling  most  of  their  sex  in  the  art 
of  music,  but  excelling  them  also  in  prudence 
and  piety,  find  little  leisure  or  temptation  amidst 
the  delights  and  duty  of  a  large  and  lovely 
family,  for  the  exercise  of  this  charming  talent  j 
they  regret  that  so  much  of  their  own  youth 
was  wasted  in  acquiring  an  art  which  can  be 
turned  to  so  little  account  in  married  life,  and  are 
now  conscientiously  restricting  their  daughters 
in  the  portion  of  time  allotted  to  its  acquisition. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  discourage  the  cultivation 
of  any  existing  talent ;  but  ma)^  it  not  be  ques  ■ 
tioned  of  the  fond  believing  mother,  whether 
talents  like  the  spirits  of  Owen  Glendower, 
though  conjured  by  parental  partiality  with  ever 
so  loud  a  voice, 

Yet  will  they  come  when  you  do  call  for  them  t 

That  injudicious  praettee,  therefore,  cannot 
be  too  much  discouraged  of  endeavouring  to 
create  talents  which  do  not  exist  in  nature. 
That  their  daughters  shall  learn  every  thing,  is 
so  general  a  maternal  maxim,  that  even  unborn 
daughters,  of  whose  expected  abilities  and  con¬ 
jectured  faculties,  it  is  presumed,  no  very  ac¬ 
curate  judgment  can  previously  be  formed,  are 
yet  predestined  to  this  universality  of  accom¬ 
plishments.  This  comprehensive  maxim,  thus 
almost  universally  brought  into  practice,  at  once 
weakens  the  general  powers  of  the  mind,  by 
drawing  off  its  strength  into  too  great  a  variety 
of  directions  ;  and  cuts  up  time  into  too  many 
separate  portions,  by  splitting  it  into  such  aa 
endless  multiplicity  of  employments.  I  know 
that  I  am  treading  on  tender  ground  ;  but  I  can¬ 
not  help  thinking  that  the  restless  pains  we  take 
to  cram  up  every  little  vacuity  of  life,  by  crowd¬ 
ing  one  new  thing  upon  another,  rather  creates 
a  thirst  for  novelty  tlian  knowledge  ;  and  is  but 
a  well  disguised  contrivance  to  anticipate  the 
keeping  us  in  after-life  more  eflbctually  from 
conversing  with  ourselves.  The  care  taken  to 
prevent  ennui  is  but  a  creditable  plan  for  pro¬ 
moting  self-ignorance.  We  run  from  one  occu¬ 
pation  to  another  (I  speak  of  those  arts  to  which 
little  intellect  is  applied)  with  a  view  to  lighten 
the  pressure  of  time  ;  above  all  we  fly  to  them  to 
save  us  from  our  own  thoughts ;  we  fly  to  them 
to  rescue  us  from  ourselves ;  whereas  we  were 


330 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


thrown  a  little  more  on  our  own  hands,  we 
might  at  last  be  driven,  by  way  of  something  to 
do,  to  try  to  get  acquainted  with  our  own  hearts. 
But  it  is  only  one  part  of  the  general  inconsis¬ 
tency  of  the  human  character,  that  with  the 
person  of  all  others  we  best  love,  we  least  like 
to  converse  and  to  form  an  intimacy ;  I  mean 
ourselves.  But  though  our  being  less  absorbed 
by  this  busy  trifling,  which  dignifies  its  inanity 
with  the  imposing  name  of  occupation,  might 
render  us  somewhat  more  sensible  of  the  tedium 
of  life  ;  yet  might  not  this  very  sensation  tend  to 
quicken  our  pursuit  of  a  better  ?  For  an  awful 
thought  here  suggests-itself.  If  life  be  so  long  that 
we  are  driven  to  set  at  work  every  engine  to  pass 
away  the  tediousness  of  time  ;  how  shall  we  do  to 
getridofthe  tediousness  of eternity  ?  an  eternity 
in  which  not  one  of  the  acquisitions  which  life 
has  been  exhausted  in  acquiring,  will  be  of  the 
least  use  ?  Let  not  then  the  soul  be  starved  by 
feeding  it  on  such  unsubstantial  aliment,  for  the 
mind  can  be  no  more  nourished  by  these  empty 
husks  than  the  body  can  be  fed  with  ideas  and 
principles. 

Among  the  boasted  improvements  of  the  pre¬ 
sent  age,  none  affords  more  frequent  matter  of 
peculiar  exultation,  than  the  manifest  superiority 
in  the  employment  of  the  young  ladies  of  our 
time  over  those  of  the  good  house-wives  of  the 
last  eentury.  It  is  matter  of  general  triumph 
that  they  are  at  present  employed  in  learning 
the  polite  arts,  or  in  acquiring  liberal  aecom- 
plishments  ;  while  it  is  insisted  that  their  forlorn 
predecessors  wore  out  their  joyless  days  in 
adorning  the  mansion-house  with  hideous  hang¬ 
ings  of  sorrowful  tapestry  and  disfiguring  tent- 
stitch.  Most  cheerf^ally  do  I  allow  to  the  reign¬ 
ing  modes  their  just  claim  of  boasted  superiority, 
for  certainty  there  no  piety  in  bad  taste.  Still, 
granting  all  the  deformity  of  the  exploded  orna¬ 
ments,  one  advantage  attended  them,  the  walls 
and  the  floors  were  not  vain  of  their  decorations  ; 
and  it  is  to  be  feared,  that  the  little  person  some¬ 
times  is.  The  flattery  bestowed  on  the  obsolete 
employments,  for  probably  even  they  had  their 
flatterers,  furnished  less  aliment  to  selfishness, 
and  less  gratification  to  vanity  :  and  the  occu¬ 
pation  itself  was  less  likely  to  impair  the  deli¬ 
cacy  and  modesty  of  the  sex,  than  the  exqui¬ 
site  cultivation  of  personal  accomplishments  or 
personal  decorations  ;  and  every  mode  which 
keeps  down  vanity  and  keeps  back  self,  has  at 
least  a  moral  use.  For  while  we  admire  the 
rapid  movement  of  the  elegant  fingers  of  a  young 
lad}  bhsied  in  working  or  painting  her  ball 
dress,  we  cannot  lielp  suspecting  that  her  alac¬ 
rity  may  be  a  little  stimulated  by  the  animating 
idea  how  very  well  she  shall  look  in  it.  Nor 
was  the  industrious  matron  of  Ithaca  more 
soothed  at  her  solitary  loom  with  the  sweet  re¬ 
flection  that  by  her  labour  she  was  gratifying 
her  filial  and  conjugal  feelings,  than  the  in¬ 
dustrious  but  pleasure-loving  damsel  of  Britain 
is  gratified  by  the  anticipated  admiration  w’hich 
her  ingenuity  is  procuring  for  her  beauty. 

Might  not  this  propensity  be  a  little  checked, 
and  an  interesting  feeling  combined  witli  her 
industry,  were  the  fair  artist  habituated  to  ex¬ 
ercise  her  skill  in  adorning  some  one  else  rather 
than  herself?  For  it  will  add  no  lightness  to  the 


lightest  head,  nor  vanity  to  the  vainest  heart,  to 
solace  her  labours  in  reflecting  how  exceedingly 
the  gown  she  is  working  will  become  her  mo¬ 
ther.  This  suggestion,  trifling  as  it  may  seem, 
of  habituating  young  ladies  to  exercise  their 
taste  and  devote  their  leisure,  not  to  the  deco¬ 
ration  of  their  own  persons,  but  to  the  service 
of  those  to  whom  they  are  bound  by  every  ten¬ 
der  tie  of  love  and  duty,  would  not  only  help  to 
repress  vanity,  but  by  thus  associating  the  idea 
ofindustry  with  that  of  filial  tenderness,  would 
promote,  while  it  gratified  some  of  the  best 
affections  of  the  heart.  The  Romans  (and  it  is 
mortifying  on  the  subject  of  Christian  educa¬ 
tion  to  be  driven  so  often  to  refer  to  the  superi¬ 
ority  of  pagans)  were  so  well  aware  of  the  im¬ 
portance  of  keeping  up  a  sense  of  family  fond¬ 
ness  and  attachment  by  the  very  same  means 
which  promoted  simple  and  domestic  employ¬ 
ment,  that  no  citizen  of  note  ever  appeared  in 
public  in  any  garb  but  what  was  spun  by  his 
wife  and  daughter  ;  and  this  virtuous  passion 
was  not  confined  to  the  early  days  of  republican 
severity,  but  even  in  all  the  pomp  and  luxury 
of  imperial  power.  Augustus  preserved  in  his 
own  family  this  simplicity  of  private  manners. 

Let  me  be  allowed  to  repeat,  that  I  mean  not 
with  preposterous  praise  to  descant  on  the  igno¬ 
rance  or  the  prejudices  of  past  times,  nor  absurdly 
to  regret  the  vulgar  system  of  education  which 
rounded  the  little  circle  of  female  acquirements 
within  the  limits  of  the  sampler  and  the  receipt 
book.  Yet  if  a  preference  almost  exclusive  was 
then  given  to  what  was  merely  useful,  a  pre¬ 
ference  almost  equally  exclusive  also  is  now 
assigned  to  what  is  merely  ornamental.  And  it 
must  be  owned,  that  if  the  life  of  a  young  lady, 
formerly  too  much  resembled  the  life  of  a  con¬ 
fectioner,  it  now  too  much  resembles  that  of  an 
actress ;  the  morning  is  all  rehearsal  and  the 
evening  is  all  preformance.  And  those  who 
are  trained  in  this  regular  routine,  who  are  in 
strueted  in  order  to  be  exhibited,  soon  learn  to 
feel  a  sort  of  impatience  in  those  societies  in 
which  their  kind  of  talents  are  not  likely  to  be 
brought  into  play ;  the  task  of  an  auditor  be¬ 
comes  dull  to  her  who  has  been  used  to  be  a 
performer.  Esteem  and  kindness  become  but 
cold  substitutes  to  one  who  has  been  fed  on 
plaudits  and  pampered  with  acclamations  ;  and 
the  excessive  commendation  which  the  visiter 
is  expected  to  pay  for  his  entertainment  not 
only  keeps  alive  the  flame  of  vanity  in  the  artist 
by  constant  fuel,  but  is  not  seldom  exacted  at  a 
price  which  a  veracity  at  all  strict  w’ould  grudge. 
The  misfortune  is,  when  a  whole  circle  are  ob¬ 
liged  to  be  competitors  who  shall  flatter  most, 
it  is  not  easy  to  be  at  once  very  sincere  and 
very  civil.  And  unfortunately,  while  the  age  is 
become  so  knowing  and  so  fastidious,  that  if  a 
young  lady  does  not  play  like  a  public  perfor¬ 
mer,  no  one  thinks  her  worth  attending ;  yet  if 
she  does  so  excel,  some  of  the  soberest  of  the 
admiring  circle  feel  a  strong  alloy  to  their  plea¬ 
sure,  on  reflecting  at  what  a  vast  expense  of 
time  this  perfection  probably  must  have  beea 
acquired.* 

*  Tliat  accurate  judge  of  the  human  heart,  tnadame 
de  Maintenon,  was  so  well  aware  of  the  danger  result¬ 
ing  from  some  kinds  of  excellence,  that  after  the  young 


IxiE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


331 


The  study  of  the  fine  arts,  indeed,  is  forced 
on  young  persons,  with  or  without  genius  (fa¬ 
shion,  as  was  said  before,  having  swallowed  up 
that  distinction)  to  such  excess,  as  to  vex,  fa¬ 
tigue,  and  disgust  those  who  have  no  talents, 
and  to  determine  them,  as  soon  as  they  become 
free  agents,  to  abandon  all  such  tormenting  ac¬ 
quirements.  While  by  this  incessant  compul¬ 
sion  still  more  pernicious  effects  are  often  pro¬ 
duced  on  those  who  actually  possess  genius  ;  for 
the  natural  constant  reference  in  the  mind  to 
that  public  performance  for  which  they  are  se¬ 
dulously  cultivating  this  talent,  excites  the  same 
passions  of  envy,  vanity,'and  competition  in  the 
dilettanti  performers,  as  might  be  supposed  to 
stimulate  professional  candidates  for  fame  and 
profit  at  public  games  and  theatrical  exhibitions. 
Is  this  emulation,  is  this  spirit  of  rivalry,  is  this 
hunger  after  public  praise  the  temper  which 
prudent  parents  would  wish  to  excite  and  foster  ? 
Besides,  in  any  event  the  issue  is  not  favourable 
if  the  young  performers  are  timid ;  they  disgrace 
themselves  and  distress  their  friends ;  if  courage¬ 
ous,  their  boldness  offends  still  more  than  their 
bad  performance.  Shall  they  then  be  studiously 
brought  into  situations  in  which  failure  discre¬ 
dits  and  success  disgusts  ? 

May  I  venture,  without  being  accused  of  pe¬ 
dantry,  to  conclude  this  chapter  with  another 
reference  to  pagan  examples?  The  Hebrews, 
Egyptians,  and  Greeks,  believed  that  they  could 
more  effectually  teach  their  youth  maxims  of 
virtue,  by  calling  in  the  aid  of  music  and  poetry; 
these  maxims,  therefore,  they  put  into  verses, 
and  these  verses  were  set  to  the  most  popular 
and  simple  tunes,  which  the  children  sang ;  thus 
was  their  love  of  goodness  excited  by  the  very 
instrument  of  their  pleasure ;  and  the  senses,  the 
taste,  and  the  imagination,  as  it  were,  pressed 
into  the  service  of  religion,  and  morals.  Dare  I 
appeal  to  Christian  parents,  if  these  arts  are 
commonly  used  by  them,  as  subsidiary  to  reli¬ 
gion,  and  to  a  system  of  morals  much  more 
Worthy  of  every  ingenious  aid  and  association, 
which  might  tend  to  recommend  them  to  the 
youthful  mind  ?  Dare  I  appeal  to  Christian  pa¬ 
rents,  whether  music,  which  fills  up  no  trifling 
portion  of  their  daughter’s  time,  does  not  fill  it 
without  any  moral  end,  or  even  without  any 
specific  object  ?  Nay,  whether  some  of  the  fa¬ 
vourite  songs  of  polished  societies  are  not  ama¬ 
tory,  are  not  Anacreontic,  more  than  quite  be¬ 
come  the  modest  lips  of  innocent  youth  and  de¬ 
licate  beauty? 


CHAP.  V. 

On  the  religious  employjnent  of  time. — On  the 
manner  in  which  holydays  are  passed. — Self, 
ishness  and  inconsideration  considered. — Dan¬ 
gers  arising  from  the  world. 

There  are  many  well-disposed  parents,  who, 
while  they  attend  to  these  fashionable  acquire- 

adies  of  the  court  of  Louis  Quatorze  had  distinguislied 
hemselves  hy  the  perforinaiice  of  some  draitiatic  piecoa 
®f  Racine,  wlien  her  friends  told  her  how  admiratily 
they  had  played  their  parts  ;  ‘  Yes,’  answered  this  wise 
woman,  ‘  so  admirably  that  they  shall  never  play  again.’ 


ments,  do  not  neglect  to  infuse  religious  know 
ledge  into  the  minds  of  their  children  ;  and^ 
having  done  this,  are  bu.t  too  apt  to  conclude 
that  they  have  done  all,  and  have  fully  acquitted 
themselves  of  the  important  duties  of  education. 
For  having,  as  they  think,  sufficiently  grounded 
their  daughters  in  religion,  they  do  not  scruple 
to  allow  them  to  spend  almost  the  whole  of  their 
time  exactly  like  the  daughters  of  worldly  peo¬ 
ple.  Now,  though  it  be  one  great  point  gained, 
to  have  imbued  their  young  minds  with  the  best 
knowledge,  the  work  is  not  therefore  by  any 
means  accomplished.  ‘  What  do  ye  more  than 
others  ?’  is  a  question  which  in  a  more  extend¬ 
ed  sense,  religious  parents  must  be  prepared  to 
answer. 

Such  parents  should  go  on  to  teach  children 
the  religious  use  of  time,  the  duty  of  consecra¬ 
ting  to  God  every  talent,  every  faculty,  every 
possession,  and  of  devoting  their  whole  lives  to 
his  glory.  People  of  piety  should  be  more  pe¬ 
culiarly  on  their  guard  against  a  spirit  of  idle¬ 
ness,  and  a  slovenly  habitual  wasting  of  time, 
because  this  practice,  by  not  assuming  a  palpa¬ 
ble  shape  of  guilt,  carries  little  alarm  to  the  con¬ 
science.  Even  religious  characters  are  in  dan¬ 
ger  on  this  side  ;  for  not  allowing  themselves  to 
follow  the  world  in  its  excesses  and  diversions, 
they  have  consequently  more  time  upon  their 
hands ;  and  instead  of  dedicating  the  time  so 
rescued  to  its  true  purposes,  they  sometimes 
make  as  it  were  compensation  to  themselves  for 
their  abstinence  from  dangerous  places  of  pub¬ 
lic  resort,  by  an  habitual  frivolousness  at  home; 
by  a  superabundance  of  unprofitable  small-talk, 
idle  reading,  and  a  quiet  and  dull  frittering 
away  of  time.  Their  day  perhaps  has  been 
more  free  from  actual  evil :  but  it  will  often  be 
discovered  to  have  been  as  unproductive  as  that 
of  more  worldly  characters ;  and  they  will  be 
found  to  have  traded  to  as  little  purpose  with 
their  master’s  talents.  But  a  Christian  must 
take  care  to  keep  his  conscience  peculiarly  alive 
to  the  unapparent,  though  formidable  perils  of 
unprofitableness. 

To  these,  and  to  -all,  the  author  would  ear¬ 
nestly  recommend  to  accustom  their  children  to 
pass  at  once  from  serious  business  to  active  and 
animated  recreation  ;  they  should  carefully  pre¬ 
serve  them  from  those  long  and  torpid  intervals 
between  both,  that  languid  indolence  and  spirit¬ 
less  trifling  that  merely  getting  rid  of  the  day 
without  stamping  on  it  any  characters  of  active 
goodness  or  of  intellectual  profit,  that  inane 
drowsiness  which  wears  out  such  large  portions 
of  life  in  both  young  and  old.  It  has,  indeed, 
passed  into  an  aphorism,  that  activity  is  neces¬ 
sary  to  virtue,  even  among  those  who  are  not 
apprised  that  it  is  also  indispensable  to  happi¬ 
ness.  So  far  are  many  parents  from  being  sen¬ 
sible  of  this  truth,  that  vacations  from  school  are 
not  merely  allowed,  but  appointed  to  pass  away 
in  wearisome  sauntering  and  indeterminate  idle¬ 
ness,  and  this  is  done  by  erring  tenderness,  by 
way  of  converting  the  holydays  into  pleasure  ! 
Nay  the  idleness  is  specifically  made  over  to  the 
child’s  mind,  as  the  strongest  expression  of  the 
fondness  of  the  parent !  A  dislike  to  learning 
is  thus  systematically  excited  by  preposterously 
erecting  indolence  into  a  reward  for  application 


332 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


And  the  promise  of  doing  nothing  is  held  out  as 
the  strongest  temptation,  as  well  as  the  best  re- 
compence,  for  having  done  well ! 

These,  and  such  like  errors  of  conduct  arise 
from  the  latent,  but  very  operative,  principle  of 
selfishness.  This  principle  is  obviously  promo¬ 
ted  by  many  habits  and  practice  seemingly  of 
little  importance ;  and  indeed  selfiishness  is  so 
commonly  interwoven  with  vanity  and  inconsi¬ 
deration  that  I  have  not  always  thought  it  ne¬ 
cessary  to  mark  the  distinction.  They  are  al¬ 
ternately  cause  and  effect ;  and  are  produced 
and  reproduced  by  reciprocal  operation.  They 
are  a  joint  confederacy,  who  are  mutually  pro¬ 
moting  each  other’s  strength  and  interest;  they 
are  united  by  almost  inseparable  ties,  and  the 
indulgence  of  either  is  the  gratification  of  all. 
Ill-Judging  tenderness  is  in  fact  only  a  concealed 
self-love,  which  cannot  bear  to  be  a  witness  to 
the  uneasiness  which  a  present  disappointment, 
or  difficulty,  or  vexation,  would  cause  to  a  dar¬ 
ling  child  ;  but  which  yet  does  not  scruple  by 
improper  gratification  to  store  up  for  it  future 
miseries,  which  the  child  will  infallibly  suffer, 
though  it  may  be  at  a  distant  period,  which  the 
selfish  mother  does  not  disturb  herself  by  anti¬ 
cipating,  because  she  thinks  she  may  be  saved 
the  pain  of  beholding. 

Another  principle,  something  different  from 
this,  though  it  may  probably  fall  under  the  head 
of  selfishness,  seems  to  actuate  some  parents  in 
their  conduct  towards  their  children  :  I  mean  a 
certain  slothfulness  of  mind,  a  love  of  ease  which 
mposes  a  voluntary  blindness,  and  makes  them 
not  choose  to  see  what  will  give  them  the  trou¬ 
ble  to  combat.  From  the  persons  in  question 
we  frequently  hear  such  expressions  as  these  : 
‘Children  will  bo  children.’ — ‘My  children,  I 
suppose  are  much  like  those  of  other  people,’ 
&c.  Thus  we  may  observe  this  dangerous  and 
delusive  principle  frequently  turning  off  with  a 
smile  from  the  first  indications  of  those  tempers, 
which  from  their  fatal  tendency  ought  to  be  very 
seriously  taken  up.  I  would  be  understood  now 
as  speaking  to  conscientious  parents,  who  con¬ 
sider  it  as  a  general  duty  to  correct  the  faults  of 
their  children,  but  who,  from  this  indolence  of 
mind,  are  extremely  backward  in  discovering 
such  faults,  and  are  not  very  well  pleased  when 
they  are  pointed  out  by  others.  Such  parents 
will  do  well  to  take  notice,  that  whatever  they 
eonsider  it  is  a  duty  to  correct,  must  be  equally 
a  duty  to  endeavour  to  Jind  out.  And  this  indo¬ 
lent  love  of  ease  is  the  more  to  bo  guarded 
against,  as  it  not  only  leads  parents  into  errone¬ 
ous  conduct  towards  their  children,  but  is  pecu¬ 
liarly  dangerous  to  themselves.  It  is  a  fault 
frequently  cherislied  from  ignorance  of  its  real 
character  ;  for  not  bearing  on  it  the  strong  fea¬ 
tures  of  deformity  which  mark  many  other  vices, 
but  on  tlie  contrary  bearing  some  resemblance 
to  virtue,  it  is  frequently  mistaken  for  Christian 
graces  of  patience,  meekness,  and  forbearance, 
than  which  nothing  can  be  more  opposite  ;  these 
proceeding  from  that  Christian  principle  of  self- 
denial,  the  other  from  self-indulgence. 

In  this  connexion  may  I  bo  permitted  to  re¬ 
mark  on  the  practice  at  the  tables  of  many  fa¬ 
milies  when  the  children  are  at  home  for  the 
liolydays  ?  Every  delicacy  is  forced  upon  them, 


with  the  tempting  remark,  ‘  that  they  cannot 
have  this  or  that  dainty  at  school.’  They  are 
indulged  in  irregular  hours  for  the  same  motive, 
‘because  they  cannot  have  that  indulgence  at 
school.’  Thus  the  natural  seeds  of  idleness, 
sensuality,  and  sloth,  are  at  once  cherished,  by 
converting  the  periodical  visit  at  home  into  a 
season  of  intemperance,  late  hours,  and  exemp¬ 
tion  from  learning.  So  that  children  are  habi¬ 
tuated,  at  an  age  when  lasting  associations  are 
formed  in  the  mind,  to  connect  the  idea  of  study 
with  thatof  hardship,ofhappiness  with  gluttony, 
and  of  pleasure  with  loitering,  feasting,  or  sleep¬ 
ing.  Would  it  not  be  better,  would  it  not  be 
kinder,  to  make  them  combine  the  delightful  idea 
of  home,  with  the  gratification  of  the  social  affec¬ 
tions,  the  fondness  of  maternal  love,  the  kind¬ 
ness,  and  warmth,  and  confidence  of  the  sweet 
domestic  attachments, 

— And  all  the  charities 
Of  father,  son  and  brother  ? 

I  will  venture  to  say,  that  those  listless  and 
vacant  days,  when  the  thoughts  have  no  precise 
object;  when  the  imagination  has  nothing  to 
shape  ;  when  industry  has  no  definitive  pursuit ; 
when  the  mind  and  the  body  have  no  exercise  : 
and  the  ingenuity  has  no  acquisition  either  to 
anticipate  or  to  enjoy,  are  the  longest,  the  dullest, 
and  the  least  happy,  which  children  of  spirit  and 
genius  ever  pass.  Yes!  it  is  a  few  short  but 
keen  and  lively  intervals  of  animated  pleasure, 
snatched  from  between  the  successive  labours 
and  duties  of  a  well-ordered,  busy  day,  looked 
forward  to  wuth  hope,  enjoyed  with  taste,  and 
recollected  without  remorse,  which,  both  to  men 
and  to  children,  yield  the  truest  portions  of  en¬ 
joyment.  O  snatch  your  offspring  from  adding 
to  the  number  of  those  objects  of  supreme  com¬ 
miseration,  who  seek  their  happiness  in  doing 
nothing  !  The  animal  may  be  gratified  by  it 
but  the  man  is  degraded.  Life  is  but  a  short 
day ;  but  it  is  a  working  day.  Activity  may 
lead  to  evil ;  but  inactivity  cannot  be  led  to 
good. 

Young  ladies  should  also  be  accustomed  to  set 
apart  a  fixed  portion  of  their  time,  as  sacred  to 
to  the  poor,*  whether  in  relieving,  instructing, 
or  working  for  them  ;  and  the  performance  of 
this  duty  must  not  be  left  to  the  event  of  con¬ 
tingent  circumstances,  or  operation  of  acciden¬ 
tal  impressions  ;  but  it  must  be  established  into 
a  principle,  and  wrought  into  a  habit.  A  specific 
portion  of  the  day  must  be  allotted  to  it,  on  which 
no  common  engagement  must  be  allowed  to  in¬ 
trench.  Those  periods  of  time,  which  are  not 
stated,  are  seldom  turned  to  their  proper  use  • 
and  nothing  short  of  a  regular  plan  (which  must 
however  be  sometimes  made  to  give  way  to  cir- 

*  It  would  be  a  noble  employment,  and  well  becoming 
the  tenderness  of  their  sex,  if  ladies  were  to  consider  the 
sii[)erintendance  of  the  poor  as  their  immediate  office. 
They  are  jx'ciiliarly  fitted  for  it,  for  from  their  own  ha¬ 
bits  of  life  they  are  more  intimately  acquainted  witli  do¬ 
mestic  wants  than  the  ottier  sex  ;  and  in  certain  install¬ 
er's  of  sickness  and  snfierings  peculiar  to  th.'inseh’es, 
they  should  be  exiiected  to  have  more  sympathy  ;  auA 
they  have  obviously  more  leisure.  There  is  a  certain 
reliijious  society,  distinguished  by  simplicity  of  dress, 
manners,  and  language,  whose  poor  are  is!rhaps  better 
taken  care  of  than  any  other:  and  one  reason  may  be, 
that  they  are  immediately  under  the  inspection  of  tlM. 
women. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


.333 


eumstances)  insures  the  conscientious  discharge 
of  any  duty.  This  will  help  to  furnish  a  powerful 
remedy  for  that  selfashness,  whose  strong  holds 
(the  truth  cannot  be  too  often  repeated)  it  is  the 
grand  business  of  Christian  education  perpe¬ 
tually  to  attack.  If  we  were  but  aware  how 
much  better  it  makes  ourselves  to  wish  to  see 
others  better  and  to  assist  in  making  them  so, 
we  should  find  that  the  good  done  would  be  of 
as  much  importance  by  the  habit  of  doing  good, 
which  it  would  induce  in  our  own  minds,  as  by 
its  beneficial  effects  on  the  objects  of  our  kind¬ 
ness.* 

In  what  relates  to  pecuniary  bounty,  it  will 
be  requiring  of  young  persons  a  very  small  sa- 
orifice,  if  you  teach  them  merely  to  give  that 
money  to  the  poor  which  properly  belongs  not 
to  the  child  but  to  the  parent ;  this  sort  of  charity 
commonly  subtracts  little  from  their  own  plea¬ 
sures,  especially  when  what  they  have  bestowed 
is  immediately  made  up  to  them  as  a  reward  for 
their  little  fit  of  generosity.  They  will,  on  this 
plan,  soon  learn  to  give,  not  only  for  praise  but 
for  profit.  The  sacrifice  of  an  orange  to  a  little 
girl,  or  feather  to  a  great  one,  given  at  the  ex¬ 
pense  of  their  own  gratification,  would  be  a  bet¬ 
ter  lesson  of  charity  on  its  right  ground,  than  a 
considerable  sum  of  money  to  be  presently  re¬ 
placed  by  tlie  parent.  And  it  would  be  habi¬ 
tuating  them  early  to  combine  two  ideas,  which 
ought  never  to  be  separated,  charity  and  self- 
denial. 

As  an  antidote  to  selfishness,  as  well  as  to 
pride  and  indolence,  they  should  also  very  early 
be  taught  to  perform  all  the  little  offices  in  their 
power  for  themselves  ;  they  should  be  accustom¬ 
ed  not  to  be  insolently  exercising  their  supposed 
prerogative  of  rank  and  wealth,  by  calling  for 
servants  where  there  is  no  real  occasion ;  above 
all  they  should  be  accustomed  to  consider  the 
domestics’  hours  of  meals  and  rest  as  almost 
sacred,  and  the  golden  rule  should  be  practicably 
and  uniformly  enforced,  even  on  so  trifling  an 
occasion  as  ringing  a  bell,  through  mere  wan¬ 
tonness,  or  self-love,  or  pride. 

To  check  the  growth  of  inconsiderateness, 
young  ladies  should  early  be  taught  to  discharge 
their  little  debts  with  punctuality.  They  should 
be  made  sensible  of  the  cruelty  of  obliging 
trades-people  to  call  often  for  the  money  due  to 
them ;  and  of  hindering  and  detaining  those 
whose  time  is  the  source  of  their  subsistence, 
under  the  pretence  of  some  frivolous  engage¬ 
ment,  which  ought  to  be  made  to  bend  to  the 
comfort  and  advantage  of  others.  They  should 
conscientiously  allow  sufficient  time  for  the  exe¬ 
cution  of  their  orders ;  and  with  a  Christian  cir¬ 
cumspection  be  careful  not  to  drive  work-peo¬ 
ple,  by  needless  hurry,  into  losing  their  rest,  or 
breaking  the  Sabbath.  I  have  known  a  lady 
give  her  gown  to  a  mantua-maker  on  the  Satur¬ 
day  night,  to  whom  she  would  not  for  the  world 
say  in  so  many  words,  ‘  You  must  work  through 

♦  In  addition  to  tho  instruction  of  tho  individual  poor, 
and  till!  sn|X!rintundance  of  cliarily  schools,  ladies  miyht 
be  hi"lily  useful  in  assisliiiK  the  parochial  clergy  in  the 
adoption  of  that  excellent  plan  for  tho  instruction  of  the 
ignorant,  suggested  by  tho  bishop  of  Durham  in  his  last 
admirable  charge  to  his  clergy.  It  is  with  pleasure  tho 
author  is  enabled  to  add  that  the  scheme  has  actually 
been  adopted  with  good  effect  in  that  extensive  diocese. 


the  whole  of  Sunday,’  while  she  was  virtually 
compelling  her  to  do  so,  by  an  injunction  to 
bring  the  gown  home  finished  on  the  Monday 
morning,  on  pain  of  her  displeasure.  To  these 
hardships  numbers  are  continually  driven  by 
good  natured  but  inconsiderate  employers.  As 
these  petty  exactions  of  inconsideration  furnish 
only  a  constant  aliment  to  selfishness,  let  not  a 
desire  to  counteract  them  be  considered  as  lead¬ 
ing  to  too  minute  details  ;  nothing  is  too  frivo¬ 
lous  for  animadversion,  which  tends  to  fix  a  bad 
habit  in  the  superior,  or  to  wound  tho  feelings 
of  the  dependant. 

Would  it  not  be  turning  those  political  doc¬ 
trines,  which  are  now  so  warmly  agitating,  to 
a  truly  moral  account,  and  give  the  best  prac¬ 
tical  answer  to  the  popular  declamations  on  the 
inequality  of  human  conditions,  were  the  rich 
carefully  to  instruct  their  children  to  soften  that 
inevitable  inequality  by  the  mildness  and  ten¬ 
derness  of  their  behaviour  to  their  inferiors  ? 
This  dispensation  of  God,  which  excites  so  many 
sinful  murmurs,  would,  were  it  thus  practically 
improved,  fend  to  establish  the  glory  of  that 
Being  who  is  now  so  often  charged  with  injus¬ 
tice  ;  for  God  himself  is  covertly  attacked  in 
many  of  the  invectives  against  Jaws,  govern¬ 
ments,  and  the  supposed  arbitrary  and  unjust 
disproportion  of  ranks  and  riches. 

This  dispensation,  thus  properly  improved, 
would,  at  once  call  into  exercise  the  generosity, 
kindness,  and  forbearance  of  the  superior  ;  and 
the  patience,  resignation,  and  gratitude  of  the 
inferior ;  and  thus,  while  we  were  vindicating 
the  ways  of  Providence,  we  should  be  accom¬ 
plishing  his  flan,  by  bringing  into  action  those 
virtues  of  both  classes,  which  would  have  little 
exercise  had  there  been  no  inequality  in  station 
and  fortune.  Those  more  exalted  persons  who 
are  so  zealously  contending  for  the  privileges  of 
rank  and  power,  should  never  lose  sight  of  the 
religious  duties  and  considerate  virtues  which 
the  possession  of  rank  and  power  imposes  on 
themselves;  duties  and  virtues  which  should  ever 
be  inseparable  from  those  privileges.  As  the 
inferior  classes  have  little  real  right  to  complain 
of  laws  in  this  respect,  let  the  great  be  watchful 
to  give  them  as  little  cause  to  complain  of  man¬ 
ners.  In  order  to  this,  let  them  carefully  train 
up  their  children  to  supply  by  individual  kind¬ 
ness  those  cases  of  hardship  which  laws  cannot 
reach  ;  let  them  obviate,  by  an  active  and  well- 
directed  compassion,  those  imperfections  of 
which  the  best  constructed  human  institutions 
must  unavoidably  partake;  and,  by  the  exercise 
of  private  bounty,  early  inculcated,  soften  those 
distresses  which  can  never  come  under  the  cog¬ 
nizance  of  even  the  best  government.  Let  them 
teach  tlieir  offspring,  that  the  charity  of  the 
rich  should  ever  be  subsidiary  to  the  public  pro¬ 
vision  in  those  numberless  instances  to  which 
the  most  equal  laws  cannot  apply.  By  such 
means  every  lesson  of  politics  may  be  convert¬ 
ed  into  a  lesson  of  piety  ;  and  a  spirit  of  con¬ 
descending  love  might  win  over  some  whom  a 
spirit  of  invective  will  only  Inflame. 

Among  the  instances  of  negligence  into  which 
oven  religiously  disposed  parents  and  teachers 
arc  apt  to  fall,  one  is,  that  they  are  not  suffi¬ 
ciently  attentive  in  finding  interesting  employ 


334 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ment  for  the  Sunday.  They  do  not  make  a 
scruple  of  sometimes  allowing  their  children  to 
fill  up  the  intervals  of  public  worship  with 
their  ordinary  employments  and  common  school 
exercises.  They  are  not  aware  that  they  are 
training  their  offspring  to  an  early  and  a  sys¬ 
tematic  profanation  of  the  Sabbath  by  this  cus¬ 
tom  ;  for  to  children,  their  tasks  are  their  busi¬ 
ness  ;  to  them  a  French  or  Latin  exercise  is  as 
serious  an  occupation  as  the  exercise  of  a  trade 
or  profession  is  to  a  man  ;  and  if  they  are  allowed 
to  think  the  one  right  now,  they  will  not  be 
brought  hereafter  to  think  that  the  other  is 
wrong :  for  the  opinions  and  practices  fixed  at 
this  important  season  are  not  easily  altered ; 
and  an  early  habit  becomes  rooted  into  an  in¬ 
veterate  prejudice.  By  this  oversight  even  the 
friends  of  religion  may  be  contributing  even¬ 
tually  to  that  abolition  of  the  Lord’s  day,  so 
devoutly  wished  and  so  indefatigably  laboured 
after  by  its  enemies,  as  the  desired  preliminary 
to  the  destruction  of  whatever  is  most  dear  to 
Christians.  What  obstruction  would  it  offer  to 
the  general  progress  of  youth,  if  all  their  Sunday 
exercises  (which,  with  reading,  composing, 
transcribing  and  getting  by  heart,  might  be  ex¬ 
tended  to  an  entertaining  variety)  were  adapted 
to  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  day  ? 

Those  whose  own  spirits  and  vigour  of  mind 
are  exhausted  by  the  amusements  of  the  world, 
and  who  therefore  grow  faint  and  languid  under 
the  continuance  of  serious  occupation,  are  not 
aware  how  different  the  case  is  with  lively  young 
people,  whose  spring  of  action  has  not  been 
broken  by  habitual  indulgence.  They  are  not 
aware  that  a  firm  and  well  disciplined  intellect 
wants,  comparatively,  little  amusement.  The 
mere  change  from  one  book  to  another,  is  a  re¬ 
lief  almost  amounting  to  pleasure.  But  then 
the  variation  must  be  judiciously  made,  so  that 
to  novelty  must  be  superadded  comparative 
amusement;  that  is,  the  gradation  should  be 
made  from  the  more  to  the  less  serious  book. 
If  care  be  thus  taken  that  greater  exertion  of 
the  mental  powers  shall  not  be  required,  when, 
through  length  of  application,  there  is  less  ability 
or  disposition  to  exert  them  ;  such  a  well  order¬ 
ed  distinction,  will  produce  on  the  mind  nearly 
the  same  effect  as  a  new  employment. 

It  is  not  meant  to  impose  on  them  such  rigor¬ 
ous  study  as  shall  convert  the  day  they  should 
be  taught  to  love  into  a  day  of  burdens  and  hard¬ 
ships,  or  to  abridge  them  of  such  innocent  en¬ 
joyments  as  are  compatable  with  a  season  of 
holy  rest  It  is  intended  merely  to  suggest  that 
there  should  be  a  marked  distinction  in  the  na¬ 
ture  of  their  employments  and  studies  ;  for  on 
the  observance  or  neglect  of  this,  as  was  before 
observed,  their  future  notions  and  principles  will 
in  a  good  degree  be  formed.  The  Gospel,  in 
rescuing  the  Lord’s  day  from  the  rigorous  bond¬ 
age  of  the  Jewish  sabbath,  never  lessened  the 
obligation  to  keep  it  holy,  nor  meant  to  sanc¬ 
tion  any  secular  occupation.*  Christianity  in 
lightening  its  austerities  has  not  defeated  the 
end  of  its  institution  ;  in  purifying  its  spirit,  it 
has  not  abolished  its  object. 

*  The  strongest  proof  of  this  observation  is  the  con¬ 
duct  of  tlie  first  Christians  who  had  tlteir  instructions 
immediately  from  the  Apostles. 


Though  the  author,  chiefly  writing  with  a 
view  to  domestic  instruction,  has  purposely 
avoided  entering  on  the  disputed  question 
whether  a  school  or  home  education  be  best ;  a 
question  which  perhaps  must  generally  be  de¬ 
cided  by  the  state  of  the  individual  home,  and 
the  state  of  the  individual  school ;  yet  she 
begs  leave  to  suggest  one  remark,  which  pecu¬ 
liarly  belongs  to  a  school  education ;  namely, 
the  general  habit  of  converting  the  Sunday  into 
a  visiting  day,  by  way  of  gaining  time  ;  as  if  the 
appropriate  instructions  of  the  Lord’s  day  were 
the  cheapest  sacrifice  which  could  be  made  to 
pleasure.  Even  in  those  schools  in  which  re¬ 
ligion  is  considered  as  an  indispensable  part  of 
instruction,  this  kind  of  instruction  is  almost  ex¬ 
clusively  limited  to  Sundays :  how  then  are 
girls  ever  to  make  any  progress  in  this  most 
important  article,  if  they  are  habituated  to  lose 
the  religious  advantages  of  the  school,  for  the 
sake  of  having  more  dainties  for  dinner  abroad  ? 
This  remark  cannot  be  supposed  to  apply  to  the 
visits  which  children  make  to  religious  parents, 
and  indeed  it  only  applies  to  those  cases  where 
the  school  is  a  conscientious  school,  and  the 
visit  a  trifling  visit. 

Among  other  subjects  which  engross  a  good 
share  of  worldly  conversation,  one  of  the  most 
attracting  is  beauty.  Many  ladies  have  often 
a  random  way  of  talking  rapturously  on  the 
general  importance  and  the  fascinating  power 
of  beauty,  who  are  yet  prudent  enough  to  be 
very  unwilling  to  let  their  own  daughters  find 
out  they  are  handsome.  Perhaps  the  contrary 
course  might  be  safer.  If  the  little  listener 
were  not  constantly  hearing  that  beauty  is  the 
best  gift,  she  would  not  be  so  vain  from  fancy¬ 
ing  herself  to  be  the  best  gifted.  Be  les^  soli¬ 
citous,  therefore,  to  conceal  from  her  a  secret, 
which,  with  all  your  watchfulness,  she  will  be 
sure  to  find  out,  without  your  telling ;  but  rather 
seek  to  lower  the  general  value  of  beauty  in  her 
estimation.  Use  your  daughter  in  all  things  to  a 
different  standard  from  that  of  the  world.  It  is 
not  by  vulgar  people  and  servants  only  that  she 
will  be  told  ofher  being  pretty.  She  will  be  hear¬ 
ing  it  not  only  from  gay  ladies,  but  from  grave 
men  ;  she  will  be  hearing  it  from  the  whole  world 
around  her.  The  antidote  to  the  present  danger 
is  not  now  to  be  searched  for  ;  it  must  be  already 
operating;  it  must  have  been  provided  for  in  the 
foundation  laid  in  the  general  principle  she  has 
been  imbibing  before  this  particular  temptation 
of  beauty  came  in  question.  And  this  general 
principle  is  an  habitual  indifference  to  flattery. 
She  must  have  learnt  not  to  be  intoxicated  by 
the  praise  of  the  world.  She  must  have  learnt 
to  estimate  things  by  their  intrinsic  worth, 
rather  than  by  the  world’s  estimation.  Speak 
to  her  with  particular  kindness  and  commenda¬ 
tion  of  plain  but  amiable  girls ;  mention  with 
compassion  such  as  are  handsome  but  ill-edu¬ 
cated  ;  speak  casually  of  some  who  were  once 
thought  pretty,  but  have  ceased  to  be  good ; 
make  use  of  the  arguments  arising  from  the 
shortness  and  uncertainty  of  beauty,  as  strong 
additional  reasons  for  making  that  which  is 
little  valuable  in  itself,  still  less  valuable.  As  it 
is  a  neto  idea  which  is  always  dangerous,  you 
may  thus  break  the  force  of  this  danger  by  al 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


335 


lowing"  her  an  early  introduction  to  this  inevi¬ 
table  knowledge,  which  would  become  more  in¬ 
teresting,  and  of  course  more  perilous  by  every 
additional  year  ;  and  if  you  can  guard  against 
that  fatal  and  almost  universal  error  of  letting 
her  see  that  she  is  more  loved  on  account  of  her 
beauty,  her  familiarity  with  the  idea  may  be 
less  dangerous  than  its  novelty  afterwards  would 
prove. 

But  the  great  and  constant  peril  to  which 
young  persons  in  the  higher  walks  of  life  are 
exposed,  is  the  prevailing  turn  and  spirit  of  ge¬ 
neral  conversation.  Even  the  children  of  better 
families,  who  are  well-instructed  when  at  their 
studies,  are  yet  at  other  times  continually  be¬ 
holding  the  WORLD  set  up  in  the  highest  and 
most  advantageous  point  of  view.  Seeing  the 
world  !  knowing  the  world  !  standing  well  with 
the  world  !  making  a  figure  in  the  world !  is 
spoken  of  as  including  the  whole  sum  and  sub¬ 
stance  of  human  advantages.  They  hear  their 
education  almost  exclusively  alluded  to  with  re¬ 
ference  to  the  figure  it  will  enable  them  to  make 
in  the  world.  In  almost  all  companies  they  hear 
all  that  the  world  admires  spoken  of  with  admi¬ 
ration  ;  rank  flattered,  fame  coveted,  power 
sought,  beauty  idolized,  money  considered  as 
the  one  thing  needful,  and  as  the  atoning  sub¬ 
stitute  for  the  want  of  all  other  things ;  profit 
held  up  as  the  reward  of  virtue,  and  worldly  es¬ 
timation  as  the  just  and  highest  prize  of  lauda¬ 
ble  ambition ;  and  after  the  very  spirit  of  the 
world  has  been  thus  habitually  infused  into  them 
all  the  week,  one  cannot  expect  much  effect 
from  their  being  coldly  and  customarily  told 
now  and  then  on  Sundays,  that  they  must  not 
‘  16ve  the  world,  nor  the  things  of  the  world.’ 
To  tell  them  once  in  seven  days  that  it  is  a  sin 
to  gratify  an  appetite  which  you  have  been 
whetting  and  stimulating  the  preceding  six,  is 
to  require  from  them  a  power  of  self-control, 
which  our  knowledge  of  the  impetuosity  of  the 
passions,  especially  in  early  age,  should  have 
taught  us  is  impossible. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  animadvert  on  the 
usual  misapplication  of  the  phrase,  ‘  knowing 
the  world  which  term  is  commonly  applied,  in 
the  way  of  panegyric,  to  keen,  designing,  sel¬ 
fish,  ambitious  men,  who  study  mankind  in  or¬ 
der  to  turn  thorn  to  their  own  account.  But  in 
the  true  sense  of  the  expression,  the  sense  which 
Christian  parents  would  wish  to  impress  on  their 
children,  to  know  the  world  is  to  know  its  emp¬ 
tiness,  its  vanity,  its  futility,  and  its  wickedness. 
To  know  it  is  to  despise  it,  to  be  on  our  guard 
against  it,  to  labour  to  live  above  it ;  and  in  this 
view  an  obscure  Christian  in  a  village  may  be 
said  to  know  the  world  better  than  a  hoary 
courtier  or  wily  politician.  For  how  can  they 
be  said  to  know  it  who  go  on  to  love  it,  to  be  led 
captive  by  its  allurements,  to  give  their  soul  in 
exchange  for  its  lying  promises? 

But  while  so  false  an  estimate  is  often  made 
in  fashionable  society  of  the  real  value  of  things  ; 
.hat  is,  while  Christianity  does  not  furnish  the 
standard,  and  human  opinion  does ;  while  the 
multiplying  our  desires  is  considered  as  a  symp¬ 
tom  of  elegance,  though  to  subdue  those  desires 
is  the  grand  criterion  of  religion;  while  mode- 
lation  is  beheld  as  indicating  a  poorness  of  spi¬ 


rit,  though  to  that  very  poverty  of  spirit  the 
highest  promise  of  the  gospel  is  assigned ;  while 
worldly  wisdom  is  sedulously  enjoined  by  world 
ly  friends,  in  contradiction  to  that  assertion 
‘  that  the  wisdom  of  the  world  is  foolishness  with 
God  while  the  praise  of  man  is  to  be  anxiously 
sought  in  opposition  to  that  assurance,  that  ‘  the 
fear  of  man  worketh  a  snare while  they  are 
taught  all  the  week,  that  ‘  the  friendship  of  the 
world’  is  the  wisest  pursuit ;  and  on  Sundays 
that  ‘  it  is  enmity  with  God  ;’  while  these  things 
are  so  (and  that  they  are  so  in  a  good  degree 
who  will  undertake  to  deny  ?)  may  we  not  ven¬ 
ture  to  affirm  that  a  Christian  education,  though 
it  be  not  an  impossible,  is  yet  a  very  difficult 
work  ? 


CHAP.  VI. 

ON  THE  EARLY  FORMING  OF  HABITS, 

On  the  necessity  of  forming  the  Judgment  to  di¬ 
rect  those  Habits. 

It  can  never  be  too  often  repeated,  that  one 
of  the  great  objects  of  education  is  the  forming 
of  habits.  I  may  be  suspected  of  having  recur 
red  too  often,  though  hitherto  only  incidentally, 
to  this  topic.  It  is,  however,  a  topic  of  such  im¬ 
portance,  that  it  will  be  useful  to  consider  it 
somewhat  more  in  detail ;  as  the  early  forming 
of  right  habits  on  sound  principles  seems  to  ba 
one  of  the  grand  secrets  of  virtue  and  happiness. 

The  forming  of  any  one  good  habit  seems  to 
be  effected  rather  by  avoiding  the  opposite  bad 
habit,  and  resisting  every  temptation  to  the  op¬ 
posite  vice,  than  by  the  mere  occasional  prac¬ 
tice  of  the  virtue  required. — Humility,  for  in¬ 
stance,  is  less  an  act  than  a  disposition  of  the 
mind.  It  is  not  so  much  a  single  performance 
of  some  detached  humble  deed,  as  an  incessant 
watchfulness  against  every  propensity  to  pride. 
Sobriety,  is  not  a  prominent  ostensible  thing;  it 
evidently  consists  in  a  series  of  negations,  and 
not  of  actions.  It  is  a  conscientious  habit  of 
resisting  every  incentive  to  intemperance. — 
Meekness  is  best  attained  and  exemplified  by 
guarding  against  every  tendency  to  anger,  im¬ 
patience  and  resentment.  A  habit  of  attention 
and  application  is  formed  by  early  and  constant 
vigilance  against  a  trifling  spirit  and  a  wander¬ 
ing  mind.  A  habit  of  industry,  by  watching 
against  the  blandishments  of  pleasure,  the  waste 
of  small  portions  of  time,  and  the  onchroach- 
ment  of  small  indulgences. 

Now,  to  stimulate  us  to  an  earnest  desire  of 
working  any  or  all  of  these  habits  into  the  minds 
of  children,  it  will  be  of  importance  to  consider 
what  a  variety  of  uses  each  of  them  involves. 

To  take,  for  example,  the  case  of  moderation 
and  temperance.  It  would  seem  to  a  superficial 
observer  of  no  very  great  importance  to  acquire 
a  habit  of  self-denial  in  respect  either  to  the  ele 
gancies  of  decoration,  or  to  the  delicacies  of  the 
table,  or  to  the  common  routine  of  pleasure ; 
that  there  can  be  no  occasion  for  an  indifference 
to  luxuries  harmless  in  themselves;  and  na 
need  of  daily  moderation  in  those  persons  who 
are  possessed  of  alfluenco,  and  to  whom  there 


536 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


fore,  as  the  expense  is  no  object,  so  the  forbear¬ 
ance  is  thought  of  no  importance.  Those  acts 
of  self-denial,  I  admit,  when  contemplated  by 
themselves,  appear  to  be  of  no  great  value,  yet 
they  assume  high  importance,  if  you  consider 
what  it  is  to  have,  as  it  were,  dried  up  the  spring 
of  only  one  importunate  passion  ;  if  you  reflect 
after  any  one  such  conquest  is  obtained,  how 
easily,  comparatively  speaking,  it  is  followed  up 
by  others. 

How  much  future  virtue  and  self-government, 
in  more  important  things,  may  a  mother  there¬ 
fore  be  securing  to  that  child,  who  should  al¬ 
ways  remain  in  as  high  a  situation  as  she  is  in 
when  the  first  foundations  of  this  quality  are 
laying ;  but  should  any  reverse  of  fortune  take 
place  in  the  daughter,  how  much  integrity  and 
independence  of  mind  also  may  be  prepared  for 
her,  by  the  early  excision  of  superfluous  desires. 
She,  who  has  been  trained  to  subdue  these  pro¬ 
pensities,  will,  in  all  probability  be  preserved 
from  running  into  worthless  company,  merely 
for  the  sake  of  the  splendor  which  may  be  at¬ 
tached  to  it.  She  will  be  rescued  from  the  temp¬ 
tation  to  do  wrong  things  for  the  sake  of  enjoy¬ 
ments  from  which  she  cannot  abstain.  She  is 
delivered  from  the  danger  of  flattering  those 
whom  she  despises ;  because  her  moderate  mind 
and  well  ordered  desires  do  not  solicit  indul¬ 
gences  which  could  only  be  procured  by  mean 
compliances.  For  she  will  have  been  habituated 
to  consider  the  character  as  the  leading  circum¬ 
stance  of  attachment,  and  the  splendor  as  an 
accident,  which  may  or  may  not  belong  to  it ; 
but  which,  when  it  does,  as  it  is  not  a  ground 
of  merit  in  the  possessor,  so  it  is  not  to  be  the 
ground  of  her  attachment.  The  habit  of  self- 
control,  in  small  as  well  as  in  great  things  in¬ 
volves  in  the  aggregate  less  loss  of  pleasure,  than 
will  be  experienced  by  disappointments  in  the 
mind  ever  yielding  itself  to  the  love  of  present 
indulgences,  whenever  those  indulgences  should 
be  abridged  or  withdrawn. 

She  who  has  been  accustomed  to  have  an  early 
habit  of  restraint  exercised  over  all  her  appetites 
and  temper ;  she  who  has  been  used  to  set 
bounds  to  her  desires  as  a  general  principle, 
will  have  learned  to  withstand  a  passion  for 
dress  and  personal  ornaments  ;  and  the  woman 
who  has  conquered  this  propensity  has  sur¬ 
mounted  one  of  the  most  domineering  tempta¬ 
tions  which  assail  the  sex.  While  this  seemingly 
little  circumstance,  if  neglected,  and  the  oppo¬ 
site  habit  formed,  may  be  the  first  step  to  every 
successive  error,  and  every  consequent  distress. 
Those  women  who  are  ruined  by  seduction  in 
the  lower  classes,  and  those  who  are  made  mi¬ 
serable  by  ambitious  marriages  in  the  higher, 
will  be  more  frequently  found  to  owe  their  mi¬ 
sery  to  an  ungoverned  passion  for  dress  and 
show,  than  to  motives  more  apparently  bad.  An 
habitual  moderation  in  this  article,  growing  out 
of  a  pure  self-denying  principle,  and  not  arising 
from  the  affectation  of  a  singularity,  which  may 
have  more  pride  in  it,  than  others  feel  in  the  in¬ 
dulgence  of  any  of  the  things  which  this  singu¬ 
larity  renounces,  includes  many  valuable  ad¬ 
vantages.  Modesty,  simplicity,  humility,  econo¬ 
my,  prudence,  liberality,  charity,  are  almost  in¬ 
separably,  and  not  very  remotely,  connected  j 


with  an  habitual  victory  over  personal  vanity 
and  a  turn  to  personal  expense.  The  inferior 
and  less  striking  virtues  are  the  smaller  pearls, 
which  serve  to  string  and  connect  the  great  ones. 

An  early  and  unremitting  zeal  in  forming  the 
mind  to  a  habit  of  attention  not  only  produces 
the  outward  expression  of  good  breeding,  as  one 
of  its  incidental  advantages,  but  involves,  or  ra¬ 
ther  creates,  better  qualities  than  itself ;  while 
vacancy  and  inattention  not  only  produce  vulgar 
manners,  but  are  usually  the  indication,  if  not 
of  an  ordinary,  yetof  a  neglected  understanding. 
To  the  habitually  inattentive,  books  offer  little 
benefit;  company  affords  little  improvement; 
while  a  self-imposed  attention  sharpens  observa¬ 
tion,  and  creates  a  spirit  of  inspection  and  in¬ 
quiry,  which  often  lifts  a  common  understand¬ 
ing  to  a  degree  of  eminence  in  knowledge,  sa¬ 
gacity,  and  usefulness,  which  indolent  or  negli¬ 
gent  genius  does  not  always  reach.  A  habit  of 
attention  exercises  intellect,  quickens  discern¬ 
ment,  multiplies  ideas,  enlarges  the  power  of 
combining  images  and  comparing  characters, 
and  gives  a  faculty  of  picking  up  improvement 
from  circumstances  the  least  promising ;  and 
gaining  instruction  from  those  slight  but  fre¬ 
quently  recurring  occasions,  which  the  absent 
and  the  negligent  turn  to  no  account.  Scarcely 
any  thing  or  person  is  so  unproductive  as  not 
to  yield  some  fruit  to  the  attentive  and  sedulous 
collector  of  ideas.  But  this  is  far  from  being 
the  highest  praise  of  such  a  person  ;  she,  who 
early  imposes  on  herself  a  habit  of  strict  atten¬ 
tion  to  whatever  she  is  engaged  in,  begins  to 
wage  early  war  with  wandering  thoughts,  use¬ 
less  reveries,  and  that  disqualifying  train  of 
busy,  but  unprofitable  imaginations,  by  which 
the  idle  are  occupied,  and  the  absent  are  ab¬ 
sorbed.  She  who  keeps  her  intellectual  powers 
in  action,  studies  with  advantage,  herself,  her 
books,  and  the  world.  Whereas  they,  in  whose 
undisciplined  minds  vagrant  thoughts  have  been 
suffered  to  range  without  restriction  on  ordinary 
occasions,  will  find  they  cannot  easily  call  them 
home,  when  wanted  to  assist  in  higher  duties. 
Thoughts,  which  are  indulged  in  habitual  wan¬ 
dering,  will  not  be  readily  restrained  in  the  so¬ 
lemnities  of  public  worship  or  of  private  devo¬ 
tion. 

But  in  speaking  of  the  necessary  habits,  it 
must  be  noticed  that  the  habit  of  unremitting 
industry,  which  is  indeed  closely  connected  witli 
those  of  which  we  have  just  made  mention,  can¬ 
not  be  too  early  or  too  sedulously  formed.  Let 
not  the  sprightly  and  the  brilliant  reject  Indus 
try  as  a  plebian  quality,  as  a  quality  to  be  exer¬ 
cised  only  by  those  who  have  their  bread  to  earn, 
or  their  fortune  to  make.  But  let  them  respect 
it,  and  adopt  it  as  an  habit  to  wliicli  many  ele¬ 
vated  characters  have,  in  a  good  measure,  owed 
their  distinction.  The  masters  in  science,  the 
leaders  in  literature,  legislators,  and  statesmen 
even  apostles  and  reformers  would  not,  at  least 
in  so  eminent  a  degree,  have  enlightened,  con¬ 
verted,  and  astonished  the  world,  had  they  not 
been  eminent  possessors  of  this  sober  and  unos¬ 
tentatious  quality.  It  is  the  quality  to  which 
the  immortal  Newton  modestly  ascribed  his  own 
vast  attainments ;  who,  when  he  was  asked  by 
what  means  he  had  been  enabled  to  make  that 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


337 


■  ouccessful  progress  which  struck  mankind  with 
wonder,  replied,  that  it  was  not  so  much  owing 
to  any  superior  strength  of  genius,  as  to  an  habit 
of  patient  thinking,  laborious  attention,  and  close 
application.  We  must,  it  is  true,  make  some 
deductions  for  the  humility  of  the  speaker.  Yet 
it  is  not  overrating  its  value,  to  assert  that  in¬ 
dustry  is  the  sturdy  and  hard  working  pioneer, 
who  by  persevering  labour  removes  obstructions, 
overcomes  difficulties,  clears  intricacies,  and 
thus  facilitates  the  march,  and  aids  the  victories 
of  genius. 

An  exact  habit  of  economy  is  of  the  same  fa¬ 
mily  with  the  two  foregoing  qualities  ;  and  like 
them  is  the  prolific  parent  of  a  numerous  off¬ 
spring  of  virtues.  For  want  of  the  early  ingraft¬ 
ing  of  this  practice  on  its  only  legitimate  stock 
— a  sound  principle  of  integrity — may  we  not, 
in  too  many  instances  in  subsequent  life,'almost 
apply  to  the  fatal  effects  of  domestic  profuseness, 
what  Tacitus  observes  of  a  lavish  profligacy  in 
the  expenditure  of  public  money — that  an  ex¬ 
chequer  which  is  exhausted  by  prodigality  will 
probably  be  replenished  by  crimes. 

Those  who  are  early  trained  to  scrupulous 
punctuality  in  the  division  of  time,  and  an  ex¬ 
actness  to  the  hours  of  their  childish  business, 
will  have  learnt  how  much  the  economy  of  time 
is  promoted  by  habits  of  punctuality,  when  they 
shall  enter  on  the  more  important  business  of 
life.  By  getting  one  employment  cleared  away, 
exactly  as  the  succeeding  employment  shall  have 
a  claim  to  be  despatched,  they  will  learn  two 
things  ;  that  one  business  must  not  trench  on 
the  time  which  belongs  to  another  business,  and 
to  set  a  value  on  those  odd  quarters  of  an  hour, 
and  even  minutes  which  are  so  often  lost  between 
successive  duties,  for  want  of  calculation,  punctu¬ 
ality  and  arrangement. 

A  habit  of  punctuality  is  perhaps  one  of  the 
earliest  which  the  youthful  mind  may  be  made 
capable  of  receiving  ;  and  it  is  so  connected  with 
trutli,  with  morals,  and  with  the  general  good 
government  of  the  mind,  as  to  render  it  impor¬ 
tant  that  it  should  be  brought  into  exercise  on 
the  smallest  occasions.  But  I  refrain  from  en¬ 
larging  on  this  point  as  it  will  be  discussed  in 
another  part  of  this  work.* 

It  requires  perhaps  still  more  sedulity  to  lay 
early  the  first  foundation  of  those  interior  habits 
which  are  grounded  on  watchfulness  against 
such  faults  as  do  not  often  betray  themselves  by 
breaking  out  into  open  excess ;  and  which  there 
would  therefore  bo  less  discredit  in  judging.  It 
should  more  particularly  make  a  part  of  the  first 
elements  of  education,  to  try  to  infuse  into  the 
mind  that  particular  principle  which  stands  in 
opposition  to  those  evil  tempers,  to  which  the 
individual  pupil  is  more  immediately  addicted. 
As  it  cannot  be  followed  up  too  closely,  so  it  can 
hardly  be  set  about  too  early.  May  we  not  bor¬ 
row  an  important  illustration  of  this  truth  from 
the  fabulous  hero  of  the  Grecian  story  7  He  who 
was  one  day  to  perform  exploits,  which  should 
fill  the  earth  with  his  renown,  began  by  con- 
rjuering  in  his  infancy  ;  and  it  was  a  prelimina¬ 
ry  to  his  delivering  the  world  from  monsters  in 
his  riper  years,  that  he  should  sot  out  by  strang¬ 
ling  the  serpents  in  his  cradle. 

*  See  Chapter  on  Definitions. 

VoL.  I.  Y 


It  must  however  be  observed  that  diligent  care 
is  to  be  exercised,  that,  together  with  the  gra¬ 
dual  formation  of  these  and  other  useful  habits, 
an  adequate  attention  be  employed  to  the  form¬ 
ing  of  the  judgment;  to  the  framing  such  a 
sound  constitution  of  mind,  as  shall  supply  the 
power  of  directing  all  the  faculties  of  the  under¬ 
standing,  and  all  the  qualities  of  the  heart,  to 
keep  their  proper  places  and  due  bounds,  to  ob¬ 
serve  their  just  proportions,  and  maintain  their 
right  station,  relation,  order,  and  dependence. 

For  instance,  while  the  young  person’s  mind 
is  trained  to  those  habits  of  attention  and  indus¬ 
try,  which  we  have  been  recommending  ;  great 
care  must  be  used  that  her  judgment  be  so  en¬ 
lightened  as  to  enable  her  to  form  sound  notions 
with  regard  to  what  is  really  worthy  her  attentive 
pursuit,  without  which  discriminating  power, 
application  would  only  be  actively  misemploy¬ 
ed  ;  and  ardour  and  industry  would  but  serve 
to  lead  her  more  widely  from  the  right  road  of 
truth.  Without  a  correct  judgment  she  would 
be  wasting  her  activity  on  what  was  frivolous,  or 
exhausting  it  on  what  was  mischievous.  With¬ 
out  that  ardour  and  activity  we  have  been  re¬ 
commending  she  might  only  be  ‘  weaving  spi¬ 
ders’  webs ;’  with  it,  if  destitute  of  judgment, 
she  would  be  ‘  hatching  cockatrices’  eggs.’ 

Again,  if  the  judgment  be  not  well  informed 
as  to  the  nature  and  true  ends  of  temperance, 
the  ill-instructed  mind  might  be  led  into  a  su¬ 
perstitious  reliance  on  the  merits  of  self-denial ; 
and  resting  in  the  letter  of  a  few  outward  ob¬ 
servances,  without  any  consideration  of  the  spirit 
of  this  Christian  virtue,  might  be  led  to  infer  that 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  was  the  abstinence  from 
‘  meat  and  drink,’  and  not  ‘  peace,  and  righteous- 
ness,  and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost.’ 

The  same  well  ordered  judgment  will  also  be 
required  in  superintending  and  regulating  the 
habit  of  economy  ;  for  extravagance  being  rather 
a  relative  than  a  positive  term,  the  true  art  of 
regulating  expense,  is  not  to  proportion  it  to  the 
fashion,  or  to  the  opinion  or  practice  of  others, 
but  to  our  own  station  and  to  our  own  circum¬ 
stances.  Aristippus  being  accused  of  extrava¬ 
gance  by  one  who  was  not  rich,  because  he  had 
given  six  crowns  for  a  small  fish,  said  to  him, 

‘  Why  what  would  you  have  given  ?’ — ‘  Twelve 
pence,’  answered  the  other.  ‘Then,’  replied 
Aristippus,  ‘  our  economy  is  equal ;  for  six 
crowns  are  no  more  to  me  tlian  twelve  pence 
are  to  you.’ 

It  is  the  more  important  to  enlighten  the  judg¬ 
ment  in  this  point,  because  so  predominant  is 
the  control  of  custom  and  fashion,  that  men  (f 
unfixed  principle  are  driven  to  borrow  other 
peoples’  judgment  of  them,  before  they  can  ven¬ 
ture  to  determine  whether  they  tliemsclves  are 
rich  or  happy.  These  vain  slaves  to  human 
opinion  do  not  so  often  say.  How  ought  I  to  act? 
or.  What  ought  I  to  spend  ?  as.  What  does  the 
world  think  I  ought  to  do?  What  dootliers  think 
I  ought  to  spend  ? 

Tliere  is  also  a  perpetual  call  (or  the  interfe¬ 
rence  of  the  judgment  in  settling  the  true  no¬ 
tion  of  what  meekness  is,  belbre  we  can  adopt 
the  practice  without  falling  into  error.  We  must 
apprize  those  on  whose  minds  wo  arc  inculca¬ 
ting  this  amiable  virtue,  of  the  broad  line  of  dis- 


338 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


tinctlon  between  Christian  meekness  and  that 
well-bred  tone  and  gentle  manner  which  passes 
current  for  it  in  the  world.  We  must  teach 
them  also  to  distinguish  between  an  humble  opi¬ 
nion  of  our  own  ability  to  judge,  and  servile  de¬ 
reliction  of  truth  and  principle,  in  order  to  pur¬ 
chase  the  poor  praise  of  indiscriminate  compli¬ 
ance  and  yielding  softness.  We  must  lead  them 
to  distinguish  accurately  between  honesty  and 
obstinacy,  between  perseverance  and  perverse¬ 
ness,  between  firmness  and  prejudice.  We  must 
convince  them  that  it  is  not  meekness,  but  base¬ 
ness,  when  through  a  dishonest  dread  of  offend¬ 
ing  the  prosperous,  or  displeasing  the  powerful, 
we  forbear  to  recommend,  or  refuse  to  support, 
those  whom  it  is  our  duty  to  recommend  or  to 
support.  That  it  is  selfishness  and  not  meek¬ 
ness,  when  through  fear  of  forfeiting  any  portion 
of  our  reputation,  or  risking  our  own  favour 
with  others,  we  refuse  to  bear  our  testimony  to 
uspected  worth  or  discredited  virtue.* 


CHAP.  VII. 

Filial  obedience  not  the  character  of  the  age, —  A 
comparison  with  the  preceding  age  in  this  re¬ 
spect. —  Those  who  cultivate  the  mind  advised 
to  study  the  nature  of  the  soil. —  Unpromising 
children  often  make  strong  characters. —  Teach¬ 
ers  too  apt  to  devote  their  pains  almost  exclu¬ 
sively  to  children  of  parts. 

Among  the  real  improvements  of  modern 
times,  and  they  are  not  a  few,  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  the  growth  of  filial  obedience  cannot  be  in¬ 
cluded.  Who  can  forbear  observing  and  regret¬ 
ting  in  a  variety  of  instances,  that  not  only  sons 
but  daughtefs  have  adopted  something  of  that 
jpirit  of  independence,  and  disdain  of  control, 
which  characterize  the  times  ?  And  is  it  not 
too  generally  obvious  that  domestic  manners  are 
not  slightly  tinctured  with  the  prevailing  hue 
of  public  principles  ?  The  rights  of  man  have 
been  discussed,  till  we  are  somewhat  wearied 
with  the  discussion.  To  these  have  been  oppo¬ 
sed,  as  the  next  stage  in  the  progress  of' illumi¬ 
nation,  and  with  more  presumption  than  pru¬ 
dence,  the  rights  of  women.  It  follows,  accord¬ 
ing  to  the  natural  progression  of  human  things, 
that  the  next  influx  of  that  irradiation  which 
our  enlighteners  are  pouring  in  upon  us,  will 
illuminate  the  world  with  grave  descants  on  the 
rights  of  youth,  the  rights  of  children,  the  rights 
of  babies  ! 

This  revolutionary  spirit  in  families  suggests 
|ie  remark,  that  among  the  faults  with  which 
it  had  been  too  much  the  fashion  of  recent  times 
to  load  the  memory  of  the  incomparable  Milton, 
ene  of  the  charges  brought  against  his  private 

•  To  thiscriminal  timidity,  madame  de  Maintenon,  a 
voman  of  parts  and  piety,  sacrificed  the  iiifrenioiis  and 
»nii:ilile  Racine;  wlioni,  wliile  she  liad  taste  eiiongli  to 
admire,  she  had  not  the  generosity  to  defend,  when  the 
royal  favonr  was  vvithdrawn  from  him.  A  still  darker 
•-loud  hangs  over  her  fame,  on  account  of  the  srdfish  neii- 
(frality  she  maintained  in  not  interposing  hergood  otfices 
between  the  resentments  of  the  king  and  the  sufferings 
of  the  Hiignnots.  It  is  a  heavy  aggravation  of  her  fault, 
that  she  lierself  had  been  educated  in  the  faith  of  these 
persecuted  people 


character  (for  with  his  political  character  wo 
have  here  nothing  to  do)  has  been,  that  he  was 
so  severe  a  father  as  to  have  compelled  his 
daughters,  after  he  was  blind,  to  read  aloud  to 
him,  for  his  sole  pleasure,  Greek  and  Latin  au¬ 
thors,  of  which  they  did  not  understand  a  word. 
But  this  is  in  fact  nothing  more  than  an  instance 
of  the  strict  domestic  regulations  of  the  age'  ia 
which  Milton  lived  ;  and  should  not  be  brought 
forward  as  a  proof  of  the  severity  of  his  indivi¬ 
dual  temper.  Nor  indeed  in  any  case  should  it 
ever  be  considered  as  an  hardship  for  an  affec¬ 
tionate  child  to  amuse  an  afflicted  parent,  even 
though  it  should  be  attended  with  a  heavier  sa¬ 
crifice  of  her  own  pleasure  than  that  produced 
in  the  present  instance.* 

Is  the  author  then  inculcating  the  harsh  doc¬ 
trine  of  paternal  austerity  ?  By  no  means.  It 
drives  flie  gentle  spirit  to  artifice,  and  the  rugged 
to  despair.  It  generates  deceit  and  cunning, 
the  most  hopeless  and  hateful  in  the  whole  cata¬ 
logue  of  female  failings.  Ungoverned  anger  in 
the  teacher,  and  inability  to  discriminate  be¬ 
tween  venial  errors  and  premeditated  offence, 
though  they  may  lead  a  timid  creature  to  hide 
wrong  tempers,  or  to  conceal  bad  actions,  will 
not  help  her  to  subdue  the  one  or  correct  the 
other.  The  dread  of  severity  will  drive  terrified 
children  to  seek,  not  for  reformation,  but  for  im¬ 
punity.  A  readiness  to  forgive  them  promotes 
frankness  :  and  we  should,  above  all  things,  en¬ 
courage  them  to  be  frank,  in  order  to  come  at 
their  faults.  They  have  not  more  faults  for  be¬ 
ing  open,  they  only  discover  more ;  and  to  know 
the  worst  of  the  character  we  have  to  regulate 
will  enable  us  to  make  it  better. 

Discipline,  however,  is  not  cruelty,  and  re¬ 
straint  is  not  severity.  A  discriminating  teach¬ 
er  will  appreciate  the  individual  character  oC 
each  pupil,  in  order  to  appropriate  her  manage¬ 
ment.  We  must  strengthen  the  feeble,  vvhila 
we  repel  the  bold.  We  cannot  educate  by  a  re¬ 
ceipt  ;  for  after  studying  the  best  rules,  and 
after  digesting  them  into  the  best  system,  much, 
must  depend  on  contingent  circumstances,  for 
that  which  is  good  may  yet  be  inapplicable^ 
The  cultivator  of  the  human  mind  must,  like 
the  gardener,  study  diversities  of  soil,  or  he  may 
plant  diligently  and  water  faithfully  with  little 
fruit.  The  skilful  labourer  knows  that  even 
where  the  surface  is  not  particularly  promising, 
there  is  often  a  rough  strong  ground  which  will 
amply  repay  the  trouble  of  breaking  it  up;  yet 
we  are  often  most  taken  with  a  soft  surface, 
though  it  conceal  a  shallow  depth,  because  it 
promises  present  reward  and  little  trouble.  But 
strong  and  pertinacious  tempers,  of  which  per- 

*  In  .spite  of  this  too  prevailing  spirit,  anrl  at  a  time 
wlien,  by  an  inverted  state  of  society,  sacrifices  of  ease 
and  pleasure  are  ratherexacted  by  children  from  parent*, 
tliaii  required  by  parents  from  children,  numlierless  in¬ 
stances  might  be  adduced  of  filial  aflTection  tntly  honour¬ 
able  to  the  present  period.  And  the  author  records  with 
pleasure,  that  she  has  seen  amiable  young  ladies  of  higli 
rank  conducting  the  steps  of  a  blind  but  illustrious  pa¬ 
rent  with  true  filial  fondness  ;  and  has  often  contempla¬ 
ted,  in  another  family,  the  interesting  attentions  of 
daughters  wh  i  were  both  liands  and  eyes  to  an  infirm 
and  nearly  blind  father.  It  is  hut  justice  to' repeat  that 
these  examples  are  not  taken  from  that  middle  rank  of 
life  which  Milton  filled,  but  from  the  daughters  of  tflo 
fiitfhesi  officers  in  the  state. 


THE  WORKS  OK  HANNAH  MORE. 


339 


haps  obstinacy  is  the  leading  vice,  under  skilful 
management  often  turn  out  steady  and  sterling 
characters ;  while  from  softer  clay  a  firm  and 
vigorous  virtue  is  but  seldom  produced.  Perti¬ 
nacity  is  often  principle,  which  wants  nothing 
but  to  be  led  to  its  true  object ;  while  the  uni¬ 
formly  yielding,  and  universally  accommodating 
spirit,  is  not  seldom  the  result  of  a  feeble  tone 
of  morals,  of  a  temper  eager  for  praise  and  act- 
ing  for  reward. 

But  these  revolutions  in  character  cannot  be 
effected  by  a  mere  education.  Plutarch  had  ob- 
served  that  the  medical  science  would  never  be 
brought  to  perfection  till  poisons  should  be  con¬ 
verted  into  physic.  What  our  late  improvers  in 
natural  science  have  dona  in  the  medical  world, 
by  converting  the  most  deadly  ingredients  into 
instruments  of  life  and  health,  Christianity  with 
a  sort  of  divune  alchymy  has  effected  in  the  mo¬ 
ral  world,  by  that  transmutation  which  makes 
those  passions  which  have  been  working  for  sin 
become  active  in  the  cause  of  religion.  The 
violent  temper  of  SauJ  of  Tarsus,  which  was 
‘  exceedingly  mad’  against  the  saints  of  God, 
did  God  see  fit  to  convert  into  that  burning  zeal 
which  enabled  Paul  the  apostle  to  labour  so  un¬ 
remittingly  for  the  conversion  of  the  gentile 
world.  Christianity  indeed  does  not  so  much 
give  us  new  affections  or  faculties,  as  give  a 
new  direction  to  those  we  already  have.  Slie 
clianges  that  sorrow  of  the  world  which  worketh 
death  into  ‘  godly  sorrow  which  worketh  repent¬ 
ance.’  She  changes  our  anger  against  the  per¬ 
sons  we  dislike  into  hatred  of  their  sins.  ‘  The 
fear  of  man  which  worketh  a  snare,’  she  trans¬ 
mutes  into  ‘  that  fear  of  God  which  worketh 
salvation.’  That  religion  does  not  extinguish 
the  passions,  but  only  alters  their  object,  the 
animated  expressions  of  the  fervid  apostle  con¬ 
firm — '  Yea,  wha.t  fearfulness ;  yea,  what  clear- 
ing  of  yourselves;  yea,  what  indignation;  yea, 
what  fear;  yea,  what  vehement  desire;  yea, 
what  zeal ;  yea,  what  revenge.* 

Thus,  by  some  of  the  most  troublesome  pas¬ 
sions  of  our  nature  being  converted  by  the  bless¬ 
ing  of  God  on  a  religious  education  to  the  side 
of  virtue,  a  double  purpose  is  effected.  Because 
it  is  the  character  of  the  passions  never  to  ob¬ 
serve  a  neutrality.  If  they  are  no  longer  rebels, 
they  become  auxiliaries ;  and  the  accession  of 
strength  is  doubted,  because  a  foe  subdued  is  an 
ally  obtained.  For  it  is  the  effect  of  religion  on 
the  passions,  that  when  she  siezes  the  enemy’s 
garrison,  she  does  not  content  herself  with  de¬ 
feating  its  future  mischiefs,  she  does  not  destroy 
the  works,  she  does  not  burn  the  arsenal  and 
spike  the  cannon  ;  but  the  artillery  she  seizes, 
she  turns  to  her  own  use ;  she  attacks  in  her 
turn,  and  plants  its  whole  force  against  an  ene¬ 
my  from  wliom  she  has  taken  it. 

But  while  I  would  deprecate  harshness,  I 
would  enforce  discipline ;  and  that  not  merely 
on  the  ground  of  religion,  but  of  happiness  also. 
One  reason,  not  seldom  brought  forward  by  ten¬ 
der  but  mistaken  mothers  as  an  apology  for  an 
unbounded  indulgence,  especially  to  weakly 
children,  is,  that  they  probably  will  not  live  to 
enjoy  the  world  when  grown  up,  and  that  there¬ 
fore  they  would  not  abridge  the  little  pleasure 
»  2  Corinthians,  vii.  1. 


they  may  enjoy  at  the  present,  lest  they  should 
be  taken  out  of  the  world  without  having  tasted 
any  of  its  delights.  But  a  slight  degree  of 
observation  would  prove  that  this  is  an  error  in 
judgment  as  well  as  in  principle.  For  omitting 
any  considerations  respecting  their  future  wel- 
fare,  and  entering  only  into  their  immediate  in¬ 
terests  ;  it  is  an  indisputable  fact  that  children 
who  know  no  control,  whose  faults  encounter 
no  contradiction,  and  whose  humours  experience 
constant  indulgence,  grow  more  irritable  and 
capricious,  invent  wants,  create  desires,  lose  all 
relish  for  the  pleasures  which  they  know  they 
may  reckon  upon;  and  become  perhaps  more 
miserable  than  even  those  unfortunate  children 
who  labour  under  the  more  obvious  and  more 
commiserated  misfortune  of  suffering  under  the 
tyranny  of  unkind  parents. 

An  early  habitual  restraint  is  peculiarly  im 
portant  to  the  future  character  and  happiness  of 
women.  A  judicious,  unrelaxing,  but  steady 
and  gentle  curb  on  their  tempers  and  passions 
can  alone  insure  their  peace  and  establish  their 
principles.  It  is  a  habit  which  cannot  be  adopted 
too  soon,  nor  persisted  in  too  pertinaciously. 
They  should  when  very  young  be  inured  to 
contradiction.  Instead  of  hearing  their  hon 
mots  treasured  up  and  repeated  till  the  guests 
are  tired,  and  till  the  children  begin  to  think  it 
dull,  when  they  themselves  are  not  the  little  he¬ 
roines  of  the  theme,  they  should  be  accustomed 
to  receive  but  moderate  praise  for  their  vivacity 
or  their  wit,  though  they  should  receive  just 
commendation  for  such  qualities  as  have  more 
worth  than  splendour. 

Patience,  diligence,  quiet,  and  unfatigued 
perseverance,  industry,  regularity,  and  economy 
of  time,  as  these  are  the  dispositions  I  would  la- 
hour  to  excite,  so  these  are  the  qualities  I  would 
warmly  commend.  So  far  from  admiring  ge¬ 
nius,  or  extolling  its  prompt  effusions,  I  would 
rather  intimate  that  excellence,  to  a  certain  de- 
gree,  is  in  the  power  of  every  competitor :  that 
it  is  the  vanity  of  over-valuing  herself  for  sup¬ 
posed  original  powers,  and  slackening  exertion 
in  consequence  of  that  vanity,  which  often  leave 
tho  lively  ignorant,  and  the  witty  superficial. — 
A  girl  who  overhears  her  mother  tell  the  com¬ 
pany  that  she  is  a  genius,  and  is  so  quick,  that 
she  never  thinks  of  applying  to  her  task  till  a 
few  minutes  before  she  is  to  be  called  to  repeat 
it,  wilt  acquire  such  a  confidence  in  her  own 
abilities,  that  she  will  be  advancing  -4n  conceit 
as  she  is  falling  short  in  knowledge.  Whereas, 
if  she  were  made  to  suspect  that  her  want  of 
application  rather  indicated  a  deficiency  than  a 
superiority  in  her  understanding,  she  would  be¬ 
come  industrious  in  proportion  as  she  became 
modest;  and  by  thus  adding  the  diligence  of  the 
humble  to  the  talents  of  the  ingenious,  she 
might  realiy  attain  a  degree  of  excellence,  which 
mere  quickness  of  parts,  too  lazy,  because  too 
proud  to  apply,  seldom  attains. 

Girls  should  be  led  to  distrust  their  own  judg¬ 
ment  ;  they  should  learn  not  to  murmur  at  expos¬ 
tulation  ;  they  should  be  accustomed  to  expect 
and  to  endure  opposition.  It  is  a  lesson  with 
which  the  world  will  not  fail  to  furnish  them;' 
and  they  will  not  practise  it  the  worse  for  hav- 
ing  learnt  it  tho  sooner,  B  is  of  the  last  im- 


340 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


portance  to  their  happiness,  even  in  this  life, 
that  they  should  early  acquire  a  submissive  tem¬ 
per  and  a  forbearing  spirit.  They  must  endure 
to  be  thought  wrong  sometimes,  when  they  can¬ 
not  but  feel  they  are  right.  And  while  they 
should  be  anxiously  aspiring  to  do  well,  they 
must  not  expect  always  to  obtain  the  praise  of 
having  done  so.  But  while  a  gentle  demeanour 
is  inculcated,  let  them  not  be  instructed  to  prac¬ 
tise  gentleness  merely  on  the  low  ground  of  its 
being  decorous,  and  feminine,  and  pleasing,  and 
calculated  to  attract  human  favour :  but  let 
them  be  carefully  taught  to  cultivate  it  on  the 
high  principle  of  obedience  to  Christ ;  on  the 
practical  ground  of  labouring  after  conformity 
to  Him,  who,  when  he  proposed  himself  as  a 
perfect  pattern  of  imitation,  did  not  say,  learn 
of  me,  for  I  am  great,  or  wise,  or  mighty,  but 
‘  learn  of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  and 
who  graciously  promised  that  the  reward  should 
accompany  the  practice,  by  encouragingly  add¬ 
ing,  ‘  and  ye  shall  find  rest  to  your  souls.’  Do 
not  teach  them  humility  on  the  ordinary  ground 
that  vanity  is  unamiable,  and  that  no  one  will 
love  them  if  they  are  proud;  for  that  will  only 
go  to  correct  the  exterior,  and  make  them  soft 
and  smiling  hypocrites.  But  inform  them,  that 
‘  God  resisteth  the  proud,’  while  ‘  them  that  are 
meek  he  shall  guide  in  judgment,  and  such  as 
are  gentle,  them  shall  he  teach  his  way.’  In 
these  as  in  all  other  cases,  an  habitual  attention 
to  the  motives  should  be  carefully  substituted  in 
their  young  hearts,  in  the  place  of  too  much 
anxiety  about  the  event  of  actions.  Principles, 
aims,  and  intentions  should  be  invariably  insist¬ 
ed  on,  as  the  only  true  ground  of  right  practice, 
and  they  should  be  carefully  guarded  against 
too  much  solicitude  for  that  human  praise  which 
attaches  to  appearances  as  much  as  to  realities, 
to  success  more  than  to  desert. 

Let  me  repeat,  without  incurring  the  censure 
of  tautology,  that  it  will  be  of  vast  importance 
not  to  let  slip  the  earliest  occasions  of  working 
gentle  manners  into  an  habit  on  their  only  true 
foundation,  Christian  meekness-  For  this  pur¬ 
pose  I  would  again  urge  your  calling  in  the  ex¬ 
ample  of  our  Redeemer  in  aid  of  his  precepts. 
Endeavour  to  make  your  pupil  feel  that  all  the 
wonders  exhibited,  in  his  life  do  not  so  over¬ 
whelm  the  awakened  heart  with  rapture,  love, 
and  astonishment,  as  the  perpetual  instances  of 
his  humility  and  meekness,  with  which  the  Gos- 
pel  abounds.  Stupendous  miracles,  exercises  of 
infinite  power  prompted  by  infinite  mercy,  are 
actions  which  we  should  naturally  enough  con¬ 
ceive  as  growing  out  of  omnipotence  and  divine 
perfection :  but  silence  under  cruel  mockings, 
patience  under  reproach,  gentleness  of  demeanor 
'tinder  unparalleled  injuries  ;  these  are  perfec¬ 
tions  of  which  unassisted  nature  not  only  has  no 
conception  in  a  Divine  Being,  but  at  which  it 
would  revolt,  had  not  the  reality  been  exempli¬ 
fied  by  our  perfect  pattern.  Healing  the  sick, 
feeding  the  multitude,  restoring  the  blind,  rais¬ 
ing  the  dead,  are  deeds  of  which  we  could  form  I 
some  adequate  idea,  as  necessarily  flowing  from 
Almighty  goodness  :  but  to  wash  his  disciples’ 
feet — to  jireach  the  Gospel  to  the  poor — to  re¬ 
nounce  not  only  ease,  for  that  heroes  have  done 
on  human  motives — but  to  renounce  praise,  to 


forgive  his  persecutors,  to  love  his  enemies,  to 
pray  for  his  murderers  with  his  last  breath ; — 
these  are  things  which,  while  they  compel  us  to 
cry  out  with  the  centurion,  ‘Truly  this  was  the 
Son  of  God,’  should  remind  us,  that  they  are  not 
only  adorable  hut  imitable  parts  of  his  character. 
These  are  not  speculative  and  barren  doctrines 
which  he  came  to  preach  to  Christians,  but  liv¬ 
ing  duties  which  he  meant  to  entail  on  them; 
symbols  of  their  profession  ;  tests  of  their  disci 
pleship.  These  are  perfections  which  we  are 
not  barely  to  contemplate  with  holy  awe  and  dis¬ 
tant  admiration,  as  if  they  were  restricted  to 
the  divine  nature  of  our  Redeemer  ;  but  we  must 
consider  them  as  suited  to  the  human  nature 
also,  which  he  condescended  to  participate.  In 
contemplating,  'we  must  imitate;  in  admiring 
we  must  practise;  and  in  our  measure  and  de¬ 
gree  go  and  do  likewise.  Elevate  your  thoughts 
for  one  moment  to  this  standard  (and  you  should 
never  allow  yourself  to  be  contented  with  a  low¬ 
er)  and  then  go,  if  you  can,  and  teach  your  chil¬ 
dren  to  be  mild,  and  soft,  and  gentle  on  worldly 
grounds,  on  human  motives,  as  an  external 
attraction,  as  a  decoration  to  their  sex,  as  an 
appendage  to  their  rank,  as  an  expression  of 
their  good  breeding. 

There  is  a  custom  among  teachers,  which  is 
not  the  more  right  for  being  common  ;  they  are 
apt  to  bestow  an  undue  proportion  of  pains  on 
children  of  the  best  capacity,  as  if  only  geniuses 
were  worthy  of  attention.  They  should  reflect 
that  in  moderate  talents,  carefully  cultivated, 
we  are  perhaps  to  look  for  the  chief  happiness 
and  virtue  of  society.  If  superlative  genius  had 
been  generally  necessary,  its  existence  would 
not  have  been  so  rare ;  for  Omnipotence  could 
easily  have  made  those  talents  common  which 
we  now  consider  as  extraordinary,  had  they  been, 
necessary  to  the  perfection  of  his  plan.  Besides, 
while  we  are  conscientiously  instructing  chil- 
dren  of  moderate  capacity,  it  is  a  comfort  to  re- 
fleet,  that  if  no  labour  will  raise  them  to  a  high 
degree  in  the  scale  of  intellectual  distinction, 
yet  they  may  be  led  on  to  perfection  in  that  road 
in  which  ‘  a  wayfaring  man,  though  simple  shall 
not  err.’  And  when  a  mother  feels  disposed  to 
repine  that  her  family  is  not  likely  to  exhibit  a 
group  of  future  wits  and  growing  beauties,  let 
her  console  herself  by  looking  abroad  into  the 
world,  where  she  will  quickly  perceive  that  the 
monopoly  of  happiness  is  not  engrossed  by 
beauty,  nor  that  of  virtue  by  genius. 

Perhaps  mediocrity  of  parts  was  decreed  to 
be  tlie  ordinary  lot,  by  way  of  furnishing  a  sti- 
mulus  to  industry,  and  strengthening  the  mo¬ 
tives  to  virtuous  application.  For  is  it  not  ob¬ 
vious  that  moderate  abilities,  carefully  carried 
to  that  measure  of  perfection  of  which  they  are 
capable,  often  enables  their  possessors  to  out¬ 
strip,  in  the  race  of  knowledge  and  of  usefulness, 
their  more  brilliant  but  less  persevering  com¬ 
petitors  ?  It  is  with  mental  endowmants,  as 
with  other  rich  gifts  of  Providence  ;  the  inha. 
bitant  of  the  luxuriant  southern  clime,  where 
nature  has  done  every  thing  in  the  way  of  vege¬ 
tation,  indolently  lays  hold  on  this  very  plea  of 
fertility  which  should  animate  his  exertions,  as 
a  reason  for  doing  nothing  himself;  so  that  the 
soil  which  teems  with  such  encouraging  abun 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


341 


dance  leaves  the  favoured  possessor  idle,  and 
comparatively  poor  :  whilst  the  native  of  the 
less  genial  region,  supplying  by  his  labours  the 
deficiencies  of  his  lot,  overtakes  his  more  fa¬ 
voured  competitor ;  by  substituting  industry  for 
opulence,  he  improves  the  riches  of  his  native 
land  beyond  that  which  is  blessed  with  warmer 
suns,  and  thus  vindicates  Providence  from  the 
charge  of  partial  distribution. 

A  girl  who  has  docility  will  seldom  be  found 
to  want  understanding  sufficient  for  all  the  pur¬ 
poses  of  an  useful,  a  happy,  and  a  pious  life. 
And  it  is  as  wrong  for  parents  to  set  out  with 
too  sanguine  a  dependence  on  the  figure  their 
children  are  to  make  in  life,  as  it  is  unreason¬ 
able  to  be  discouraged  at  every  disappointment. 
Want  of  success  is-so  far  from  furnishing  a  mo¬ 
tive  for  relaxing  their  energy  that  it  is  a  reason 
for  redoubling  it.  Let  them  suspect  their  own 
plans,  and  reform  them ;  let  them  distrust  their 
own  principles,  and  correct  them.  The  gene¬ 
rality  of  parents  do  too  little ;  some  do  much, 
and  miss  their  reward,  because  they  look  not  to 
any  strength  beyond  their  own :  after  much  is 
done,  much  will  remain  undone :  for  the  entire 
regulation  of  the  heart  and  affections  is  not  the 
work  of  education  alone,  but  is  effected  by  the 
operation  of  divine  grace.  WilPit  be  account¬ 
ed  enthusiasm  to  suggest,  ‘  that  the  fervent 
effectual  prayer  of  a  righteous  parent  availeth 
much  V  and  to  observe  that  perhaps  the  reason 
why  so  many  anxious  mothers  fail  of  success  is, 
because  they  repose  with  confidence  in  their  own 
skill  and  labour,  neglecting  to  look  to  Him  with¬ 
out  whose  blessing  they  do  but  labour  in  vain  ? 

On  the  other  hand,  is  it  not  to  be  feared  that 
some  pious  parents  have  fallen  into  an  error  of 
an  opposite  kind?  From  a  full  conviction  that 
human  endeavours  are  vain,  and  that  it  is  God 
alone  wlio  can  change  the  heart,  they  are 
earnest  in  tlieir  prayers,  but  not  so  earnest 
in  their  endeavours. — Such  parents  should  be 
reminded,  that  if  they  do  not  add  their  exer¬ 
tions  to  their  prayers,  their  children  are  not 
likely  to  be  more  benefited  than  the  children 
of  those  who  do  not  add  their  prayers  to  their 
exertions.  What  God  has  joined,  let  no  man 
presume  to  separate.  It  is  the  work  of  God,  we 
readily  acknowledge,  to  implant  religion  in  the 
heart,  and  to  maintain  it  there  as  a  ruling  prin¬ 
ciple  of  conduct.  And  is  it  not  the  same  God 
which  causes  the  corn  to  grow  ?  Are  not  our 
natural  lives  constantly  preserved  by  His  power  ? 
Who  will  deny  that  in  Him  we  live,  and  move, 
and  have  our  being  ?  But  how  are  those  works 
of  God  carried  on  ?  By  means  which  he  has  ap¬ 
pointed.  By  the  labour  of  the  husbandman  the 
corn  is  made  to  grow? ;  by  food  the  body  is  sus¬ 
tained  ;  and  by  religious  instruction  God  is 
pleased  to  work  upon  the  human  heart.  But  un¬ 
less  we  diligently  plougli,  and  sow,  and  weed, 
and  manure,  have  we  any  right  to  depend  on 
the  refreshing  showers  and  ripening  suns  of 
heaven  for  the  blessing  of  an  abundant  harvest  ? 
As  far  as  we  see  the  ways  of  God,  all  hrs  works 
are  carried  on  by  means.  It  becomes,  therefore, 
our  duty  to  use  the  means,  and  trust  in  God  ;  to 
remember  that  God  will  not  work  without  the 
means  ;  and  that  the  moans  can  effect  nothing 
without  his  blessing.  ‘  Paul  may  plant,  and 


Apollos  water,  but  it  is  God  must  give  the  in¬ 
crease.  But  to  what  does  he  give  the  increase  7 
To  the  exertions  of  Paul  and  Apollos.  It  is 
never  said,  because  God  only  can  give  the  in¬ 
crease,  that  Paul  and  Apollos  may  spare  their 
labour. 

It  is  one  grand  object  to  give  the  young  pro* 
bationer  just  and  sober  views  of  the  world  on 
which  she  is  about  to  enter.  Instead  of  making 
her  bosom  bound  at  the  near  prospect  of  eman¬ 
cipation  fropi  her  instructors ;  instead  of  teach¬ 
ing  her  young  heart  to  dance  with  premature 
flutterings  as  the  critical  winter  draws  near  in 
which  she  is  to  come  out;  instead  of  raising  a 
tumult  in  her  busy  imagination  at  the  approach 
of  her  first  grown  up  ball,  an  event  held  out  as 
forming  the  first  grand  epocha  of  a  female  life, 
as  the  period  from  which  a  fresh  computation, 
fixing  the  pleasures  and  independence  of  wo¬ 
manhood,  is  to  be  dated  ;  instead  of  this,  endea¬ 
vour  to  convince  her,  the  world  will  not  turn  out 
to  be  that  scene  of  unvarying  and  never-ending 
delights  which  she  has  perhaps  been  led  to  ex¬ 
pect,  not  only  from  the  sanguine  temper  and 
warm  spirks  natural  to  youth,  but  from  the 
value  she  has  seen  put  on  those  showy  accom¬ 
plishments  which  have  too  probably  been  fitting 
her  for  her  exhibition  in  life.  Teach  her  that 
this  world  is  not  a  stage  for  the  display  of  super¬ 
ficial  or  even  of  shining  talent,  but  for  the  strict 
and  sober  exercise  of  fortitude,  temperance, 
meekness,  faith,  diligence,  and  self-denial ;  of 
her  due  performance  of  which  Christian  graces, 
angels  will  be  spectators,  and  God  the  judge. 
Teach  her  that  human  life  is  not  a  splendid  ro¬ 
mance,  spangled  over  with  brilliant  adventures, 
and  enriched  with  extraordinary  occurrences, 
and  diversified  with  wonderful  incidents  ;  lead 
her  not  to  expect  that  it  will  abound  with  scenes 
which  will  call  extraordinary  qualities  and  won¬ 
derful  powers  into  perpetual  action ;  and  for 
w’hich,  if  she  acquit  herself  well,  she  will  be 
rewarded  with  proportionate  fame  and  certain 
commendation.  But  apprize  her  that  human 
life  is  a  true  history,  many  passages  of  which 
will  be  dull,  obscure,  and  uninteresting ;  some 
perhaps  tragical ;  but  that  whatever  gay  inci¬ 
dents  and  pleasing  scenes  may  be  interspersed 
in  the  progress  of  the  piece,  yet,  finally  ‘  one 
event  happoneth  to  all to  all  there  is  one  awful 
and  infallible  catastrophe.  Apprize  her  that 
the  estimation  which  mankind  forms  of  merit 
is  not  always  just,  nor  is  its  praise  very  exactly 
proportioned  to  desert ;  tell  her  that  the  world 
weighs  actions  in  fur  different  scales  from  ‘  the 
balance  of  the  sanctuary,,  and  estimates  worth 
by  a  far  different  standard  from  that  of  the  Gos¬ 
pel.  Apprize  her  that  while  her  purest  inten¬ 
tions  may  be  sometimes  calumniated,  and  her 
best  actions  misrepresented,  she  wdll  on  the 
other  hand,  be  liable  to  receive  commendation 
on  occasions  wherein  her  conscience  will  toll 
lier  she  has  not  deserved  it ;  and  that  she  may 
bo  extolled  by  others  for  actions  for  which,  if 
she  be  honest,  she  will  condemn  herself. 

Do  not,  however,  give  her  a  gloomy  and  dis¬ 
couraging  picture  of  the  world,  but  r.ither  seek 
to  give  her  a  just  and  sober  view  of  tiie  part  she 
will  have  to  act  in  it.  And  restrain  the  im¬ 
petuosity  or  hope,  and  cool  the  ardour  of  expec- 


342 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


tation,  by  explaining,  to  her,  that  this  part,  even 
in  her  best  estate,  will  probably  consist  in  a 
succession  of  pettj'^  trials,  and  a  round  of^quiet 
duties,  which,  if  well  performed,  though  they 
will  make  little  or  no  figure  in  the  book  of  fame, 
will  prove  of  vast  importance  to  her  in  that  day 
when  another  ‘  book  is  opened,  and  the  judg¬ 
ment  is  set,  and  every  one  will  be  judged  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  deeds  done  in  the  body,  whether 
they  be  good  or  bad.’ 

Say  not  that  these  'just  and  sober -views  will 
cruelly  wither  her  young  hopes,  blast  her  bud¬ 
ding  prospects,  and  deaden  the  innocent  satis¬ 
factions  of  life.  It  is  not  true.  There  is,  hap¬ 
pily,  an  active  spring  in  the  mind  of  youth 
which  bounds  with  fresh  vigour  and  uninjured 
elasticity  from  any  such  temporary  depression. 
And  though  her  feelings,  tastes  and  passions, 
will  all  be  against  you,  if  you  set  before  her  a 
faithful  delineation  of  life,  yet  it  will  be  some¬ 
thing  to  get  her  judgment  on  your  side.  It  is 
no  unkind  office  to  assist  the  short  view  of  youth 
witli  the  aids  of  long-sighted  experience ;  to 
enable  them  to  discover  spots  in  the  brightness 
of  that  world  which  dazzles  them  in  prospect, 
though  it  is  probable  they  will  after  all  choose 
to  believe  their  own  eyes,  rather  than  the  offer¬ 
ed  glass. 


CHAP.  VIII. 

On  female  study,  and  initiation  into  knowledge. 
— Error  of  cultivating  the  imagination  to  the 
neglect  of  the  judgment. — Books  of  reasoning 
recommended. 

As  this  little  work  by  no  means  assumes  the 
character  of  a  general  scheme  of  education,  the 
author  has  purposely  avoided  expatiating  largely 
on  any  kind  of  instruction,  but  as  it  happens  to 
be  connected,  either  immediately  or  remotely 
with  objects  of  a  moral  or  religious  nature. 
Of  course  she  has  been  so  far  from  thinking  it 
necessary  to  enter  into  the  enumeration  of 
those  popular  books  which  are  used  in  general 
instruction,  that  she  has  purposely  forborn  to 
mention  any.  With  such  books  the  rising 
generation  is  far  more  copiously  and  ably  fur¬ 
nished  than  any  that  has  preceded  it ;  and  out 
of  an  excellent  variety  the  judicious  instructor 
can  hardly  fail  to  make  such  a  selection  as  shall 
be  beneficial  to  the  pupil. 

But  while  due  praise  ought  not  to  be  withheld 
from  the  improve^  methods  of  communicating 
the  elements  of  general  knowledge  ;  yet  is  there 
not  some  danger  that  our  very  advantages  may 
lead  us  into  error,  by  causing  us  tc  repose  so 
confidently  on  the  multiplied  helps  which  facili¬ 
tate  the  entrance  into  learning,  as  to  render  our 
pupils  superficial  through  the  very  facility  of 
acquirement?  Where  so  much  is  done  for  them, 
may  they  not  be  led  to  do  too  little  for  them¬ 
selves  ?  and  besides  that  exertion  may  slacken 
for  want  of  a  spur,  may  there  not  be  a  moral 
disadvantage  in  possessing  young  per.sons  with 
the  notion  that  learning  may  be  acquired  witli- 
out  diligence,  and  knowledge  bo.  attained  with¬ 
out  labour  ?  Sound  education  never  can  be  made 


a  ‘primrose  path  of  dalliance.’  Do  what  we 
will  we  cannot  cheat  children  into  learning,  or 
play  them  into  knowledge,  according  to  the 
conciliating  smoothness  of  the  modern  creed, 
and  the  selfish  indolence  of  the  modern  habits. 
There  is  no  idle  way  to  any  acquisitions  which 
really  deserve  the  name.  And  as  Euclid,  in 
order  to  repress  the  impetuous  vanity  of  great 
ness,  told  his  sovereign  that  there  was  no  roya . 
way  to  geometry,  so  the  fond  mother  may  be 
assured  that  there  is  no  short  cut  to  any  other 
kind  of  learning ;  no  privileged  by-path  cleared 
from  the  thorns  and  briars  of  repulse  and  diffi¬ 
culty,  for  the  accommodation  of  opulent  inac¬ 
tivity  or  feminine  weakness.  The  tree  of 
knowledge,  as  a  punishment,  perhaps,  for  its 
having  been  at  first  unfairly  tasted  cannot  now 
I  be  claimed  without  difficulty ;  and  this  very 
circumstance  serves  afterwards  to  furnish  not 
only  literary  pleasures,  but  moral  advantages. 
For  the  knowledge  which  is  acquired  by  un- 
wearied  assiduity,  is  lasting  in  the  possession, 
and  sweet  to  the  possessor ;  both  perhaps  in  pro¬ 
portion  to  the  cost  and  labour  of  the  acquisition. 
And  though  an  able  teacher  ought  to  endeavour, 
by  improving  the  communicating  faculty  in 
himself  (for  many  know  what  they  cannot  teach) 
to  soften  every’  difficulty ;  yet  in  spite  of  the 
kindness  and  ability  with  which  he  will  smooth 
every  obstruction,  it  is  probably  among  the  wise 
institutions  of  Providence  that  great  difficul¬ 
ties  should  still  remain.  For  education  is  but 
an  initiation  into  that  life  of  trial  to  which  we- 
are  introduced  on  our  entrance  into  this  world 
It  is  the  first  breaking  into  that  state  of  toil  ana 
labour  to  which  we  are  born,  and  to  which  sin 
has  made  us  liable  ,*  and  in  this  view  of  the  sub- 
ject  the  pains  taken  in  the  acquisition  of  learn¬ 
ing  may  be  converted  to  higher  uses  than  such 
as  are  purely  literary. 

Will  it  not  be  ascribed  to  a  captious  singu 
larity,  if  I  venture  to  remark  that  real  know 
ledge  and  real  piety,  though  they  may  have 
gained  in  many  instances,  have  suffered  in, 
others  from  that  profusion  of  little,  amusing, 
sentimental  books  with  which  the  youthful  li¬ 
brary  overflows  ?  Abundance  has  its  dangers 
as  well  as  scarcity.  In  the  first  place  may  not 
the  multiplicity  of  these  alluring  little  works 
increase  the  natural  reluctance  to  those  more 
dry  and  uninteresting  studies  of  which,  after  all, 
the  rudiments  of  every  part  of  learning  must 
consist?  And  secondly,  is  there  not  some  dan¬ 
ger  (though  there  are  many  honourable  excep¬ 
tions)  that  some  of  those  engaging  narratives 
may  servo  to  infuse  into  the  youthful  heart  a 
sort  of  spurious  goodness,  a  confidence  of  virtue, 
a  parade  of  charity  ?  And  that  the  benevolent 
actions  with  the  recital  of  which  they  abound, 
when  they  are  not  made  to  flow  from  any  source 
but  feeling,  may  lend  to  inspire  a  self-com¬ 
placency,  a  self-gratulation,  ‘  a  stand  by,  for  I 
am  holier  than  thou  !’  May  not  the  success  with 
which  tlje  good  deeds  of  the  little  heroes  are 
uniformly  crowned  ;  the  invariable  reward  which 
is  made  tlic  instant  concomitant  of  well  doing, 
furnish  the  young  reader  with  false  views  of 
the  condition  of  life,  and  the  nature  of  the  di¬ 
vine  dealings  witli  men  ?  May  they  not  help  to 
suggest  8  false  standard  of  morals,  to  infuee  a 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAISTNAH  MORE. 


343 


love  of  popularity  and  an  anxiety  for  praise,  in 
the  place  of  that  simple  and  unostentatious  rule 
of  doing  whatever  good  we  do,  because  it  is  the 
will  of  God  ?  The  universal  substitution  of  this 
principle  would  tend  to  purify  the  worldly  mo¬ 
rality  of  many  a  popular  little  story.  And  there 
are  few  dangers  which  good  parents  will  more 
carefully  guard  against  than  that  of  giving  their 
children  a  mere  political  piety;  that  sort  of  reli¬ 
gion  which  just  goes  to  make  people  more  re¬ 
spectable,  and  to  stand  well  with  the  world  ;  a 
religion  which  is  to  save  appearances  without 
inculcating  realities  ;  a  religion  which  affects  to 
‘  preach  peace  and  good  will  to  men,’  but  which 
forgets  to  give  ‘  glory  to  God  in  the  highest.’* 
There  is  a  certain  precocity  of  mind  which  is 
much  helped  on  by  these  superficial  modes  of 
instruction ;  for  frivolous  reading  will  produce 
its  correspondent  eflect,  in  much  less  time  than 
books  of  solid  instruction;  the  imagination  being 
liable  to  be  worked  upon,  and  the  feelings  to  be 
set  a-going,  much  faster  than  the  understanding 
can  be  opened  and  the  judgment  enlightened. 
A  talent  for  conversation  should  be  the  result  of 
instruction,  not  its  precursor ;  it  is  a  golden  fruit 
when  suffered  to  ripen  gradually  on  the  tree  of 
knowledge  ;  but  if  forced  in  the  hot-bed  of  a  cir¬ 
culating  library,  it  will  turn  out  worthless  and 
vapid  in  proportion  as  it  was  artificial  and  pre¬ 
mature.  Girls  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
devour  a  multitude  of  frivolous  books  will  con¬ 
verse  and  write  with  a  far  greater  appearance 
cf  skill  as  to  style  and  sentiment  at  twelve  or 
fourteen  years  old,  than  those  of  a  more  advan¬ 
ced  age,  who  are  under  the  discipline  of  severer 
studies  :  but  the  former  having  early  attained 
to  that  low  standard  which  had  been  held  out  to 
them,  become  stationary  ;  while  the  latter,  qui¬ 
etly  progressive,  are  passing  through  just  gra¬ 
dations  to  a  higher  strain  of  mind  ;  and  those 
who  early  begin  with  talking  and  writing  like 
women  commonly  end  with  thinking  and  acting 
like  children. 

I  would  not  however  prohibit  such  works  of 
imagination  as  suit  this  early  period.  When 
moderately  used  they  serve  to  stretch  the  facul¬ 
ties  and  expand  the  mind  :  but  I  should  prefer 
works  of  vigorous  genius  and  pure  unmixed  fa¬ 
ble  to  many  of  those  tame  and  more  affected 
moral  stories,  which  are  not  grounded  on  Chris¬ 
tian  principle.  I  should  suggest  the  use  on  the 
one  hand  of  original  and  acknowledged  fictions : 
and  on  the  other,  of  accurate  and  simple  facts  ; 
so  that  truth  and  fable  may  over  be  kept  sepa¬ 
rate  and  distinct  in  the  mind.  There  is  some¬ 
thing  that  kindles  fancy,  awakens  genius  and 
excites  new  ideas  in  many  of  the  bold  fictions 
of  the  east.  And  there  is  one  peculiar  merit  in 
the  Arabian  and  some  other  Oriental  tales, 
W'hich  is,  that  they  exhibit  striking;  and  in  ma¬ 
ny  respects  faithful  views  of  the  manners,  ha¬ 
bits,  customs,  and  religion  of  their  respective 

*  An  ingenious  (and  in  many  ro.spocts  useful)  French 
Treatise  on  Education,  has  too  much  encouraged  this 
political  piety,  by  considering  religion  ns  a  thing  of  hu¬ 
man  invention,  rather  than  of  divine  institution  ;  as  a 
thing  creditable,  rather  than  commanded  ;  by  erecting 
the  doctrine  of  expediency  in  the  room  of  Christian  sim¬ 
plicity;  and  wearing  aw.ay  the  spirit  of  truth,  by  tlie 
substitution  of  occasional  deceit,  equivocation  subter¬ 
fuge  and  mental  reservation. 


countries ;  so  that  some  tincture  of  real  local 
information  is  acquired  by  the  perusal  of  the 
wildest  fable,  which  will  not  be  without  its  use 
in  aiding  the  future  associations  of  the  mind  in 
all  that  relates  to  eastern  history  and  literature. 

The  irregular  fancy  of  women  is  not  suffi- 
cientl}'  subdued  by  early  application,  nor  tamed 
by  labour,  and  the  kind  of  knowledge  they  com¬ 
monly  do  acquire  is  early  attained  ;  and  being 
chiefly  some  slight  acquisition  of  the  memory, 
something  which  is  given  them  to  get  off  by 
themselves,  and  not  grounded  in  their  minds  by 
comment  and  conversation,  it  is  easy  lost.  The 
superficial  question-and-answer-wa.y  for  instance, 
in  which  they  often  learn  history,  furnishes  the 
mind  with  little  to  lean  on :  the  events  being 
detached  and  separated,  the  actions  having  no 
links  to  unite  them  with  each  other  ;  the  cha¬ 
racters  not  being  interwoven  by  mutual  relation : 
the  chronology  being  reduced  to  disconnected 
dates,  instead  of  presenting  an  unbroken  series; 
of  course,  neither  events,  actions,  characters, 
nor  chronology,  fasten  themselves  on  the  under¬ 
standing,  but  rather  float  in  the  memory  as  so 
many  detached  episodes,  than  contribute  to  form 
the  mind  and  to  enrich  the  judgment  of  the 
reader,  in  the  important  science  of  men  and 
manners. 

The  swarms  of  Abridgments,  Beauties,  and 
Compendiums,  which  form  too  considerable  a 
part  of  a  young  lady’s  library,  may  be  consider¬ 
ed  in  many  instances  as  an  infallible  receipt  for 
making  a  superficial  mind.  The  names  of  the 
renowned  characters  in  history  thus  become  fa¬ 
miliar  in  the  mouths  of  those  who  can  neither 
attach  to  the  ideas  of  the  person,  the  series  of 
his  actions,  nor  the  peculiarities  of  his  character. 
A  few  fine  passages  from  the  poets  (passages 
perhaps  which  derived  their  chief  beauty  from 
their  position  and  connexion)  are  huddled  to¬ 
gether  by  some  extract-maker,  whose  brief  and 
disconnected  patches  of  broken  and  discordant 
materials,  while  they  inflame  young  readers 
with  the  vanity  of  reciting,  neither  fill  the  mind 
nor  form  the  taste,  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  trace 
back  to  their  shallow  sources  the  hackneyed 
quotations  of  certain  accomplished  young  ladies, 
who  will  be  frequently  found  not  tij^ave  come 
legitimately  by  any  thing  they  know.  I  mean 
not  to  have  drawn  it  from  its  true  spring,  the 
original  works  of  the  author  from  which  some 
beauty-monger  has  severed  it.  Human  inconsis¬ 
tency  in  this,  as  in  other  cases,  wants  to  com¬ 
bine  two  irreconcileable  things ;  it  strives  to 
unite  the  reputation  of  knowledge  with  the  plea¬ 
sures  of  knowledge,  forgetting  that  nothing  that 
is  valuable  can  be  obtained  without  sacrifices, 
and  that  if  we  would  purchase  knowledge,  we 
must  pay  for  it  the  fair  and  lawful  price  of  time 
and  industry.  For  this  extract-reading,  while 
it  accommodates  itself-to  the  convenience,  illus¬ 
trates  the  character  of  the  age  in  which  we  live. 
The  appetite  for  pleasure,  and  that  love  of  ease 
and  indolence  which  is  generated  by  it,  leave 
little  time  or  taste  for  sound  improvement;  while 
the  vanity,  which  is  equally  a  characteristic  of 
the  existing  period,  puts  in  its  claim  also  for  in¬ 
dulgence,  and  contrives  to  figure  away  by  those 
little  snatches  of  ornamental  reading,  caught  in 
the  short  intervals  of  successive  amusements 


344 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Besides,  the  taste,  thus  pampered  with  deli- 
cious  morsels,  is  early  vitiated.  The  young 
reader  of  these  clustered  beauties  conceives  a 
disrelish  for  every  thing  which  is  plain,  and 
grows  impatient,  if  obliged' to  get  through  those 
equally  necessary  though  less  showy  parts  of  a 
work,  in  which  perhaps  the  author  gives  the 
best  proof  of  his  judgment  by  keeping  under 
that  occasional  brilliancy  and  incidental  orna¬ 
ment,  of  which  these  superficial  students  are  in 
constant  pursuit.  In  all  well-written  books, 
there  is  much  that  is  good  which  is  not  dazzling ; 
and  these  shallow  critics  should  be  taught,  that 
it  is  for  the  embellishment  of  the  more  tame  and 
uninteresting  parts  of  his  work,  that  the  judi¬ 
cious  poet  commonly  reserves  those  flowers, 
whose  beauty  is  defaced  when  they  are  plucked 
from  the  garland  into  which  he  had  so  skilfully 
woven  them. 

The  remark,  however,  as  far  as  it  relates  to 
abridgments,  is  by  no  means  of  general  appli¬ 
cation  ;  there  are  many  valuable  works  which 
from  their  bulk  would  be  almost  inaccessible  to 
a  great  number  of  readers,  and  a  considerable 
part  of  which  may  not  be  generally  useful. 
Even  in  the  best  written  books  there  is  often 
superfluous  matter  ;  authors  are  apt  to  get  ena¬ 
moured  of  their  subject,  and  to  dwell  too  long 
on  it :  every  person  cannot  find  time  to  read  a 
longer  work  on  any  subject,  and  yet  it  may  be 
well  for  them  to  know  something  on  almost 
every  subject ;  those,  therefore,  who  abridge  vo- 
lurfiinous  works  judiciously,  render  service  to 
the  community.  But  there  seems,  if  I  may 
venture  the  remark,  to  be  a  mistake  in  the  use 
of  abridgments.  They  are  put  systematically 
into  the  hands  of  youth,  who  have,  or  ought  to 
have,  leisure  for  the  works  at  large ;  while 
abridgments  seem  more  immediately  calculated 
for  persons  in  more  advanced  life,  who  wish  to 
recall  something  they  had  forgotten  ;  who  want 
to  restore  old  ideas  rather  than  acquire  new 
ones  ;  or  they  are  useful  for  persons  immersed 
in  the  business  of  the  world ;  who  have  little 
leisure  for  voluminous  reading  :  they  are  excel¬ 
lent  to  refresh  the  mind,  but  not  competent  to 
form  it ;  they  serve  to  bring  back  what  had  been 
formerly  luaown,  but  do  not  supply  a  fund  of 
knowledge; 

Perhaps  there  is  some  analogy  between  the 
mental  and  bodily  conformation  of  women.  The 
instructor  therefore  should  imitate  the  physi¬ 
cian.  If  the  latter  prescribe  bracing  medicines 
for  a  body  of  which  delicacy  is  the  disease,  the 
former  would  do  well  to  prohibit  relaxing  read¬ 
ing  for  a  mind  which  is  already  of  too  soft  a 
texture,  and  s  ould  strengthen  its  feeble  tone  by 
invigorating  reading. 

By  softness,  I  cannot  be  supposed  to  mean 
imbecility  of  understanding,  but  natural  softness 
of  heart,  and  pliancy  of  temper,  together  with 
that  indolence  of  spirit  which  is  fostered  by  in¬ 
dulging  in  seducing  books,  and  in  the  general 
habits  of  fashionable  life. 

I  mean  not  here  to  recommend  books  which 
arc  immediately  religious,  but  such  as  exercise 
tlie  reasoning  faculties,  teach  th&  mind  to  get 
acquainted  with  its  own  nature,  and  to  stir  up 
its  own  powers.  Let  not  a  timid  young  lady 
start  if  I  should  venture  to  recommeqd  to  her, 


after  a  proper  course  of  preparatory  reading,  to 
swallow  and  digest  such  strong  meat  as  Watts’s 
or  Duncan’s  little  book  of  Logic,  some  part  of 
Mr.  Locke’s  Essay  on  the  Human  Understand, 
ing,  and  bishop  Butler’s  Analogy.  Where  there 
is  leisure,  and  capacity,  and  an  able  friend  to 
comment  and  to  counsel,  w’orks  of  this  nature 
might  be  profitably  substituted  in  the  place  of 
so  much  English  sentiment,  French  philosophy, 
Italian  love-songs,  and  fantastic  German  image¬ 
ry  and  magic  wonders. — While  such  enervating 
or  absurd  books  sadly  disqualify  the  reader  for 
solid  pursuit  or  vigorous  thinking,  the  studies 
hero  recommended  would  act  upon  the  constitu- 
tion  of  the  mind  as  a  kind  of  alterative,  and,  if 
I  may  be  allowed  the  expression,  would  help  to 
brace  the  intellectual  stamina. 

This  suggestion,  is,  however,  by  no  means  in 
tended  to  exclude  works  of  taste  and  imagina¬ 
tion,  which  must  always  make  the  ornamental 
part,  and  of  course  a  very  considerable  part,  of 
female  studies.  It  is  only  intimated,  that  they 
should  not  form  them  entirely  and  exclusively. 
For  what  is  called  dry,  tough  reading,, indepen- 
dent  of  the  knowledge  it  conveys,  is  useful  as  an 
habit,  and  wholesome  as  an  exercise.  Serious 
study  serves  to  harden  the  mind  for  more  trying 
conflicts ;  it  lifts  the  reader  from  sensation  to 
intellect ;  it  abstracts  her  from  the  world  and 
its  vanities  ;  it  fixes  a  wandering  spirit,  and  for¬ 
tifies  a  weak  one  ;  it  divorces  her  from  matter  ; 
it  corrects  the  spirit  of  trifling  which  she  natu¬ 
rally  contracts  from  the  frivolous  turn  of  femalo 
conversation  and  the  petty  nature  of  female  em¬ 
ployments  ;  it  concentrates  her  attention,  assists 
her  in  a  habit  of  excluding  trivial  thoughts,  and 
thus  even  helps  to  qualify  her  for  religious  pur¬ 
suits. — Yes,  I  repeat  it,  there  is  to  woman  a 
Christian  use  to  be  made  of  sober  studies ;  while 
books  of  an  opposite  cast,  however  unexception¬ 
able  they  may  be  sometimes  found  in  point  of 
expression,  however  free  from  evil  in  its  more 
gross  and  palpable  shapes,  yet  from  their  very 
nature  and  constitution  they  excite  a  spirit  of 
relaxation,  by  exhibiting  scenes  and  suggesting 
ideas  which  soften  the  mind  and  set  the  fancy 
at  work ;  they  take  off  wholesome  restraints,  di¬ 
minish  sober-mindedness,  impair  the  general 
powers  of  resistance,  and  at  best  feed  habits  of 
improper  indulgence,  and  nourish  a  vain  and 
visionary  indolence,  which  lays  the  mind  open 
to  error  and  the  heart  to  seduction. 

Women  are  little  accustomed  to  close  reason¬ 
ing  on  any  subject ;  still  less  do  they  inure  their 
minds  to  consider  particular  parts  of  a  subject ; 
they  are  not  habituated  to  turn  a  truth  round, 
and  view  it  in  all  its  varied  aspects  and  positions, 
and  this  perhaps  is  one  cause  (as  will  be  obser¬ 
ved  in  another  place*)  of  the  too  great  confidence 
they  are  disposed  to  place  in  their  own  opinions. 
Though  their  imagination  is  already  too  lively, 
and  their  judgment  naturally  incorrect ;  in  edu¬ 
cating  them  we  go  on  to  stimulate  the  imagina¬ 
tion,  while  wo  neglect  the  regulation  of  the 
judgment.  They  already  want  ballast,  and  we 
make  their  education  consist  in  continually 
crowding  more  sail  than  they  can  carry.  Their 
intellectual  powers  being  so  little  strengthened 
by  exercise,  makes  every  petty  business  appear 
*  See  Chapter  on  Conversations. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  IVIORE. 


34S 


a  hardship  to  them:  whereas  serious  study 
would  be  useful,  were  it  only  that  it  leads  the 
mind  to  the  habit  of  conquering  difficulties.  But 
it  is  peculiarly  hard  to  turn  at  once  from  the  in¬ 
dolent  repose  of  light  reading,  from  the  con¬ 
cerns  of  mere  animal  life,  the  objects  of  sense, 
or  the  frivolousness  of  female  chit  chat ;  it  is 
peculiarly  hard,  I  say,  to  a  minB  so  softened,  to 
rescue  itself  from  the  dominion  of  self-indul¬ 
gence,  to  resume  its  powers,  to  call  home  its 
scattered  strength,  to  shut  out  every  foreign  in¬ 
trusion,  to  force  back  a  spring  so  unnaturally 
bent,  and  to  devote  itself  to  religious  reading,  to 
active  business,  to  sober  reflection,  to  self-exa¬ 
mination.  Whereas  to  an  intellect  accustomed 
to  think  at  all,  the  difficulty  of  thinking  serioufely 
is  obviously  lessened. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  desire  to  make  scholastic 
ladies  or  female  dialecticians ;  but  there  is  little 
fear  that  the  kind  of  books  here  recommended, 
if  thoroughly  studied,  and  not  superficially 
skimmed,  will  make  them  pedants  or  induce 
conceit;  for  by  showing  them  the  possible  pow¬ 
ers  of  the  human  mind,  you  will  bring  them  to 
see  the  littleness  of  their  own :  and  surely  to 
get  acquainted  with  the  mind,  to' regulate,  to  in¬ 
form  it ;  to  show  it  its  own  ignorance  and  'its 
own  nature,  does  not  seem  the  way  to  puff  it 
up. — But  let  her  who  is  disposed  to  be  elated 
with  her  literary  acquisitions,  check  the  rising 
vanity  by  calling  to  mind  the  just  remark  of 
Swift,  ‘  that  after  all  her  boasted  acquirements, 
a'  woman  will,  generally  speaking,  be  found  to 
possess  less  of  what  is  called  learning  than  a 
common  school-boy.’ 

Neither  is  there  any  fear  that  this  sort  of 
reading  will  convert  ladies  into  authors. — The 
direct  contrary  effect  will  be  likely  to  be  pro¬ 
duced  by  the  perusal  of  writers  who  throw  the 
generality  of  readers  at  such  an  unapproachable 
distance  as  to  check  presumption,  instead  of  ex¬ 
citing  it.  Who  are  those  ever  multiplying  au¬ 
thors  that  with  unparalleled  fecundity  are  over¬ 
stocking  the  world  with  their  quick  succeeding 
progeny?  They  are  novel-writers  ;  the  easi¬ 
ness  of  whose  productions  is  at  once  the  cause 
of  their  own  fruiffulness,  and  of  the  almost  infi¬ 
nitely  numerous  race  of  imitators  to  whom  they 
give  birth.  Such  is  the  frightful  facili^  of  this 
species  of  composition,  that  every  raw  girl,  while 
she  reads,  is  tempted  to  fancy  that  she  can  also 
write.  And  as  Alexander,  on  perusing  the  Iliad, 
found  by  congenial  sympathy  the  image  of 
Achilles  stamped  on  his  own  ardent  soul,  and 
felt  himself  the  hero  he  was  studying ;  and  as 
Corregio,  on  first  beholding  a  picture  which  ex¬ 
hibited  the  perfection  of  the  graphic  art,  pro¬ 
phetically  felt  all  his  own  future  greatness,  and 
cried  out  in  rapture,  ‘  And  I  too  am  a  painter  !’ 
so  a  thorough-paced  novel-reading  miss,  at  the 
close  of  every  tissue  of  hackneyed  adventures, 
feels  within  herself  the  stirring  impulse  of  cor¬ 
responding  genius,  and  triumphantly  exclaims, 
‘  And  I  too  am  an  author  1’  The  glutted  imagi¬ 
nation  soon  overflows  with  the  redundance  of 
cheap  sentiment  and  plentiful  incident,  and  by 
a  sort  of  arithmetical  proportion,  is  enabled  by 
the  perusal  of  any  three  novels,  to  produce  a 
fourth ;  till  every  fresh  production,  like  the  pro¬ 
lific  progeny  of  Banquo,  is  followed  by— 

VoL.  I. 


Another,  and  another,  and  anotlier ! 

Is  a  lady,  how'ever  destitute  of  talents,  educa¬ 
tion,  or  knowledge  of  the  world,  whose  studies 
have  been  completed  by  a  circulating  library,  in 
any  distress  of  mind  ?  the  writing  a  novel  sug¬ 
gests  itself  as  the  best  soother  of  her  sorrows  I 
Does  she  labour  under  any  depression  of  cir¬ 
cumstances?  writing  a  novel  occurs,  as  the  rea¬ 
diest  receipt  for  mending  them  !  And  she  so¬ 
laces  her  imagination  with  the  conviction  that 
the  subscription  which  has  been  extorted  by  her 
importunity,  or  given  to  her  necessities,  has 
been  offered  as  an  homage  to  her  genius.  And 
this  confidence  instantly  levies  a  fresh  contribu¬ 
tion  for  a  succeeding  work.  Capacity  and  cul¬ 
tivation  are  so  little  taken  into  the  account,  that 
writing  a  book  seems  to  be  now  considered  as 
the  only  sure  resource  which  the  idle  and  the 
illiterate  have  always  in  their  power. 

May  the  author  be  indulged  in  a  short  digres¬ 
sion  while  she  remarks,  though  rather  out  of 
its  place,  that  the  corruption  occasioned  by  these 
books  has  spread  so  wide,  and  descended  so  low, 
as  to  have  become  one  of  the  most  universal,  as 
well  as  most  pernicious  sources  of  corruption 
among  us.  Not  only  among  milliners,  mantua- 
makers,  and  other  trades  where  numbers  work 
together,  the  labour  of  one  girl  is  frequently  sa¬ 
crificed,  that  she  may  be  spared  to  read  those 
mischievous  books  to  the  others ;  but  she  has 
been  assured  by  clergymen  who  have  witnessed 
the  fact,  that  they  are  procured  and  greoilly 
read  in  the  wards  of  our  hospitals  !  an  awful 
hint,  that  those  who  teach  the  poor  to  read, 
should  not  only  take  care  to  furnish  them  with 
principles  which  will  lead  them  to  abhor  corrupt 
books,  but  that  they  should  also  furnish  them 
with  such  books  as  shall  strengthen  and  confirm 
their  principles,*  And  let  every  Christian  re¬ 
member,  that  there  is  no  other  way  of  entering 
truly  into  the  spirit  of  that  divine  prayer,  which 
petitions  that  the  name  of  God  may  be  ‘hallow¬ 
ed,’  that  his  ‘  kingdom  (of  grace)  may  come,’ 
and  that  ‘  his  will  may  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is 
in  heaven,’  that  by  each  individual  contributing 
according  to  his  measure  to  accomplish  the 
w'ork  for  which  he  prays  ;  for  to  pray,  that  these 

*  The  above  facts  furnish  no  argument  on  the  side  or 
those  who  would  keep  the  poor  in  ignorance,  'i'liose 
who  cannot  read  can  hear,  and  are  likely  to  hear  to 
worse  purpose  than  those  who  liave  been  better  taught. 
And  that  ignorance  furnislies  no  security  for  integrity 
either  in  morals  or  politics,  the  late  revolts  in  more  than 
one  country,  remarkable  for  the  ignorance  of  the  poor 
fully  illustrate.  It  is  earnestly  hoped  that  the  above 
facts  may  tend  to  impress  ladies  with  the  importance  of 
suirerintending  the  instruction  of  the  poor,  and  of  mak¬ 
ing  it  an  indispensable  part  of  their  charity  to  give  them 
moral  and  religious  books. 

The  late  celebrated  Henry  Fielding  (a  man  not  likely 
to  be  suspected  of  over-strictness)  assured  a  jiarticular 
friend  of  the  author,  that  during  his  long  administration 
of  justice  in  How-street,  only  six  Scotchmen  were 
brought  Ixifore  him.  The  remark  did  not  proc(;ed  from 
any  national  partiality  in  the  magistrate,  but  was  pro¬ 
duced  by  him  in  proof  of  the  eftect  of  a  sober  ami  reli¬ 
gious  education  among  the  lower  ranks,  on  their  inorala 
and  conduct. 

See  farther  the  sentiments  of  a  still  more  celebrated 
cotemporary  on  the  duly  of  instructing  the  poor. — ‘  We 
have  been  taught  that  the  circumstance  of  the  Gospels 
being  preached  to  the  poor  was  one  of  the  surest  testa 
of  its  mission.  We  think,  therefore,  that  those  do  not 
believe  it  who  do  not  take  care  it  should  be  preached  to 
the  poor. — Burke  on  the  French  Raoolutiun. 


S46 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAKNAH  MORE. 


great  objects  may  be  promoted,  without  contri¬ 
buting  to  their  promotion  by  our  exertions,  our 
money,  and  our  influence,  is  a  palpable  incon¬ 
sistency. 


CHAP.  IX. 

On  the  religious  and  moral  use  of  history  and 
geography. 

While  every  sort  of  useful  knowledge  should 
be  carefully  imparted  to  young  persons,  it  should 
be  imparted  not  merely  for  its  own  sake,  but 
also  for  the  sake  of  its  subserviency  to  higher 
things.  All  human  learning  should  be  taught, 
not  as  an  end,  but  a  means  ;  and  in  this  view 
even  a  lesson  of  history  or  geography  may  be 
converged  into  a  lesson  of  religion.  In  the  study 
of  history,  the  instructor  will  accustom  the  pu¬ 
pil  not  merely  to  store  her  memory  with  facts 
and  anecdotes,  and  to  ascertain  dates  and  epochs: 
but  she  will  accustom  her  also  to  trace  effects 
to  their  causes,  to  examine  the  secret  springs 
of  action,  and  accurately  to  observe  the  opera¬ 
tions  of  the  passions.  It  is  only  meant  to  notice 
here  some  few  of  the  moral  benefits  which  may 
be  derived  from  judicious  perusal  of  history  ; 
and  from  among  other  points  of  instruction,  I 
tselect  the  fbllowing  :* 

The  study  of  history  may  serve  to  give  a 
cla|rer  insight  into  the  corruption  of  human 
nature : 

It  may  help  to  show  the  plan  of  Providence 
in  the  direction  of  events,  and  in  the  use  of  un¬ 
worthy  instruments  : 

It  may  assist  in  the  vindication  of  Providence, 
in  the  common  failure  of  virtue,  and  the  frequent 
success  of  vice : 

It. may  lead  to  a  distrust  of  bur  own  judg¬ 
ment  : 

It  may  contribute  to  our  improvement  in  self- 
knowledge. 

But  to  prove  to  the  pupil  the  important  doc¬ 
trine  of  human  corruption  from  the  study  of 
history,  will  require  a  truly  Christian  commen¬ 
tator  in  the  friend  with  whom  the  work  is  pe¬ 
rused.  For,  from  the  low  standard  of  right  esta¬ 
blished  by  the  generality  of  historians,  who 
erect  so  many  persons  into  good  characters  who 
fall  short  of  the  true  idea  of  Christian  virtue,  the 
unassisted  reader  will  be  liable  to  form  very  im¬ 
perfect  views  of  what  is  real  goodness ;  and 
will  conclude,  as  his  author  sometimes  does,  that 
the  true  idea  of  human  nature  is  to  be  taken 

*  It  were  to  Ik:  wished  that  more  historians  resembled 
the  excellent  Rollin  in  the  religious  and  moral  turn 
given  to  his  writings  of  this  kind. — But  here  may  I  be 
permitted  to  observe  incidentally  (for  it  is  not  immedi- 
jitely  analogous  to  my  subject)  that  there  is  one  disad¬ 
vantage  which  at'ends  the  common  practice  of  setting 
voung  ladies  to  read  ancient  history  and  geography  in 
French  or  Italian,  who  have  not  been  previously  well 
grounded  in  the  pronunciation  of  classical  names  of 
persons  and  places  in  our  own  language.  The  foreign 
termination  of  Greek  and  Roman  names  are  often  very 
diffiirent  from  the  English,  and  where  they  are  first  ac¬ 
quired  are  frequently  retained  and  adopted  in  their 
stead,  so  as  to  give  an  illiterate  apiK'arance  to  the  con- 
ver.-;ation  of  some  women  who  are  not  really  ignorant 
knd  this  defective  pronunciation  is  the  more  to  be 
guarded  against  in  the  education  of  ladies  who  are  not 
taught  quantity  as  boys  arc. 


from  the  medium  between  his  best  and  his  worst 
characters  ;  without  acquiring  a  just  notion  of 
that  prevalence  of  evil ;  which,  in  spite  of  those 
few  brighter  luminaries  that  here  and  there  just 
serve  to  gild  the  gloom  of  history,  tends  abun¬ 
dantly  to  establish  the  doctrine.  It  will  indeed 
be  continually  establishing  itself  by  those  who, 
in  perusing  the  history  of  mankind,  carefully' 
mark  the  rise  and  progress  of  sin,  from  the  first 
timid  irruption  of  an  evil  thought,  to  the  fearless 
accomplishment  of  the  abhorred  crime  in  which 
that  thought  has  ended  :  from  the  indignant 
question,  ‘  Is  thy  servant  a  dog  that  he  should 
do  this  great  thing  ?’*  to  the  perpetration  of  that 
very  enormity  of  which  the  self-acquitting  de¬ 
linquent  could  not  endure  the  slightest  sugges¬ 
tion. 

In  this  connexion  may  it  not  be  observed, 
that  young  persons  should  be  put  on  their  guard 
against  a  too  implicit  belief  in  the  flattering  ac¬ 
counts  which  many  voyage  writers  are  fond  of 
exhibiting  of  the  virtue,  amiableness,  and  be¬ 
nignity,  of  some  of  the  countries  newly  disco¬ 
vered  by  our  circumnavigators;  that  they  should 
learn  to  suspect  the  superior  goodness  ascribed 
to  the  Hindoos,  and  particularly  the  account  of 
the  inhabitants  of  the  Pelew  Islands  ?  These 
last  indeed  have  been  represented  as  having  al 
most  escaped  the  universal  taint  of  our  common 
nature,  and  would  seem  by  tbeir  purity  to  have 
sprung  from  another  ancestor  than  Adam. 

We  cannot  forbear  suspecting  that  these  pleas¬ 
ing,  but  somewhat  overcharged  portraits  of  mari 
in  his  natural  state,  are  drawn  with  the  invidi¬ 
ous  design,  by  counteracting  the  doctrine  of  hu¬ 
man  corruption,  to  degrade  the  value  and  even 
destroy  the  necessity  of  the  Christian  sacrifice ; 
by  insinuating  that  uncultivated  man  is  so  dis¬ 
posed  to  rectitude  as  to  supersede  the  occasion 
for  that  redemption  which  is  professedly  design¬ 
ed  for  sinners-  That  in  countries  professing 
Christianity,  very  many  are  not  Christians  will 
be  too  readily  granted.  Yet  to  say  nothing  of 
the  vast  superiority  of  goodness  in  the  lives  of 
those  who  are  really  governed  by  Christianity, 
is  there  not  something  even  in  her  reflex  light 
which  guides  to  greater  purity  many  of  those 
who  do  not  profess  to  walk  by  it ;  I  doubt  much, 
if  numbers  of  the  unbelievers  of  a  Christian 
country,  from  the  sounder  views  and  better  ha¬ 
bits  derived  incidentally  and  collaterally,  as  it 
were  from  the  influence  of  a  Gospel,  the  truth 
of  which  however  they  do  not  acknowledge, 
would  not  start  at  many  of  the  actions  which 
these  heathen  perfectionists  daily  commit  with¬ 
out  hesitation. 

The  religious  reader  of  general  history  will 
observe  the  controlling  hand  of  Providence  in 
the  direction  of  events ;  in  turning  the  most  un¬ 
worthy  actions  and  instruments  to  the  accom¬ 
plishment  of  his  own  purposes.  She  will  mark 
infinite  Wisdom  directing  what  appears  to  be 
casual  occurrences,  to  the  completion  of  his  own 
plan.  She  will  point  out  how  causes  seemingly 
the  most  unconnected,  events  seemingly  the 
most  unpromising,  circumstances  seemingly  the 
most  incongruous,  are  all  working  together  for 
some  final  good.  She  will  mark  how  national 

*  S  Kings,  viii.  13. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


347 


as  well  as  individual  crimes  are  often  overruled 
to  some  bidden  purpose  far  different  from  the 
intention  of  the  actors  :  how  Omnipotence  can, 
and  often  does,  bring  about  the  best  purposes 
by  the  worst  instruments;  how  the  bloody  and 
unjust  conqueror  is  but  ‘  the  rod  of  his  wrath,’ 
to  punish  or  to  purify  his  offending  children  : 
how  ‘  the  fury  of  the  oppressor,’  and  the  suffer¬ 
ings  of  the  oppressed,  will  one  day,  when  the 
whole  scheme  shall  be  unfolded,  vindicate  his 
righteous  dealings.  She  will  explain  to  the  less 
enlightened  reader,  how  infinite  Wisdom  often 
mocks  the  insignificance  of  human  greatness, 
and  the  shallowness  of  human  ability,  by  set¬ 
ting  aside  instruments  the  most  powerful  and 
promising,  while  He  works  by  agents  compara¬ 
tively  contemptible.  But  she  will  carefully 
guard  this  doctrine  of  Divine  Providence,  thus 
working  out  his  own  purposes  through  the  sins 
of  his  creatures,  and  by  the  instrumentality  of 
the  wicked,  by  calling  to  mind,  while  the  offend¬ 
er  is  but  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  great  Arti¬ 
ficer,  ‘  the  wo  denounced  against  him  by  whom 
the  offence  cometh  !  She  will  explain  how  those 
mutations  and  revolutions  in  states  which  appear 
to  us  so  unaccountable,  and  how  those  opera¬ 
tions  of  Providence  which  seem  to  us  so  entan¬ 
gled  and  complicated,  all  move  harmoniously 
and  in  perfect  order  :  that  there  is  not  an  event 
but  has  its  commission  ;  not  a  misfortune  which 
breaks  its  allotted  rank  ;  not  a  trial  which  moves 
out  of  its  appointed  track.  While  calamities 
and  crimes  seem  to  fly  in  casual  confusion,  all 
is  commanded  or  permitted ;  all  is  under  the 
control  of  a  wisdom  which  cannot  err,  of  a  good¬ 
ness  which  cannot  do  wrong. 

To  explain  my  meaning  by  a  few  instances. 
When  the  spirit  of  the  youthful  reader  rises  in 
honest  indignation  at  that  hypocritical  piety 
which  divorced  an  unoffending  queen  to  make 
way  for  the  lawful  crime  of  our  eighth  Henry’s 
marriage  with  Ann  Boleyn,  and  when  that  in¬ 
dignation  is  increased  by  the  more  open  profli¬ 
gacy  which  brought  about  the  execution  of  the 
•atter ;  the  instructor  will  not  lose  so  fair  an  oc¬ 
casion-  for  unfolding  how  in  the  councils  of  the 
Most  High  the  crimes  of  the  king  were  over¬ 
ruled  to  the  happiness  of  the  country ;  and  how, 
to  this  inauspicious  marriage,  from  which  the 
heroic  Elizabeth  sprang,  the  protestant  religion 
owed  its  firm  stability.  This  view  of  the  sub¬ 
ject  will  lead  the  reader  to  justify  the  Provi¬ 
dence  of  God  without  diminishing  her  abhor¬ 
rence  of  the  vices  of  the  tyrant. 

She  will  explain  to  her  how  even  the  conquest 
of  ambition,  after  having  deluged  a  land  with 
blood,  involved  the  perpetrator  in  guilt,  and  the 
innocent  victim  in  ruin,  may  yet  be  made  the 
instrument  of  opening  to  future  generations  the 
way  to  commerce,  to  civilization,  to  Christianity, 
She  may  remind  her,  as  they  are  following 
Cffisar  in  his  invasion  of  Britain,  that  whereas 
the  conqueror  fancied  he  was  only  gratifying 
his  own  inordinate  ambition,  extending  the 
flight  of  the  Roman  Eagle,  immortalizing  his 
own  name,  and  proving  that  ‘this  world  was 
made  for  Caesar;’  he  was  in  reality  becoming 
the  effectual  though  unconscious  instrument  of 
jBading  a  land  of  barbarians  to  civilization  and 
to  science :  and  was  in  fact  preparing  an  island 


of  pagans  to  embrace  the  religion  of  Christ 
She  will  inform  her,  that  when  afterwards  the 
victorious  country  of  the  same  Csesar  had  made 
Judea  a  Roman  province,  and  the  Jews  had  be¬ 
come  its  tributaries,  the  Romans  did  not  know, 
nor  did  the  indignant  Jews  suspect,  that  this 
circumstance  was  operating  to  the  confirmation 
of  an  event  the  most  important  the  world  ever 
witnessed. 

For  when  ‘  Augustus  sent  forth  a  decree  that 
all  the  world  should  be  taxed  ;’  he  vainly  thought 
he  was  only  enlarging  his  own  imperial  power, 
whereas  he  was  acting  in  unconscious  subser¬ 
vience  to  the  decree  of  a  higher  Sovereign,  and 
was  helping  to  ascertain  by  a  public  act  the 
exact  period  of  Christ’s  bjrth,  and  furnishing  a 
record  of  his  extraction  from  that  family  from 
which  it  was  predicted  by  a  long  line  of  pro¬ 
phets  that  he  should  spring.  Herod’s  atrocious 
murder  of  the  innocents  has  added  an  addition¬ 
al  circumstance  for  the  confirmation  of  our 
faith  ;  the  incredulity  of  Thomas  has  strength¬ 
ened  our  belief;  nay,  the  treachery  of  Judas,  and 
the  injustice  of  Pilate,  were  the  human  instru¬ 
ments  employed  for  the  salvation  of  the  world. 

The  youth  that  is  not  thoroughly  armed  with 
Christian  principles,  will  be  tempted  to  mutiny 
not  only  against  the  justice,  but  the  very  exist¬ 
ence  of  a  superintending  Providence,  in  con¬ 
templating  those  frequent  instances  which  occur 
in  history  of  the  ill  success  of  the  more  virtuous 
cause,  and  the  prosperity  of  the  wicked.  He 
will  see  with  astonishment  that  it  is  Rome  which 
triumphs,  while  Carthage,  which  had  clearly 
the  better  cause,  falls.  Now  and  then  indeed  a 
Cicero  prevails,  and  a  Cataline  is  subdued :  but 
often,  it  is  paesar  successful  against  the  some¬ 
what  juster  pretensions  of  Pompey,  and  against 
the  still  clearer  cause  of  Cato.  It  is  Octavius 
who  triumphs,  and  it  is  over  Brutus  that  he 
triumphs.  It  is  Tiberius  who  is  enthroned, 
while  Germanicus  falls ! 

Thus  his  faith  in  a  righteous  Providence  at 
first  view  is  staggered,  and  he  is  ready  to  say, 

‘  Surely  it  is  not  God  that  governs  the  earth ! 
But  on  a  fuller  consideration  (and  here  sugges¬ 
tions  of  a  Christian  instructor  are  peculiarly 
wanted)  there  will  appear  great  wisdom  in  this 
very  confusion  of  vice  and  virtue  ;  for  it  is  cal¬ 
culated  to  send  our  thoughts  forward  to  a  world 
of  retribution,  the  principle  of  retribution  being 
so  imperfectly  established  in  this.  It  is  indeed 
so  far  common  for  virtue  to  have  the  advantage 
here,  in  point  of  happiness  at  least,  though  not 
of  glory,  that  the  course  of  Providence  is  still 
calculated  to  prove  that  God  is  on  the  side  of 
virtue  ;  but  still  virtue  is  so  often  unsuccessful, 
that  clearly  the  God  of  virtue,  in  order  that  his 
work  may  be  perfect,  must  have  in  reserve  a 
world  of  retribution.  This  confused  slate  of 
things  therefore  is  just  that  state  which  is  most 
of  all  calculated  to  confirm  the  deeply  conside¬ 
rate  mind  in  the  belief  of  a  future  state ;  for  if 
all  here  were  oven  or  very  nearly  so,  should  wo 
not  say,  ‘Justice  is  already  satisfied,  and  tlierc 
needs  no  other  world.’  On  the  other  hand,  if 
vice  always  triumphed,  should  wc  not  then  be 
ready  to  argue  in  favour  of  vice  rather  than  vir¬ 
tue,  and  to  wish  for  no  other  world. 

It  seems  so  very  important  to  ground  young 


348 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


persons  in  the  belief  that  they  will  not  inevita¬ 
bly  meet  in  this  world  with  reward  and  success 
according  to  their  merit,  and  to  habituate  them 
to  expect  even  the  most  virtuous  attempts  to  be 
often,  though  not  always  disappointed,  that  I 
am  in  danger  of  tautology  on  this  point.  This 
fact  is  precisely  what  history  teaches.  The  truth 
should  be  plainly  told  to  the  young  reader  ;  and 
the  antidote  to  that  evil,  which  mistaken  and 
worldly  people  would  expect  to  arise  from  di¬ 
vulging  this  discouraging  doctrine  is  faith. 
The  importance  of  faith  therefore,  and  the  ne¬ 
cessity  of  it  to  real,  unbending,  and  persevering 
virtue,  is  surely  made  plain  by  profane  history 
itself.  For  the  same  thing  which  happens  to 
states  and  kings,  happens  to  private  life  and 
to  individuals.  Thus  there  is  scarcely  a  page, 
even  of  pagan  history,  which  may  not  be  made 
instrumental  to  the  establishing  of  the  truth  of 
revelation ;  and  it  is  only  by  such  a  guarded 
mode  of  instruction  that  some  of  the  evils  attend¬ 
ing  on  the  study  of  ancient  literature  can  be  ob¬ 
viated. 

Distrust  and  diffidence  in  our  own  judgment 
seems  to  be  also  an  important  instruction  to  be 
learnt  from  history.  How  contrary  to  all  ex¬ 
pectation  do  the  events  therein  recorded  com¬ 
monly  turn  out !  How  continually  is  the  most 
sagacious  conjecture  of  human  penetration  baffl¬ 
ed  !  and  yet  we  proceed  to  foretel  this  conse¬ 
quence,  and  to  predict  that  event  from  the  ap¬ 
pearances  of  things  under  our  own  observation, 
with  the  same  arrogant  certainty  as  if  we  had 
never  been  warned  by  the  monitory  annals  of 
successive  ages. 

There  is  scarcely  one  great  event  in  history 
which  does  not  in  the  issue,  produce  effects 
upon  which  human  foresight  could  never  have 
calculated.  The  success  of  Augustus  against 
his  country  produced  peace  in  many  distant 
provinces,  who  thus  ceased  to  be  harassed  and 
tormented  by  this  oppressive  republic.  Could 
this  effect  have  been  foreseen,  it  might  have 
sobered  the  despair  of  Cato,  and  checked  the 
vehemence  of  Brutus.  In  politics,  in  short  in 
every  thing  except  in  morals  and  religion,  all 
is  to  a  considerable  degree  uncertain. — This 
reasoning  is  not  meant  to  show  that  Cato  ought 
not  to  have  fought,  but  that  he  ought  not  to 
have  desponded  even  after  the  last  battle ;  and 
certainly,  even  upon  his  own  principles,  ought 
not  to  have  killed  himself.  It  would  be  de¬ 
parting  too  much  from  my  object  to  apply  this  ar¬ 
gument,  however  obvious  the  application,  against 
those  who  were  driven  to  unreasonable  distrust 
and  despair  by  the  late  successes  of  a  neighbour¬ 
ing  nation. 

But  all  knowledge  will  be  comparatively  of 
little  value,  if  we  neglect  self-knowledge ;  and 
of  self-knowledge  history  and  biography  may 
be  made  successful  vehicles.  It  will  bo  to  little 
purpose  that  our  pupils  become  accurate  critics 
on  the  characters  of  others,  while  they  remain 
ignorant  of  themselves ;  for  while  to  those  who 
exercise  a  habit  of  self-application  a  book  of 
profane  history  may  be  made  an  instrument  of 
improvement  in  this  difficult  science  ;  so  with¬ 
out  such  an  habit  the  Bible  itself  may,  in  this 
view,  be  read  with  little  profit. 

It  will  be  to  no  purpose  that  the  reader  weeps 


over  the  fortitude  of  the  Christian  hero,  or  the 
constancy  of  the  martyr,  if  she  do  not  bear  in 
mind  that  she  herself  is  called  to  endure  her 
own  common  trials  with  something  of  the  same 
temper  :  if  she  do  not  bear  in  mind  that,  to  eon- 
troul  irregular  humours,  and  to  submit  to  the 
daily  vexations  of  life,  will  require,  though  in  a 
lower  degree,  the  exertion  of  the  same  principle, 
and  supplication  for  the  aid  of  the  same  spirit 
which  sustained  the  Christian  hero  in  the  try¬ 
ing  confliets  of  life ;  or  the  martyr  in  his  agony 
at  the  stake. 

May  I  be  permitted  to  suggest  a  few  in¬ 
stances,  by  way  of  specimen,  how  both  sacred 
and  common  history  may  tend  to  promote  self- 
knowledge  ?  And  let  me  again  remind  the  warm 
admirer  of  suffering  piety  under  extraordinary 
trials,  that  if  she  now  fail  m  the  petty  occasions 
to  which  she  is  actually  called  out,  she  would 
not  be  likely  to  have  stood  in  those  more  trying 
occasions  which  excite  her  admiration. 

While  she  is  applauding  the  self-denying  saint 
who  renounced  his  ease,  or  chose  to  embrace 
death,  rather  than  violate  his  duty,  let  her  ask 
herself  if  she  has  never  refused  to  submit  to  the 
paltry  inconvenience  of  giving  up  her  company, 
or  even  altering  her  dinner-hour  on  Sunday, 
though  by  this  trifling  sacrifice  her  family  might 
have  been  enabled  to  attend  the  public  worship 
in  the  afternoon. 

While  she  reads  with  horror  that  Belshazzar 
was  rioting  with  his  thousand  nobles  at  the 
very  moment  when  the  Persian  army  was  burst¬ 
ing  through  the  brazen  gates  of  Babylon  ;  is  she 
very  sure  that  she  herself,  in  an  almost  equally 
imminent  moment  of  public  danger,  has  not  been 
nightly  indulging  in  every  species  of  dissipation  7 

When  she  is  deploring  the  inconsistency  of 
the  human  heart,  while  she  contrasts  in  Mark 
Anthony  his  bravery  arid  contempt  of  ease  at 
one  period,  with  his  licentious  indulgences  at 
another  ;  or  while  she  laments  over  the  intrepid 
soul  of  Caesar,  whom  she  had  been  following 
in  his  painful  marches,  or  admiring  in  his  cdU- 
tempt  of  death,  now  dissolved  in  dissolute  plea¬ 
sures  with  the  ensnaring  queen  of  Egypt :  let 
her  examine  whether  she  herself  has  never, 
though  in  a  much  lower  degree,  evineed  some¬ 
thing  of  the  same  inconsistency  ?  whether  she 
who  lives  perhaps  an  orderly, ^ober,  and  reason¬ 
able  life  during  her  summer  residence  in  the 
country,  docs  not  plunge  with  little  scruple  in 
the  winter  into  all  the  most  extravagant  plea¬ 
sures  of  the  capital  ?  whether  she  never  carries 
about  with  her  an  accommodating  kind  of  re¬ 
ligion,  which  can  be  made  to  bend  to  places  and 
seasons,  to  climates  and  customs,  to  times  and 
circumstances ;  which  takes  its  tincture  from 
the  fashion  without,  and  not  its  habits  from  the 
principle  within  ;  which  is  decent  with  the  pious, 
sober  with  the  orderly,  and  loose  with  the  li¬ 
centious  ? 

While  she  is  admiring  the  generosity  of  Alex¬ 
ander  in  giving  away  kingdoms  and  provinces, 
let  her,  in  order  to  ascertain  whether  she  could 
imitate  this  magnanimity,  take  heed  if  she  her 
self  is  daily  seizing  all  the  little  occasions  of 
doing  good,  which  every  day  presents  to  the 
affluent  ?  Her  call  is  not  to  sacrifice  a  province  ; 
but  does  she  sacrifice  an  opera  ticket  ?  She  who 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


i 


349 


is  not  doing  all  the  good  she  can  under  her  pre¬ 
sent  circumstances,  would  not  do  all  she  fore¬ 
sees  she  should,  in  imaginary  ones,  were  her 
power  enlarged  to  the  extent  of  her  wishes. 

While  she  is  inveighing  with  patriotic  indig¬ 
nation,  that  in  a  neighbouring  metropolis,  thirty 
theatres  were  open  every  night  in  time  of  war 
and  public  calamity,  is  she  very  clear  that  in  a 
metropolis  which  contains  only  three,  she  was 
not  almost  constantly  at  one  of  them  in  time  of 
war  and  public  calamity  also  ?  For  though  in  a 
national  view  it  may  make  a  wide  difference 
whether  there  be  in  the  capital  three  theatres  or 
thirty,  yet,  as  the  same  person  can  only  go  to 
one  of  them  at  once,  it  makes  but  little  differ¬ 
ence  as  to  the  quantum  of  dissipation  in  the  in¬ 
dividual.  She  who  rejoices  at  successful  virtue 
in  a  history,  or  at  the  prosperity  of  a  person 
whose  interests  do  not  interfere  with  her  own, 
may  exercise  her  self-knowledge  by  examining 
whether  she  rejoices  equally  at  the  happiness 
of  every  one  about  her :  and  let  her  remember 
she  does  not  rejoice  at  it  in  the  true  sense,  if  she 
does  not  labour  to  promote  it.  She  who  glows 
with  rapture  at  a  virtuous  character  in  history, 
should  ask  her  owm  heart,  whether  she  is  equally 
ready  to  do  justice  to  the  fine  qualities  of  her 
acquaintance,  though  she  may  not  particularly 
love  them ;  and  whether  she  takes  unfeigned 
pleasure  in  the.  superior  talents,  virtues,  fame 
and  fortune  of  those  whom  she  professes  to  love, 
though  she  is  eclipsed  by  them  ? 

^  *  If: 

In  like  manner,  in  the  study  of  geography  and 
natural  history,  the  attention  should  be  habitu¬ 
ally  turned  to  the  goodness  of  Providence,  who 
commonly  adapts  the  various  productions  of  cli¬ 
mates  to  the  peculiar  wants  of  the  respective 
inhabitants.  To  illustrate  my  meaning  by  one 
or  two  instances  out  of  a  thousand.  The  reader 
may  be  led  to  admire  the  considerate  goodness 
of  Providence  in  having  caused  the  spiry  fir, 
whoso  slender  foliage  does  not  obstruct  the  beams 
of  the  sun,  to  grow  in  the  dreary  regions  of  the 
north,  whose  shivering  inhabitants  could  spare 
none  of  its  scanty  rays  ;  wliile  in  the  torrid  zone, 
the  palm-tree,  the  plantain,  and  the  banana, 
spread  their  umbrella  leaves  to  break  the  almost 
intolerable  fervor  of  a  vertical  sun.  How  the 
camel,  who  is  the  solo  carrier  of  all  the  merchan¬ 
dise  of  Turkey,  Persia,  Egypt,  Arabia,  and  Bar¬ 
bary,  who  is  obliged  to  transport  his  incredible 
burthens  through  countries  in  which  pasture  is 
so  rare,  can  subsist  twenty-four  hours  without 
food,  and  can  travel  loaded,  many  days  without 
water,  through  dry  and  dusty  deserts,  which 
supply  none  ;  and  all  this,  not  from  the  habit, 
but  from  the  conformation  of  the  animal :  for 
naturalists  make  this  conformity  of  powers  to 
climates  a  rule  of  judgment  in  ascertaining  the 
native  countries  of  animals,  and  always  deter¬ 
mine  it  to  be  that  to  which  their  powers  and 
oro()erties  are  most  appropriate. 

Thus  the  writers  of  natural  history  are  per¬ 
haps  unintentionally  magnifying  the  operations 
of  Providence,  when  they  insist  that  animals  do 
not  modify  and  give  way  to  the  influence  of 
otiicr  climates ;  but  hero  they  too  commonly 
stop  ;  neglecting,  or  perhaps  refusing,  to  ascribe 
to  infinite  goodness  this  wise  and  merciful  ac¬ 


commodation.  And  here  the  pious  instructor 
will  come  in,  in  aid  of  their  deficiency  ;  for  phi¬ 
losophers  loo  seldom  trace  up  causes,  and  won¬ 
ders,  and  blessings  to  their  Author.  And  it  is 
peculiarly  to  be  regretted  that  a  late  justly  cele¬ 
brated  French  naturalist,  who,  though  not  fa¬ 
mous  tor  his  accuracy,  possessed  such  diversified 
pow’ers  of  description  that  he  had  the  talent  of 
making  the  driest  subjects  interesting ;  together 
with  such  liveliness  of  delineation,  that  his  cha¬ 
racters  of  animals  are  drawn  with  a  spirit  and 
variety  rather  to  be  looked  for  in  an  historian  of 
men  than  of  beasts :  it  is  to  be  regretted,  I  say 
that  this  writer,  with  all  his  excellencies,  is  ab¬ 
solutely  inadmissible  into  the  library  of  a  young 
lady,  both  on  account  of  his  immodesty  and  his 
impiety  ;  and  if  in  wishing  to  exclude  him,  it 
may  be  thought  wrong  to  have  given  him  so 
much  commendation,  it  is  only  meant  to  show 
that  the  author  is  not  led  to  reprobate  his  p  in- 
ciples  from  insensibility  to  his  talents.  Tli*  -e- 
mark  is  rather  made  to  put  the  reader  on  re¬ 
membering  that  no  brilliancy  of  genius,  no 
diversity  of  attainments,  should  ever  be  allowed 
as  a  commutation  for  defective  principles  and 
corrupt  ideas.* 


CHAP.  X. 

On  the  use  of  definitions,  and  the  moral  henefila 
of  accuracy  in  language. 

Persons  having  been  accustomed  from  their 
cradles  to  learn  words  before  they  knew  the 
ideas  for  which  they  stand,  usually  continue  to 
do  so  all  their  lives,  never  taking  the  pains  to 
settle  in  their  minds,  the  determined  ideas  which 
belong  to  them.  This  want  of  a  precise  signifi¬ 
cation  of  their  words,  when  they  come  to  reason, 
especially  in  moral  matters,  is  the  cause  of  very 
obscure  and  uncertain  notions.  They  use  those 
undetermined  words  confidently,  without  much 
troubling  their  heads  about  a  certain  fixed  mean¬ 
ing,  whereby,  besides  the  ease  of.it,  they  obtain 
this  advantage,  that  as  in  such  discourse  they 
are  seldom  in  the  right,  so  they  are  seldom  to 
be  convinced  that  they  are  in  the  wrong,  it  be¬ 
ing  just  the  same  to  go  about  to  draw  those  per¬ 
sons  out  of  their  mistakes,  who  have  no  settled 
notions,  as  to  dispossess  a  vagrant  of  his  habita¬ 
tion  who  has  no  settled  abode. — The  chief  end 
of  language  being  to  be  understood,  words  serve 
not  for  that  end  when  they  do  not  excite  in  the 
hearer  the  same  idea  which  they  stand  for  in 
the  mind  of  the  speaker.’t 

I  have  chosen  to  shelter  myself  under  the 
broad  sanction  of  the  groat  author  here  quoted, 
with  a  view  to  apply  this  rule  in  philology  to  a 
moral  purpose  ;  for  it  applies  to  the  veracity  of 
conversation  as  much  as  to  its  correctness ;  and 
as  strongly  recommends  unequivocal  and  sim|)le 
truth,  us  accurate  and  just  expression.  Scarcely 
any  one  perhaps  has  an  adequate  conception 

•  Goldsmith’s  History  of  Animated  Nature  has  many 
references  to  a  Divine  Author.  It  is  to  be  wished  tha.*. 
some  judicious  jierson  would  publish  a  new  edition  ot 
this  work,  purified  flom  the  indelicate  and  ollensive 
parts, 
t  Locke. 


350 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


how  much  clear  and  correct  expression  favours 
the  elucidation  of  truth  ;  and  the  side  of  truth 
is  obviously  the  side  of  morals  ;  it  is  in  fact  one 
and  the  same  cause  ;  and  it  is  of  course  t)je  same 
cause  with  that  of  true  religion  also. 

It  is  therefore  no  worthless  part  of  education, 
even  in  a  religious  view,  to  study  the  precise 
meaning  of  words,  and  the  appropriate  signifi¬ 
cation  of  language.  To  this  end  I  know  no 
better  method  than  to  accustom  young  persons 
very  early  to  a  habit  of  defining  common  words 
and  things  ;  for,  as  definition  seems  to  lie  at  the 
root  of  correctness,  to  be  accustomed  to  define 
English  words  in  English,  would  improve  the 
understanding  more  than  barely  to  know  what 
these  words  are  called  in  French,  Italian,  or 
Latin.  Or  rather,  one  use  of  learning  other 
languages  is,  because  definition  is  often  involved 
in  etymology  ;  that  is,  since  many  English  words 
take  their  derivation  from  foreign  or  ancient 
languages,  they  cannot  be  so  accurately  under¬ 
stood  without  some  knowledge  of  those  lan¬ 
guages  :  but  precision  of  any  kind,  either  moral 
or  philological,  too  seldom  finds  its  way  into  the 
education  of  women. 

It  is  perhaps  going  out  of  my  province  to  ob¬ 
serve,  that  it  might  be  well  if  young  7nen  also 
before  they  entered  on  the  world,  were  to  be  fur¬ 
nished  with  correct  definitions  of  certain  words, 
the  use  of  which  is  become  rather  ambiguous ; 
or  rather  they  should  be  instructed  in  the  double 
sense  of  modern  phraseology.  For  instance ; 
they  should  be  provided  with  a  good  definition 
of  the  word  honour  in  the  fashionable  sense, 
showing  what  vices  it  includes,  and  what  virtues 
it  does  not  include  ;  the  term  good  company, 
which  even  the  courtly  Petronius  of  our  days 
has  defined  as  sometimes  including  not  a  few 
immoral  and  disreputable  characters  ;  religion, 
which  in  the  various  senses  assigned  it  by  the 
world,  sometimes  means  superstition,  sometimes 
fanaticism,  and  sometimes  a  mere  disposition  to 
attend  on  any  kind  of  form  of  worship  :  the  word 
goodness,  which  is  made  to  mean  every  thing 
that  is  not  notoriously  bad  ;  and  sometimes  even 
that  too,  if  what  is  notoriously  bad  bo  accompa¬ 
nied  by  good  humour,  pleasing  manners,  and  a 
little  alms-giving.  By  these  means  they  would 
go  forth  armed  against  many  of  the  false  opini¬ 
ons  which,  through  the  abuse  or  ambiguous 
meaning  of  words,  pass  so  current  in  the  world. 

But  to  return  to  the  youthful  part  of  that  sex 
which  is  the  more  immediate  object  of  this  little 
work.  With  correct  definition  they  should  also 
bo  taught  to  study  the  shades  of  words,  and  this 
not  merely  with  a  view  to  accuracy  of  expression, 
though  even  that  involves  both  sense  and  ele¬ 
gance,  but  with  a  view  to  moral  truth. 

It  may  be  thought  ridiculous  to  assert  that 
morals  have  any  connexion  with  the  purity  of 
language,  or  that  the  precision  of  truth  may  be 
violated  througli  defect  of  critical  exactness  in 
the  three  degrees  of  comparison  :  yet  how  fre¬ 
quently  do  we  hear  from  the  dealers  in  superla¬ 
tives,  of  ‘  most  admirable,  superexcellent,  and 
quite  perfect’  people,  who,  to  plain  persons,  not 
bred  in  the  school  of  exaggeration,  would  appear 
mere  common  characters,  not  rising  above  the 
level  of  mediocrity  !  By  this  negligence  in  the 
ust  application  o^  words,  we  shall  be  as  much 


misled  by  these  trope  and  figure  ladies,  whew 
they  degrade  as  when  they  panegyrize ;  for  to  a 
plain  and  sober  judgment,  a  tradesman  may  not 
be  ‘  the  most  good-for-nothing  fellow  that  ever 
existed,’  merely  because  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  execute  in  an  hour,  an  order  which  re. 
quired  a  week ;  a  lady  may  not  be  ‘  the  most 
hideous  fright  the  world  ever  saw,’  though  the 
make  of  her  gown  may  have  been  obsolete  for  a 
month  ;  nor  may  one’s  young  friend’s  father  be 
a  ‘  monster  of  cruelty,’  though  he  may  be  a  quiet 
gentleman  who  does  not  choose  to  live  at  water¬ 
ing-places,  but  likes  to  have  his  daughter  stay 
at  home  with  him  in  the  country. 

Of  all  the  parts  of  speech,  the  interjection  is 
the  most  abundantly  in  use  with  the  hyperboli- 
cal  fair  ones.  Would  it  could  be  added  that 
these  emphatical  expletives  (if  I  may  make  use 
of  a  contradictory  term,)  were  not  sometimes 
tinctured  with  profaneness  !  Though  I  am  per¬ 
suaded  that  idle  habit  is  often  more  at  the  bot¬ 
tom.  of  this  deep  offence  than  intended  impiety,, 
yet  there  is  scarcely  any  error  of  youthful  talk 
which  merits  severer  castigation.  And  an  habit 
of  exclamation  should  be  rejected  by  polished 
people  as  vulgar,  even  if  it  were  not  abhorred  as 
j)rofane. 

The  habit  of  exaggerating  trifles,  together 
with  the  grand  female  failing  of  excessive  mu¬ 
tual  flattery,  and  elaborate  general  professions 
of  fondness  and  attachment,  is  inconceivably 
cherished  by  the  voluminous  private  correspon¬ 
dences  in  which  some  girls  are  indulged.  In 
vindication  of  this  practice  it  is  pleaded  that  a 
facility  of  style,  and  an  easy  turn  of  expression, 
are  acquisitions  to  be  derived  from  an  early  in¬ 
terchange  of  sentiments  by  letter-writing  ;  but 
even  if  it  w'ere  so,  these  would  be  dearly  pur¬ 
chased  by  the  sacrifice  of  that  truth,  and  sobriety 
of  sentiment,  that  correctness  of  language,  and 
that  ingenuous  simplicity  of  character  and  man¬ 
ners  so  lovely  in  female  youth. 

Next  to  pernicious  reading,  imprudent  and 
violent  friendships  are  the  most  dangerous  snares 
to  tliis  simplicity.  And  boundless  correspon¬ 
dences  with  different  confidants,  whether  they 
live  in  a  distant  province,  or,  as  it  often  happens, 
in  the  same  street,  are  the  fuel  which  principally 
feeds  this  dangerous  flame  of  youthful  sentiment. 
In  those  correspondences  the  young  friends  often 
encourage  each  other  in  the  falsest  notions  of 
human  life,  and  the  most  erroneous  views  of 
each  other’s  character.  Family  affairs  are  di¬ 
vulged,  and  family  faults  aggravated.  Vows  of 
everlasting  attachment  and  exclusive  fondness 
are  in  a  pretty  just  proportion  bestowed  on  every 
friend  alike.  These  epistles  overflow  with  quo¬ 
tations  from  the  most  passionate  of  the  dramatic 
poets ;  and  passages  w-rested  from  their  natural 
meaning,  and  pressed  into  the  service  of  senti- 
metit,  are,  with  all  the  violence  of  misapplica¬ 
tion,  compelled  to  suit  the  case  of  the  heroic 
transcriber. 

But  antecedent  to  this  epistolary  period  of  life 
they  should  have  been  accustomed  to  the  most 
scrupulous  exactness  in  whatever  they  relate. 
They  should  maintain  the  most  critical  accuracy 
in  facts,  in  dates,  in  numherirrg,  in  describing, 
in  short,  in  whatever  pertains,  either  directly  or 
indirectly,  closely  or  remotely,  to  the  great  fun 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


351 


damental  principle,  truth.  It  is  so  very  difficult 
for  persons  of  great  liveliness  to  restrain  them¬ 
selves  within  the  sober  limits  of  strict  veracity, 
either  in  their  assertions  or  narrations,  especi¬ 
ally  when  a  little  undue  indulgence  of  fancy  is 
apt  to  procure  for  them  the  praise  of  genius  and 
spirit,  that  this  restraint  is  one  of  the  earliest 
principles  which  should  be  worked  into  the 
youthful  mind. 

The  conversation  of  young  females  is  also  in 
danger  of  being  overloaded  with  epithets.  As 
in  the  warm  season  of  youth  hardly  any  thing 
is  seen  in  the  true  point  of  vision,  so  hardly  any 
thing  is  named  in  naked  simplicity ;  and  the 
very  sensibility  of  the  feelings  is  partly  a  cause 
of  the  extravagance  of  the  expression.  But  here, 
as  in  other  points,  the  sacred  writers,  particu¬ 
larly  of  the  New  Testament,  present  us  with 
the  purest  models  ;  and  its  natural  and  unlabour¬ 
ed  style  of  expression  is  perhaps  not  the  mean¬ 
est  evidence  of  the  truth  of  the  Gospel.  There 
is  througliout  the  whole  narratives,  no  over¬ 
charged  character,  no  elaborate  description,  no¬ 
thing  studiously  emphatical,  as  if  truth  of  itself 
were  weak,  and  wanted  to  be  helped  out.  There 
is  little  panegyric,  and  less  invective;  none  but 
on  great,  and  awful,  and  justifiable  occasions. 
The  authors  record  their  own  faults  with  the 
same  honesty  as  if  they  were  the  faults  of  other 
men,  and  the  faults  of  other  men  with  as  little 
amplification  as  if  they  were  their  own.  There 
is  perhaps  no  book  in  which  adjectives  are  so 
sparingly  used.  A  modest  statement  of  the  fact, 
with  no  colouring  and  little  comment,  with  little 
emphasis  and  no  varnish,  is  the  example  held 
out  to  us  for  correcting  the  exuberances  of  pas¬ 
sion  and  of  language,  by  that  divine  volume 
which  furnishes  us  with  the  still  more  important 
rule  of  faith  and  standard  of  practice.  Nor  is 
the  truth  lowered  by  any  feebleness,  nor  is  the 
spirit  diluted,  nor  the  impression  weakened  by 
this  soberness  and  moderation  ;  for  with  all  this 
plainness  there  is  so  much  force,  with  all  this 
simplicity  there  is  so  much  energy,  that  a  few 
slight  touches  and  artless  strokes  of  Scripture 
characters  convey  a  stronger  outline  of  the  per¬ 
son  delineated,  than  is  sometimes  given  by  the 
most  elaborate  and  finished  portrait  of  more  arti¬ 
ficial  historians. 

If  it  be  objected  to  this  remark,  that  many 
parts  of  the  sacred  writings  abound  in  a  lofty, 
figurative,  and  even  hyperbolical  style;  this  ob¬ 
jection  applies  chiefly  to  the  writings  of  the  Old 
Testament,  and  to  the  prophetical  and  poetical 
parts  of  that.  But  the  metaphorical  and  florid 
style  of  those  writings  is  distinct  from  the.  inac¬ 
curate  and  overstrained  expression  we  have  been 
censuring;  tor  that  only  is  inaccuracy  which 
leads  to  a  false. and  inadequate  conception  in  the 
reader  or  hearer.  The  lofty  style  of  the  eastern, 
and  of  other  heroic  poetry,  does  not  so  mislead ; 
for  the  metaphor  is  understood  to  be  a  metaphor, 
and  the  imagery  is  understood  to  be  ornamental. 
The  style  of  the  Seriptures  of  the  Old  Testa¬ 
ment  is  not,  it  is  true,  plain  in  opposition  to 
figurative  ;  nor  simple  in  opposition  to  florid  ; 
but  it  is  plain  and  simple  in  the  best  sense,  as 
opposed  to  false  prineiples  and  false  taste ;  it 
raises  no  wrong  idea ;  it  gives  an  exact  impres¬ 
sion  of  the  thing  it  means  to  convey  ;  and  its 


very  tropes  and  figures,  though  bold,  are  never 
unnatural  or  affected ;  when  it  embellishes  it 
does  not  mislead  ;  even  when  it  exaggerates,  .t 
does  not  misrepresent ;  if  it  be  hyperbolical,  it 
is  so  either  in  compliance  with  the  genius  of 
oriental  language,  or  in  compliance  with  con¬ 
temporary  customs,  or  because  the  subject  is 
one  which  yvill  be  most  forcibly  impressed  by  a 
strong  figure.  The  loftiness  of  the  expression 
deducts  nothing  from  the  weight  of  the  circum. 
stance  ;  the  imagery  animates  the  reader  with¬ 
out  misleading  him ;  the  boldest  illustration, 
while  it  dilates  his  conception  of  the  subject,  de¬ 
tracts  nothing  from  its  exactness ;  and  the  di¬ 
vine  Spirit,  instead  of  suffering  truth  to  be  in¬ 
jured  by  the  opulence  of  the  figures,  contrives  to 
make  them  fresh  and  varied  avenues  to  the 
heart  and  the  understanding. 


CHAP.  XT. 

On  religion.  The  necessity  and  duty  of  early 
instruction  shown  by  arialogy  with  human 
learning. 

It  has  been  the  fashion  of  our  late  innovators 
in  philosophy,  who  have  written  some  of  the 
most  brilliant  and  popular  treatises  on  education, 
to  decry  the  practice  of  early  instilling  religious 
knowledge  into  the  minds  of  children.  In  vin¬ 
dication  of  this  opinion  it  has  been  alleged,  that 
it  is  of  the  utmost  importance  to  the  cause  of 
truth,  that  the  mind  of  man  should  be  kept  free 
from  prepossessions ;  and  in  particular,  that 
every  one  should  be  left  to  form  such  judgment 
on  religious  subjects  as  may  seem  best  to  his 
own  reason  in  maturer  years. 

This  sentiment  has  received  some  counte¬ 
nance  from  those  better  characters  who  have 
wished,  on  the  fairest  principle,  to  encourage 
free  inquiry  in  religion  ;  but  it  has  been  pushed 
to  the  blameable  excess  here  censured,  chiefly 
by  the  new  philosophers ;  who,  while  they  pro¬ 
fess  only  an  ingenuous  zeal  for  truth,  are  in 
fact  slily  endeavouring  to  destroy  Christianity 
itself,  by  discountenancing,  under  the  plausible 
pretence  of  free  inquiry,  ail  attention  whatever 
to  the  religious  education  of  our  youth. 

It  is  undoubtedly  our  duty,  while  we  are  in¬ 
stilling  principles  into  the  tender  mind,  to  take 
peculiar  care  that  those  principles  be  sound  and 
just ;  that  the  religion  wc  teach  be  the  religion 
of  the  Bible,  and  not  the  inventions  of  human 
error  or  superstition ;  that  the  principles  we  in¬ 
fuse  into  others,  be  sueh  as  we  ourselves  have 
well  scrutinized,  and  not  the  result  of  our  ere- 
dulity  or  bigotry  ;  not  the  mere  hereditary,  un¬ 
examined  prejudices  of  our  own  nndiscerning 
childhood.  It  may  also  be  granted,  that  it  is 
the  duty  of  every  parent  to  inform  the  youth, 
that  when  his  faculties  shall  have  so  unfolded 
themselves,  as  to  enable  him  to  examine  for 
himself  those  principles  which  the  parent  is  now 
instilling,  it  will  be  his  duty  so  to  e.xamine 
them. 

But  after  making  these  concessions,  I  would 
most  seriously  insist  that  there  are  certain  lead¬ 
ing  and  fundamental  trutlis  ;  that  there  are  cor-  . 
tain  sentiments  on  the  side  of  Christianity,  as 


352 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


well  as  of  virtue  and  benevolence,  in  favour  of 
which  every  child  ought  to  be  prepossessed ;  and 
may  it  not  be  also  added,  that  to  expect  to  keep 
the  mind  void  of  all  prepossession,  even  upon 
any  subject,  appears  to  be  altogether  a  vain  and 
impracticable  attempt;  an  attempt,  the  very 
suggestion  of  which  argues  much  ignorance  of 
human  nature. 

Let  it  be  observed  here,  that  we  are  not  com¬ 
bating  the  infidel ;  that  we  are  not  producing 
evidences  and  arguments  in  favour  of  the  truth 
of  Christianity,  or  trying  to  win  over  the  assent 
of  the  reader  to  that  which  he  disputes,  but  that 
we  are  taking  it  for  granted,  not  only  that 
Christianity  is  true,  but  that  we  are  addressing 
those  who  believe  it  to  be  true :  an  assumption 
which  has  been  made  throughout  this  work. 
Assuming,  therefore,  that  there  are  religious 
principles  which  are  true,  and  which  ought  to 
be  communicated  in  the  most  effectual  manner, 
the  next  question  which  arises  seems  to  be,  at 
what  age  and  in  what  manner  these  ought  to  be 
inculcated  ;  that  it  ought  to  be  at  an  early  period 
we  have  the  command  of  Christ ;  who  encourag¬ 
ingly  said,  in  answer  to  those  who  would  have 
repelled  their  approach,  ‘  Suffer  little  children 
to  come  unto  me.’ 

But  here  conceding,  for  the  sake  of  argument, 
what  yet  cannot  be  conceded,  that  some  good 
reasons  may  be  brought  in  favour  of  delay  ;  al¬ 
lowing  that  such  impressions  as  are  communi¬ 
cated  early  may  not  be  very  deep ;  allowing 
them  even  to  become  totally  effaced  by  the  sub¬ 
sequent  corruptions  of  the  heart  and  of  the  world; 
still  I  would  illustrate  the  importance  of  early 
infusing  religious  knowledge,  by  an  allusion 
drawn  from  the  power  of  early  habit  in  human 
learning.  Put  the  case,  for  instance,  of  a  person 
who  was  betimes  initiated  in  the  rudiments  of 
classical  studies.  Suppose  him  after  quitting 
school  to  have  fallen,  either  by  a  course  of  idle¬ 
ness  or  of  vulgar  pursuits,  into  a  total  neglect 
of  study.  Should  this  person  at  any  future  pe¬ 
riod  happen  to  be  called  to  some  profession, 
which  should  oblige  him,  as  we  say,  to  rub  up 
his  Greek  and  Latin  ;  his  memory  still  retain¬ 
ing  the  onobliterated  though  faint  traces  of  his 
early  pursuits,  he  will  be  able  to  recover  his  ne¬ 
glected  learning  with  less  difficulty  than  he 
could  now  begin  to  learn  ;  for  he  is  not  again 
obliged  to  set  out  with  studying  the  simple  ele¬ 
ments  ;  they  come  back  on  being  pursued  ;  they 
are  found  on  being  searched  for ;  the  decayed 
images  assume  shape,  and  strength,  and  colour  ; 
he  has  in  his  mind  first  principles  to  which  to 
recur ;  the  rules  of  grammar  which  ho  has  al¬ 
lowed  him.self  to  violate,  he  has  not  however 
forgotten  ;'he  will  recall  neglected  ideas,  he  will 
resume  slighted  habits  far  more  easily  than  he 
could  now  begin  to  acquire  new  ones.  I  appeal 
to  clergymen  who  are  called  to  attend  the  dying 
beds  of  such  as  have  been  bred  in  gross  and  stu¬ 
pid  ignorance  of  religion,  for  the  justness  of  this 
comparison.  Do  they  not  find  that  these  un¬ 
happy  people  have  no  ideas  in  common  with 
them  ?  that  they  therefore  possess  no  intelligible 
medium  oy  which  to  make  themselves  under¬ 
stood  ?  that  the  persons  to  whom  they  are  ad¬ 
dressing  themselves  have  no  first  principles  fo 
which  they  can  be  referred  ?  that  they  are  ig¬ 


norant  not  only  of  the  science,  but  the  language 
of  Christianity  ? 

But  at  worst,  whatever  be  the  event  of  a  pious 
education  to  the  child,  though  in  general  we  are 
encouraged  from  the  tenor  of  Scripture  and  the 
course  of  experience  to  hope  that  the  event  will 
be  favourable,  and  that  ‘  when  he  is  old  he  will 
not  depart  from  it.’  Is  it  nothing  for  the  parent 
to  have  acquitted  himself  of  this  prime, duty  ? 
Is  it  nothing  to  him  that  he  has  obeyed  the  plain 
command  of  ‘  training  his  child  in  the  way  he 
should  go  ?’  And  will  not  the  parent  who  so 
acquits  himself,  with  better  reason  and  more 
lively  hope,  supplicate  the  Father  of  mercies  for 
the  reclaiming  of  a  prodigal, "who  has  wandered 
out  of  that  right  path  in  which  he  has  set  him 
forward,  than  for  the  conversion  of  a  neglected 
creature,  to  whose  feet  the  Gospel  had  never 
been  offered  as  a  light?  And  how  different  will 
be  the  dying  reflections  even  of  that  parent 
whose  earnest  endeavours  have  been  unhappily 
defeated  by  the  subsequent  and  voluntary  per¬ 
version  of  his  child,  from  his  who  will  reasona- 
bly  aggravate  his  pangs,  by  transferring  the  sins 
of  his  neglected  child  to  the  number  of  his  own 
transgressions. 

And  to  such  well-intentioned  but  ill-judging 
parents  as  really  wish  their  children  to  be  here¬ 
after  pious,  but  erroneously  withhold  instruction 
till  the ’more  advanced  period  prescribed  by  the 
great  master  of  splendid  paradoxes*  shall  arrive' 
who  can  assure  them,  that  while  they  are  with¬ 
holding  the  good  seed,  the  great  and  ever  vigi¬ 
lant  enemy,  who  assiduously  seizes  hold  on  ever)' 
opportunity  which  we  slight,  and  cultivates 
every  advantage  which  we  neglect,  may  not  be 
stocking  the  fallow  ground  with  tares?  Nay, 
who  in  this  fluctuating  state  of  things  can  be 
assured,  even  if  this  were  not  certainly  to  be  the 
case,  that  to  them  the  promised  period  ever  shall 
arrive  at  all?  Who  shall  ascertain  to  them  that 
their  now  neglected  child  shall  certainly  live  to 
receive  the  delayed  instructions  ?  Who  can  as¬ 
sure  them  that  they  themselves  will  live  to  com¬ 
municate  it  ? 

It  is  almost  needless  to  observe  that  parents 
who  are  indifferent  about  religion,  much  more 
thcMie  who  treat  it  with  scorn,  are  not  likely  to 
b(,  anxious  on  this  subject ;  it  is  therefore  the 
attention  of  religious  parents  which  is  here 
chiefly  called  upon ;  and  the  more  so,  as  there 
seems,  on  this  point,  an  unaccountable  negli¬ 
gence  in  many  of  these,  whether  it  arises  from 
indolence,  false  principles,  or  whatever  other 
motive. 

But  independent  of  knowledge,  it  is  some¬ 
thing,  nay,  let  philosophers  say  what  they  will, 
■t  IS  much  to  give  youth  prepossessions  in  favour 
of  religion,  to  secure  their  prejudices  on  its  side 
before  you  turn  them  adrift  into  the  world  •  a 
world  in  which,  before  they  can  bo  completely 
armed  with  arguments  and  reasons,  they  will  be 
assailed  by  numbers  whose  prepossessions  and 
prejudices,  far  more  than  their  arguments  and 
reasons,  attach  them  to  the  other  side.  Why 
should  not  the  Christian  youth  furnish  himself 
in  tho  best  cause  with  the  same  natural  armour 
which  the  enemies  of  religion  wear  in  the  worst? 
It  is  certain  that  to  set  out  in  life  with  sentt- 
*  Rosseau, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


353 


ments  in  favour  of  the  religion  of  our  country  is 
Kio  more  an  error  or  a  weakness,  than  to.  grow 
up  with  a  fondness  for  our  country  itself,  if  the 
love  of  our  country  be  judged  a  fair  principle, 
surely  a  Christian  who  is  ‘  a  citizen  of  no  mean 
city,’  may  lawfully  have  his  attachments  too. 
If  patriotism  be  an  honest  prejudice,  Christi¬ 
anity  is  not  a  servile  one.  Nay,  let  us  teach  the 
youth  to  hug  his  prejudices,  to  glory  in  his  pre¬ 
possessions,  rather  than  to  acquire  that  versa¬ 
tile  and  accommodating  citizenship  of  the  world, 
by  which  he  may  be  an  infidel  in  Paris,  a  Papist 
at  Rome,  and  a  Mussulman  at  Cairo. 

Let  me  not  be  supposed  so  to  elevate  politics, 
or  so  to  depress  religion,  as  to  make  any  com- 
parision  of  the  value  of  the  one  with  the  other, 
when  I  observe,  that  between  the  true  British 
patriot  and  the  true  Christian,  there  will  be  this 
common  resemblance :  the  more  deeply  each  of 
them  inquires,  the  more  will  he  be  confirmed  in 
his  respective  attachment,  the  one  to  his  coun¬ 
try,  the  other  to  his  religion.  I  speak  with  re¬ 
verence  of  the  immeasurable  distance  ;  but  the 
more  the  one  presses  on  the  firm  arch  of  our 
constitution,  and  the  other  on  that  of  Christi¬ 
anity,  the  stronger  he  will  find  them  both.  Each 
challenges  scrutiny ;  each  has  nothing  to  dread 
but  from  shallow  politicians  and  shallow  philo¬ 
sophers  ;  in  each  intimate  knowledge  justifies 
prepossession;  in  each  investigation  confirms 
attachment. 

If  we  divide  the  human  being  into  three  com¬ 
ponent  parts,  the  bodily,  the  intellectual,  and 
the  spiritual,  is  it  not  reasonable  that  a  portion 
of  care  and  attention  be  assigned  to  each  in 
some  degree  adequate  to  its  importance  ?  Should 
I  venture  to  say  a  due  portion,  ti  portion  adapt¬ 
ed  to  the  real  comparative  value  of  each,  would 
not  that  condemn  in  one  word  the  whole  system 
of  modern  education  ?  The  rational  and  intel¬ 
lectual  part  being  avowedly  more  valuable  than 
the  bodily,  while  the  spiritual  and  immortal 
part  exceeds  even  the  intellectual  still  more  than 
that  surpasses  what  is  corporeal ;  is  it  acting 
according  to  the  common  rules  of  proportion  ; 
is  it  acting  on  the  principles  of  distributive  jus¬ 
tice  ;  is  it  acting  with  that  good  sense  and  right 
judgment  with  which  the  ordinary  business  of 
this  world  is  usually  transacted,  to  give  the 
larger  portion  of  time  and  care  to  that  which  is 
worth  the  least  ?  Is  it  fair  that  what  relates  to 
the  body  and  the  organs  of  the  body,  I  mean 
those  accomplishments  which  address  them¬ 
selves  to  the  eye  and  the  ear,  should  occupy  al¬ 
most  the  whole  thoughts ;  while  the  intellectual 
part  should  fie  robbed  of  its  due  proportion,  and 
the  spiritual  part  should  have  almost  no  propor¬ 
tion  at  all  ?  Is  not  this  preparing  your  children 
for  an  awful  disappointment  in  the  tremendous 
day  when  they  shall  be  stripped  of  that  body,  of 
those  senses  and  organs,  which  have  been  made 
almost  the  sole  objects  of  their  attentions,  and 
shall  feel  themselves  left  in  possession  of  nothing 
but  that  spiritual  part  which  in  education  was 
scarcely  taken  into  the  account  of  their  exist¬ 
ence  ? 

Surely  it  should  be  thought  a  reasonable  com¬ 
promise  (and  I  am  in  fact  undervaluing  the  ob¬ 
ject  for  the  importance  of  which  I  plead)  to 
suggest,  that  at  least  two-thirds  of  that  time 
Z 


which  is  now  usurped  by  externals  should  bo 
restored  to  the  rightful  owners,  the  understand¬ 
ing  and  the  heart ;  and  that  the  acquisition  of 
religious  knowledge  in  early  youth  should  at 
least  be  no  less  an  object  of  sedulous  attention 
than  the  cultivation  of  human  learning  or  of 
outward  embellishments.  It  is  also  not  un¬ 
reasonable  to  suggest,  that  we  should  in  Christi 
anity,  as  in  arts,  sciences,  or  languages,  begin 
with  the  beginning,  set  out  with  the  simple 
elements,  and  thus  ‘  go  on  unto  perfection.’ 

Why  in  teaching  to  draw  do  you  begin  with 
straight  lines  and  curves,  till  by  gentle  steps 
the  knowledge  of  outline  and  proportion  be  ob 
tained,  and  your  picture  be  completed ;  never 
losing  sight,  however,  of  the  elementary  lines 
and  curves  ?  Why  in  music  do  you  set  out 
with  the  simple  notes,  and  pursue  the  acquisi¬ 
tion  through  all  its  progress,  still  in  every  stage 
recurring  to  the  notes  ?  Why  in  the  science  of 
numbers  do  you  invent  the  simplest  methods  of 
conveying  just  ideas  of  computation,  still  refer¬ 
ring  to  the  tables  which  involve  the  fundamen¬ 
tal  rules  ?  Why  in  the  science  of  quantity  do 
men  introduce  the  pupil  at  first  to  the  plainest 
diagrams,  and  clear  up  one  difficulty  before  they 
allow  another  to  appear?  Why  in  teaching 
languages  to  the  youth  do  you  sedulously  infuse 
into  his  mind  the  rudiments  of  your  syntax  ? 
Why  in  parsing  is  he  led  to  refer  every  word 
to  its  part  of  speech,  to  resolve  every  sentence 
into  its  elements,  to  reduce  every  term  to  its 
original,  and  from  the  first  case  of  nouns,  and 
the  first  tense  of  verbs,  to  explain  their  forma 
tions,  changes,  and  dependences,  till  the  prin¬ 
ciples  of  language  become  so  grounded,  that,  by 
continually  recurring  to  the  rules,  speaking  and 
writing  correctly  are  fixed  into  a  habit?  Why 
all  this,  but  because  you  uniformly  wish  him  to 
be  grounded  in  each  of  his  acquirements  ?  Why, 
but  because  you  are  persuaded  that  a  slight, 
and  slovenly,  and  superficial,  and  irregular  way 
of  instruction  will  never  train  him  to  excellence 
in  any  thing? 

Do  young  persons  then  become  musicians, 
painters,  linguists,  and  mathematicians  by  early 
study  and  regular  labour ;  and  shall  they  become 
Christians  by  accident?  or  rather,  is  not  this 
acting  on  that  very  principle  of  Dogberry,  at 
which  you  probably  have  often  laughed?, Is  it 
not  supposing  that  religion  like  reading  and 
writing  comes  by  nature  ?  Shall  all  those  ac¬ 
complishments,  ‘  which  perish  in  the  using,* 
be  so  assiduously,  so  systematically  taught  ? 
Shall  all  those  habits,  which  are  limited  to  the 
tilings  of  this  world,  be  so  carefully  formed,  so 
[lersisted  in,  as  to  be  interwoven  with  our  very 
make,  so  as  to  become  as  it  were  a  part  of  our¬ 
selves  ;  and  shall  that  knowledge  which  is  to 
make  us  ‘  wise  unto  salvation’  be  picked  up  at 
random,  cursorily,  or  perhaps  not  picked  up  at 
all  ?  Shall  that  difficult  divine  science  which 
requires  ‘line  upon  line,  and  precept  upon  pre¬ 
cept,’  here  a  littlp  and  there  a  little;  that  know¬ 
ledge  which  parents,  even  under  a  darker  dis¬ 
pensation,  were  required  to  teach  their  children 
diligently,  and  to  talk  of  it  when  they  sat  in 
their  house,  and  when  they  walked  by  the  way, 
and  when  they  lay  down,  and  when  they  rose 
up,’  shall  this  knowledge  be  by  Christian  parents 


354 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


omitted  or  deferred,  or  taught  slightly  ;  or  be 
superseded  by  things  of  comparatively  little 
worth  ^ 

Shall  the  lively  period  of  youth,  the  soft  and 
impressible  season  when  lasting  habits  are  form¬ 
ed,  when  the  seal  cuts  deep  into  the  yielding  wax, 
and  the  impression  is  more  likely  to  be  clear, 
and  sharp,  and  strong,  and  lasting ;  shall  this 
warm  and  favourable  season  be  suSered  to 
slide  by,  without  being  turned  to  the  great  pur¬ 
pose  for  which  not  only  youth,  but  life  and 
breath,  and  being  were  bestowed  ?  Shall  not 
that  ‘  faith  without  which  it  is  impossible  to 
please  God shall  not  that  ‘  holiness  without 
which  no  man  can  see  the  Lord  shall  not  that 
knowledge  which  is  the  foundation  of  faith  and 
practice ;  shall  not  that  charity  without  which 
all  knowledge  is  ‘  sounding  brass  and  a  tinkling 
cymbal,’  be  impressed,  be  inculcated,  be  enforc¬ 
ed,  as  early,  as  constantly,  as  fundamentally, 
with  the  same  earnest  pushing  on  to  continual 
progress,  with  the  pame  constant  reference  to 
first  principles,  as  are  used  in  the  case  of  those 
arts  which  merely  adorn  human  life  7  Shall  we 
not  seize  the  happy  period  when  the  memory  is 
strong,  the  mind  and  all  its  powers  vigorous  and 
active,  the  imagination  busy  and  all  alive ;  the 
heart  flexible,  the  temper  ductile,  the  conscience 
tender,  curiosity  awake,  fear  powerful,  hope 
eager,  love  ardent ;  shall  we  not  seize  this  period 
for  inculcating  that  knowledge,  and  impressing 
those  principles  which  are  to  form  the  character, 
and  fix  the  destination  for  eternity  ? 

I  would  now  address  myself  to  another  and  a 
still  more  dilatory  class,  who  are  for  procrasti¬ 
nating  all  concern  about  religion  till  tliey  are 
driven  to  it  by  actual  distress,  and  who  do  not 
think  of  praying  till  they  are  perishing  like 
the  sailor  who  said,  ‘  he  thought  it  was  always 
time  enough  to  begin  to  pray  when  the  storm 
began.’  Of  these  I  would  ask,  shall  we,  with 
an  unaccountable  deliberation,  defer  our  anxiety 
about  religion  till  the  busy  mkn  and  the  dissipa¬ 
ted  woman  are  become  so  immersed  in  the  cares 
of  life,  or  so  entangled  in  its  pleasures,  that  they 
will  have  little  heart  or  spirit  to  embrace  a  new 
principle  ?  a  principle  whose  precise  object  it 
will  be  to  condemn  that  very  life  in  which  they 
have  already  embarked ;  nay,  to  condemn  almost 
all  that  they  have  been  doing  and  thinking  ever 
since  they  first  began  to  act  or  think  ?  Shall  we, 

I  say,  begin  now  ?  or  shall  we  suffer  those  in¬ 
structions,  to  receive  which,  requires  all  the  con¬ 
centrated  powers  of  a  strong  and  healthy  mind, 
to  be  put  off  till  tlie  day  of  excruciating  pain, 
till  the  period  of  debility  and  stupefaction  ? 
Shall  we  wait  for  that  season,  as  if  it  were  the 
most  favourable  for  religious  acquisitions,  when 
the  senses  shall  have  been  palled  by  excessive 
gratification,  when  the  eye  shall  be  tired  with 
seeing,  and  the  ear  with  hearing  ?  Shall  we, 
when  the  whole  man  is  breaking  up  by  disease 
or  decay,  expect  that  the  dim  apprehension  will 
discern  a  new  science,  or  the  obtuse  feelings  de¬ 
light  themselves  with  a  new  pleasure?  a  plea¬ 
sure  too,  not  only  incompatible  with  many  of  the 
hitherto  indulged  pleasures,  but  one  which  car¬ 
ries  with  it  a  strong  intimation  that  those  plea¬ 
sures  terminate  in  the  death  of  the  soul. 

But,  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  important  analogy  1 


on  which  we  have  already  dwelt  so  much  ;  hovit 
preposterous  would  it  seem  to  you  to  hear  any¬ 
one  propose  to  an  illiterate  dying  man,  to  set 
about  learning  even  the  plainest,  and  easiest 
rudiments  of  any  new  art;  to  study  the  musical 
notes ;  to  conjugate  a  verb  ;  to  learn,  not  the  firs*- 
problem  in  Euclid,  but  even  the  numeration  table , 
and  yet  you  do  not  think  it  absurd  to  postpone 
religious  instruction,  on  principles,  which,  if 
admitted,  at  all,  must  terminate  either  in  igno 
ranee  or  in  your  proposing  too  late  to  a  dying-, 
man  to  begin  to  learn  the  totally  unknown- 
scheme  of  Christianity.  You  do  not  think  it 
impossible  that  he  should  be  brought  to  listen  to 
‘  the  voice  of  this  charmer,  when  he  can  no 
longer  listen  to  ‘the  voice  of  singing  men  and. 
singing  women.’  You  do  not  think  it  unreason 
able  that  immortal  beings  should  delay  to  de¬ 
vote  their  days  to  heaven,  till  they  have  ‘no 
pleasure  in  them’  themselves.  You  will  not. 
bring  them  to  offer  up  the  first  fruits  of  their 
lips,  and  hearts,  and  lives,  to  their  Maker,  be¬ 
cause  you  persuade  yourselves  that  he  who  has. 
called  himself  a  ‘jealous  God,’  may  however  be 
contented  hereafter  with  the  wretched  sacrifice 
of  decayed  appetites,  and  the  worthless  leavings 
of  almost  extinguished  affections. 

We  can  scarcely  believe,  even  with  all  the 
melancholy  procrastination  we  see  around  us 
that  there  is  any  one,  except  he  be  a  decided  in¬ 
fidel,  who  does  not  consider  religion  as  at  least: 
a  good  reversionary  thing  ;  as  an  object  which 
ought  always  to  occupy  a  little  remote  corner 
of  his  map  of  life;  the  study  of  which,  though- 
it  is  always  to  be  postponed,  is  however  not  to 
be  finally  rejected  ;  which,  though  it  cannot  con¬ 
veniently  come  into  his  present  scheme  of  lifo». 
it  is  intended  somehow  or  other  to  take  up  be¬ 
fore  death.  This  awful  deception,  this  defect 
in  the  intellectual  vision,  arises,  partly  from  the 
bulk  which  the  objects  of  time  and  sense  acquire, 
in  our  eyes  by  their  nearness;  while  the  in¬ 
visible  realities  of  eternity  are  but  faintly  dis¬ 
cerned  by  a  feeble  faith,  through  a  dim  and  dis¬ 
tant  medium.  It  arises  also  partly  from  a  to¬ 
tally  false  idea  of  the  nature  of  Christianity, 
from  a  fatal  fancy  that  we  can  repent  at  any 
future  period,  and  that  as  amendment  is  a  thing- 
which  will  always  be  in  our  power,  it  will  bo- 
time  enough  to  think  of  reforming  our  life,  when 
we  should  think  only  of  closing  it. 

But  depend  upon  it,  that  a  heart  long  harden¬ 
ed,  I  do  not  mean  by  gross  vices  merely,  but  bjr 
a  fondness  for  the  world,  by  an  habitual  and  ex¬ 
cessive  indulgence  in  the  pleasures  of  sense, 
will  by  no  means  be  in  a  favourable  state  ta 
admit  the  light  of  divine  truth,  or  to  receive  the 
impressions  of  divine  grace.  God  indeed  some¬ 
times  shows  us  by  an  act  of  his  sovereignty,  that 
this  wonderful  change,  the  conversion  of  a  sin- 
ner’s  heart,  may  be  produced  without  the  inter¬ 
vention  of  human  means,  to  show  that  the  work 
is  His.  But  as  this  is  not  the  way  in  which  the 
Almighty  usually  deals  with  his  creatures,  it 
would  be  nearly  as  preposterous  for  men  to  act 
on  this  presumption,  and  sin  on  in  hopes  of  a 
miraculous  conversion,  as  it  would  be  to  take 
no  means  for  tlie  preservation  of  their  lives,  be¬ 
cause  Jesus  Christ  raised  Lazarus  from  the 
dead. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


355 


CHAP.  XII. 

On  the  manner  of  instructing  young  persons  in 

religion. — General  remarks  on  the  genius  of 

Christianity. 

I  WOULD  now  with  great  deference  address 
those  respectable  characters  who  are  really  con¬ 
cerned  about  the  best  interests  of  their  ehildren  ; 
those  to  whom  Christianity  is  indeed  an  impor¬ 
tant  consideration,  but  whose  habits  of  life  have 
hitherto  hindered  them  from  giving  it  its  due 
degree  in  the  scale  of  education. 

Begin  then  with  considering  that  religion  is  a 
part,  and  the  most  prominent  part,  in  your  sys¬ 
tem  of  instruction.  Do  not  communicate  its 
principles  in  a  random,  desultory  way ;  nor 
scantily  stint  this  business  to  onljPsueh  scraps 
and  remnants  of  time  as  may  be  casually  picked 
Tip  from  the  gleanings  of  other  acquirements. 
‘  Will  you  bring  to  God  for  a  sacrifice  that  which 
costs  you  nothing  V  Let  the  best  part  of  the 
day,  which  with  most  people  is  the  earliest  part, 
be  steadily  and  invariably  dedicated  to  this  work 
by  your  children,  before  they  are  tired  with  their 
other  studies,  while  the  intellect  is  clear,  the 
spirit  light,  and  the  attention  sharp  and  unfa¬ 
tigued. 

Confine  not  your  instructions  to  mere  verbal 
rituals  and  dry  systems,  but  communicate  them 
in  a  way  which  shall  interest  their  feelings,  by 
lively  images,  and  by  a  warm  practical  applica¬ 
tion  of  what  they  read  to  their  own  hearts  and 
circumstances.  If  you  do  not  study  the  great 
but  too  mueh  slighted  art  of  fixing,  of  command¬ 
ing,  of  chaining  the  attention,  you  may  throw 
away  much  time  and  labour,  with  little  other 
effect  than  that  of  disgusting  your  pupils  and 
wearying  yourself.  There  seems  to  be  no  good 
reason  that  while  every  other  thing  is  to  be  made 
amusing,  religion  alone  must  be  dry  and  unin¬ 
viting.  Do  not  fancy  that  a  thing  is  good  merely 
because  it  is  dull.  Why  should  not  the  most 
entertaining  powers  of  the  human  mind  be  su¬ 
premely  consecrated  to  that  subject  which  is 
most  worthy  of  their  full  exercise  ?  The  mis¬ 
fortune  is,  that  religious  learning  is  too  often 
rather  considered  as  an  act  of  the  memory  than 
of  the  heart  and  affections  ;  as  a  dry  duty,  rather 
than  a  lively  pleasure.  The  manner  in  which 
it  is  taught  differs  as  much  from  their  other 
learning  as  punishment  from  recreation.  Chil¬ 
dren  are  turned  over  to  the  dull  work  of  getting 
by  rote  as  a  task  that  which  they  should  get 
from  exatnple,  from  animated  conversation,  from 
lively  discussion,  in  which  the  pupil  should 
learn  to  bear  a  part,  instead  of  being  merely  a 
passive  hearer.  Teach  them  rather,  as  their 
blessed  Saviour  taught,  by  interesting  parable.'j, 
which,  while  they  corrected  the  heart,  left  some 
exercise  for  the  ingenuity  ip  the  solution,  and 
for  the  feelings  in  their  application.  Teach,  as 
He  taught,  by  seizing  on  surrounding  objects, 
passing  events,  local  circumstances,  peculiar 
characters,  apt  illusions,  just  analogy,  appropri¬ 
ate  illustration.  Call  in  all  creation,  animate 
and  inanimate,  to  your  aid,  and  accustom  your 
Voung  audience  to 

Find  tnnRUOS  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Seniions  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing 

Even  when  the  nature  of  your  subject  makes  it 


necessary  for  you  to  be  more  plain  and  didactic;, 
do  not  fail  frequently  to  enliven  these  less  en¬ 
gaging  parts  of  your  discourse  with  some  inch 
dental  imagery  which  will  captivate  the  fancy 
with  some  affecting  story  with  which  it  shall  be 
associated  in  the  memory.  Relieve  what  would 
otherwise  be  too  dry  and  preceptive,  with  some 
striking  exemplification  in  point,  some  touching 
instance  to  be  imitated,  some  awful  warning  ta 
be  avoided ;  something  which  shall  illustrate 
your  instruction,  which  shall  realize  your  posi¬ 
tion,  which  shall  embody  your  idea,  and  give 
shape  and  form,  colour  and  life,  to  your  prdcept. 
Endeavour  unremittingly  to  connect  the  reader 
with  the  subject  by  making  her  feel  that  what 
you  teach  is  neither  an  abstract  truth,  nor  a 
thing  of  mere  general  information,  but  that  it  is 
a  business  in  which  she  herself  is  individually 
and  immediately  concerned  ;  in  which  not  only 
her  eternal  salvation  but  her  present  happiness 
is  involved.  Do,  according  to  your  measure  of 
ability,  what  the  Holy  Spirit  which  indited  the 
Scriptures  has  done,  always  take  the  sensibility 
of  the  learner  into  your  account  of  the  faculties 
which  are  to  be  worked  upon.  ‘  For  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  the  Bible,’  as  the  profound  and  enlight¬ 
ened  Bacon  observes,  ‘  are  not  proposed  to  us  in 
a  naked  logic  form,  but  arrayed  in  the  most 
beautiful  and  stfiking  colours  which  creation 
affords.’  By  those  affecting  illustrations  used 
by  Him  ‘  who  knew  what  was  in  man,’  and 
therefore  best  knew  how  to  address  him,  it  was, 
that  the  unlettered  audiences  of  Christ  and  his 
apostles  were  enabled  both  to  comprehend  and 
to  relish  doctrines,  which  would  not  readily  have 
made  their  way  to  their  understandings,  had 
they  not  first  touched  their  hearts  ;  and  which 
would  have  found  access  to  neither  the  one  nor 
the  other,  had  they  been  delivered  in  dry  scho¬ 
lastic  disquisitions.  Now,  those  audiences  not 
being  learned,  may  be  supposed  to  have  been 
nearly  in  the  state  of  children,  as  to  their  recep¬ 
tive  faculties,  and  to  have  required  nearly  the 
same  sort  of  instruction  ;  that  is,  they  were  more 
capable  of  being  moved  with  what  was  simple 
and  touching,  and  lively,  than  what  was  elabo¬ 
rate,  abstruse,  and  unaffecting.  Heaven  and 
eartli  were  made  to  furnish  their  contributions, 
when  man  was  to  be  taught  that  science  which 
was  to  make  him  wise  unto  salvation.  Some¬ 
thing  which  might  enforce  or  illustrate^  was 
drawn  from  every  element.  The  appearances 
of  the  sky,  the  storms  of  the  ocean,  the  birds  of 
the  air,  the  beasts  of  the  field,  the  fruits  of  the 
earth,  the  seed  and  the  harvest,  the  labours  of 
tlie  husbandmen,  the  traffic  of  the  merchant,  the 
season  of  the  year  !  all  were  laid  hold  of  in  turn. 
And  the  most  important  moral  instruction,  or 
religious  truth,  was  deduced  from  some  recent 
occurrence,  some  natural  appearance,  some  or¬ 
dinary  fact. 

If  that  be  the  purest  eloquence  which  most 
persuades  and  which  comes  home  to  the  heart 
with  the  fullest  evidence  and  the  most  irresisU- 
ble  force,  then  no  eloquence-  is  so  powerful  as 
that  of  Scripture;  and  an  intelligent  Christian 
teacher  will  be  admonished  by  the  mode  of 
Scripture  itself,  how  to  communicate  its  truths 
with  life  and  spirit;  ‘while  he  is  musing,  the 
fire  burns ;’  that  fire  which  will  preserve  him 


356 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


from  an  insipid  and  freezing  mode  of  instruc¬ 
tion.  He  will  inorever,  as  was  said  above,  al¬ 
ways  carefully  keep  up  a  quick  sense  of  the 
personal  interest  the  pupil  has  in  every  religious 
instruction  which  is  impressed  upon  him.  He 
will  teach  as  Paul  prayed,  ‘  with  the  spirit,  and 
with  the  understanding  also and  in  imitating 
this  great  model,  he  will  necessarily  avoid  the 
opposite  faults  of  two  different  sorts  of  instruc¬ 
tors  ;  for  while  some  of  our  divines  of  the  higher 
class  have  been  too  apt  to  preach  as  if  mankind 
had  only  intellect,  and  the  lower  and  more  po¬ 
pular  sort  as  if  they  had  only  passions,  let  him 
borrow  what  is  good  from  both,  and  address  his 
pupils  as  beings  compounded  of  both  under¬ 
standing  and  affections.* 

Fancy  not  that  the  Bible  is  too  difficult  and 
intricate  to  be  presented  in  its  own  naked  form, 
and  that  it  puzzles  and  bewilders  the  youthful 
understanding.  In  all  needful  and  indispensa¬ 
ble  points  of  knowledge,  the  darkness  of  Scrip¬ 
ture,  as  a  great  Christian  philosopher!  has  ob¬ 
served,  ‘  is  hut  a  partial  darkness,  like  that  of 
Egypt,  which  benighted  only  the  enemies  of 
God,  while  it  left  his  children  in  clear  day.’  It 
is  not  pretended  that  the  Bible  will  Jind  in  the 
young  reader  clear  views  of  God  and  of  Christ, 
of  the  soul  and  eternity,  but  that  it  will  give 
them.  And  if  it  be  really  the  appropriate  cha¬ 
racter  of  Scripture,  as  it  tells  us  itself  that  it  is, 
‘  to  enlighten  the  eyes  of  the  Hind'  and  ‘  to 
make  wise  the  simple'  then  it  is  as  well  calcu¬ 
lated  for  the  youthful  and  uninformed  US'  for  any 
other  class ;  and  as  it  was  never  expeeted  that 
the  greater  part  of  Christians  should  be  learned, 
so  is  learning,  though  of  inestimable  value  in  a 
teacher  of  theology,  no  essential  qualification  for 
a  common  Christian,  for  which  reason  Scripture 
truths  are  expressed  with  that  elear  and  simple 
evidence  adapted  to  the  kind  of  assent  which 
they  require ;  an  assent  materially  different  from 
that  sort  of  demonstration  which  a  mathematical 
theorem  demands.  He  who  could  bring  an  un¬ 
prejudiced  heart  and  an  unperverted  will,  would 
bring  to  the  Scriptures  the  best  qualification  for 
understanding  and  receiving  them.  And  though 
they  contain  things  which  the  pupil  cannot  com¬ 
prehend  (as  what  ancient  poet,  historian,  or  ora¬ 
tor  does  not)  the  teacher  may  address  to  him  tiie 
Words  which  Christ  addressed  to  Peter,  ‘  What 
I  do  thou  knowest  not  now,  but  thou  shalt  know 
hereafter.’ 

Histories  of  the  Bible,  and  commentaries  on 
the  Bible,  for  the  use  of  children,  though  valua¬ 
ble  in  their  way,  should  never  be  used  as  sub¬ 
stitutes  for  the  Bible  itself.  For  historical  or 
geographical  information,  for  calling  the  atten¬ 
tion  to  events  and  characters,  they  are  very  use¬ 
ful.  But  Scripture  truths  are  best  conveyed  in 
its  own  sublime  and  simple  phraseology ;  its 

*  The  zeal  and  diligence  with  which  the  bishop  of 
London’s  weekly  lectures  have  been  attended  by  persons 
nf  all  ranks  and  descriptions,  but  more  especially  by  that 
class  to  whom  this  little  work  is  addressed,  is  a  very 
promising  circumstance  for  the  age.  And  whHe  we  con¬ 
sider  with  pleasure  the  advantages  |x!culiarly  to  be  de¬ 
rived  by  the  young  from  so  interesting  and  animated  an 
ex|wisition  of  the  Gospel,  we  are  furthi.'r  led  to  rejoice  at 
the  countenance  given  by  such  high  authority  to  the  re¬ 
vival  of  that  e.xcellent  but  too  much  neglected  practice 
ot  lectures. 

f  Mr.  Boyle. 


doctrines  are  best  understood  in  its  own  appro¬ 
priate  language  ;  its  precepts  are  best  retained 
in  their  own  simple  form.  Paraphrases,  in  pro¬ 
fessing  to  explain,  often  dilute  ;  while  the  terse¬ 
ness  and  brevity  of  Scripture  composition  fills 
the  mind,  touches  the  heart,  and  fastens  on  the 
memory.  While  I  would  cause  them  to  ‘  read, 
the  commentary  for  the  improvement  of  th’e  un- 
derstanding,  they  should  mark,  learn,  and  in¬ 
wardly  digest’  the  Bible  for  the  comfort  and 
edification  of  the  heart. 

Young  people  who  have  been  taught  religion 
in  a  formal  and  superficial  way,  who  have  had 
all  its  drudgeries  and  none  of  its  pleasures,  will 
probably  have  acquired  so  little  relish  for  it,  as 
to  consider  ffie  continued  prosecution  of  their 
religious  stucnes  as  a  badge  of  their  tutelage,  as 
a  mark  that  they  are  still  under  subjection ;  and 
will  look  forward  with  impatience  to  the  hour  of 
their  emancipation  from  the  lectures  on  Chris¬ 
tianity,  as  the  era  of  their  promised  liberty  ;  the 
epocha  of  independence.  They  will  long  for 
the  period  when  its  lessons  shall  cease  to  be  de¬ 
livered  ;  will  conclude  that,  having  once  attained 
such  an  age,  and  arrived  at  the  required  profi¬ 
ciency,  the  object  will  be  accomplished,  and  the 
labour  at  an  end.  But  let  not  your  children  ‘  so 
learn  Christ.’  Apprise  them  that  no  specific 
day  will  ever  arise,  on  which  they  shall  say,  I 
have  attained  ;  but  inform  them,  that  every  ac¬ 
quisition  must  be  followed  up  ;  knowledge  must 
be  increased;  prejudices  subdued  ;  good  habits 
rooted ;  evil  ones  eradicated ;  amiable  disposi¬ 
tions  strengthened  ;  right  principles  confirmed ; 
till  going  on  from  light  to  light,  and  from  strength 
to  strength,  they  come  to  the  measure  of  the 
stature  of  the  fulness  of  Christ.’ 

But  though  serious  instruction  will  not  only 
be  uninteresting  but  irksome,  if  convoyed  to 
youth  in  a  cold  didactic  way;  yet  if  their  affec¬ 
tions  be  suitably  engaged,  while  their  under¬ 
standings  are  kept  in  exercise,  their  hearts  so 
far  from  necessarily  revolting,  as  some  insist, 
will  often  receive  the  most  solemn  truths  with 
alacrity.  It  is,  as  we  have  repeated,  the  manner 
which  revolts  them,  and  not  the  thing.  Nor 
w’ill  they,  as  some  assert,  necessarily  dislike  the 
teacher,  because  the  truths  taught  are  of  the 
most  awful  and  solemn  kind.  It  has  happened 
to  the  writer  to  be  a  frequent  witness  of  the  gra¬ 
titude  and  affection  expressed  by  young  persons 
to  those  who  had  sedulously  and  seriously  in¬ 
structed  them  in  religious  knowledge  ;  an  affec¬ 
tion  as  lively,  a  gratitude  as  warm,  as  could 
have  been  excited  by  any  indulgence  to  their 
persons,  or  any  gratification  of  a  worldly  na¬ 
ture. 

As  it  is  notorious  that  men  of  wit  and  spright¬ 
ly  fancy  have  been  the  most  formidable  ene¬ 
mies  to  Christianity ;  while  men,  in  whom 
those  talents  have  been  consecrated  to  God, 
have  been  some  of  her  most  useful  champi¬ 
ons,  take  particular  care  to  press  that  ardent 
and  ever-active  power,  the  imagination,  into 
the  service  of  religion.  This  bright  and  busy 
faculty  will  be  leading  its  possessor  into  per¬ 
petual  peril,  and  is  an  enemy  of  peculiar  po¬ 
tency  till  it  come  to  be  employed  in  the  cause 
of  God.  It  is  a  lion,  which  though  worldly  pru 
dence  indeed  may  chain  so  as  to  prevent  out 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


357 


ward  mischief,  yet  the  malignity  remains  with¬ 
in  ;  but  when  sanctified  by  Christianity,  the 
imagination  is  a  lion  tamed ;  you  have  all  the 
benefit  of  its  strength  and  its  activity,  divested 
of  its  mischief.  God  never  bestowed  that  noble 
but  restless  faculty,  without  intending  it  to  be 
an  instrument  of  his  own  glory ;  though  it  has 
been  too  often  set  up  in  rebellion  against  him ; 
because,  in  its  youthful  stirrings,  while  all  alive 
and  full  of  action,  it  has  not  been  seized  upon  to 
serve  its  rightful  Sovereign,  but  was  early  en¬ 
listed  with  little  opposition  under  the  banners 
of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil !  Religion 
is  the  only  subject  in  which,  under  the  guidance 
of  a  severe  and  sober-minded  prudence,  this  dis¬ 
cursive  faculty  can  safely  stretch  its  powers  and 
expand  its  energies  !  But  let  it  be  remembered, 
that  it  must  be  a  sound  and  genuine  Christian¬ 
ity  which  can  atone  so  chastise  and  regulate  the 
imagination,  as  to  restrain  it  from  those  errors 
and  excesses  into  which  a  false,  a  mistaken,  an 
irregular  religion,  has  too  often  led  its  injudi¬ 
cious  and  ill-instructed  professor.  Some  of  the 
most  fatal  extremes  into  which  a  wild  enthu¬ 
siasm  or  a  frightful  superstition  has  plunged  its 
unhappy  votaries,  have  been  owing  to  the  want 
of  a  due  direction,  to  the  want  of  a  strict  and 
holy  castigation  of  this  ever-working  faculty. 
To  secure  imagination,  therefore,  on  the  safe 
side,  and,  if  I  may  change  the  metaphor,  to  put 
it  under  the  direction  of  its  true  pilot,  in  the 
stormy  voyage  of  life,  is  like  engaging  those 
potent  elements,  the  wind  and  tide  in  your  fa¬ 
vour. 

In  your  communications  with  young  people, 
take  care  to  convince  them  that  as  religion  is 
not  a  business  to  be  laid  aside  with  the  lesson, 
so  neither  is  it  a  single  branch  of  duty  ;  some 
detached  thing,  which  like  the  acquisition  of  an 
art  or  a  language,  is  to  be  practised  separately, 
and  to  have  its  distinct  periods  and  modes  of 
operation.  But  let  them  understand,  that  com¬ 
mon  acts,  by  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  to  be 
performed,  are  to  be  made  acts  of  religion.  Let 
them  perceive  that  Christianity  may  be  consi¬ 
dered  as  having  something  of  that  influence  over 
the  conduct,  which  external  grace  has  over  the 
manners ;  for  as  it  is  not  the  performance  of 
some  particular  act  which  denominates  any  one 
to  be  graceful,  grace  being  a  spirit  diffused 
through  the  whole  system,  which  animates  every 
sentiment,  and  informs  every  action;  as  she 
who  has  true  personal  grace  has  it  uniformly, 
and  is  not  sometimes  awkward  and  sometimes 
elegant ;  does  not  sometimes  lay  it  down  and 
sometimes  take  it  up  ;  so  religion  is  not  an  oc¬ 
casional  act,  but  an  indwelling  principle,  an  in- 
wrought  habit,  a  pervading  and  informing  spirit, 
from  which  indeed  every  act  derives  all  its  life, 
and  energy,  and  beauty. 

Give  them  clear  views  of  the  broad  discrimi¬ 
nation  between  practical  religion  and  worldly 
morality ;  in  short,  between  the  virtues  of  Chris¬ 
tians  and  of  Pagans.  Show  them  that  no  good 
qualities  are  genuine,  but  such  as  flow  from  the 
religion  of  Christ.  Let  them  learn  that  the  vir- 
tues  which  the  better  sort  of  people,  who  are  yet 
destitute  of  true  Christianity,  inculcate  and 
practise,  resemble  those  virtues  which  have  the 
love  of  God  for  their  motive,  just  as  counterfeit 


coin  resembles  sterling  gold  ;  they  may  have,  it 
is  true,  certain  points  of  resemblance  with  the 
others  ;  they  may  be  bright  and  shining  ;  they 
have  perhaps  the  image  and  the  superscription, 
but  they  ever  want  the  true  distinguishing  pro 
perties;  they  want  sterling  value,  purity,  and 
weight.  They  may  indeed  pass  current  in  the 
traffic  of  this  world,  but  when  brought  to  the 
touchstone,  they  will  be  found  full  of  alloy ; 
when  weighed  in  the  balance  of  the  sanctuary, 
‘  they  will  be  found  wanting,’  they  will  not  stand 
that  final  trial  which  is  to  separate  ‘  the  precious 
from  the  vile  they  will  not  abide  the  day  ‘  of 
Ms  coming  who  is  like  a  refiner’s  fire.’ 

One  error  into  which  even  some  good  people 
are  apt  to  fall,  is  that  endeavouring  to  deceive 
young  minds  by  temporising  expedients.  In 
order  to  allure  them  to  become  religious,  they 
exhibit  false,  or  faint,  or  inadequate  views  of 
Christianity;  and  while  they  represent  it  as  it 
really  is,  as  a  life  of  superior  happiness  and  ad¬ 
vantage,  they  conceal  its  difficulties,  and  like 
the  jesuitical  Chinese  missionaries,  extenuate, 
or  sink,  or  deny,  such  parts  of  it  as  are  least 
alluring  to  human  pride.  In  attempting  to  dis¬ 
guise  its  principles,  they  destroy  its  efficacy. 
They  deny  the  cross  instead  of  making  it  the 
badge  of  a  Christian.  But  besides  that,  the  pro¬ 
ject  fails  with  them  as  it  did  with  the  Jesuits  ; 
all  fraud  is  bad  in  itself ;  and  a  pious  fraud  is 
a  eontradiction  in  terms,  which  ought  to  be  bu¬ 
ried  in  the  rubbish  of  papal  desolation.  ^ 

Instead  of  representing  to  the  youngi|^ri» 
tian,  that  it  may  be  possible  by  a  prudent  inge- 
nuity  at  once  to  pursue,  with  equal  ardour  and 
success,  worldly  fame  and  eternal  glory,  would 
it  not  be  more  honest  to  tell  him  fairly  and  un¬ 
ambiguously  that  there  are  two  distinct  roads 
between  which  there  is  a  broad  boundary  line  ? 
that  there  are  two  contending  and  irreconcilable 
interests?  that  he  must  forsake  the  one  if  he 
would  cleave  to  the  other  ?  that  ‘there  are  two 
masters,’  both  of  whom  it  is  impossible  to  serve  ? 
that  there  are  two  sorts  of  characters  at  eternal 
variance  ?  that  he  must  renounce  the  one  if  he 
is  in  earnest  for  the  other  ?  that  nothing  short 
of  absolute  decision  can  make  a  confirmed  Chris, 
tian  ?  Point  out  the  different  sorts  of  promises 
annexed  to  these  different  sorts  of  characters. 
Confess  in  the  language  of  Christ  how  the  man 
of  the  world  often  obtains  (and  it  is  the  natural 
course  of  human  things)  the  recompence  he  se- 
dulously  seeks.  ‘  Verily  I  say  unto  you  they  have 
their  reward.’  Explain  the  beatitudes  on  the 
other  hand,  and  unfold  what  kind  of  specific  re¬ 
ward  is  there  individually  promised  to  its  con- 
eomitant  virtue.  Show  your  pupil  that  to  that 
‘  poverty  of  spirit’  to  which  ‘  the  kingdom  of 
heaven’  is  promised,  it  would  be  inconsistent  to 
expect  that  the  recompence  of  human  commen. 
dation  should  bo  also  attached  ;  that  to  that  ‘  pu¬ 
rity  of  heart’  to  which  the  beatific  vision  is  an- 
nexed,  it  would  be  unreasonable  to  suppose  you 
can  unite  the  praise  of  licentious  wit.s,  or  the 
admiration  of  a  catch-club.  These  will  be  be¬ 
stowed  on  their  appropriate  and  corresponding 
merit»  Do  not  enlist  them  under  false  colours , 
disappointment  will  produce  a  desertion.  Dif¬ 
ferent  sorts  of  rewards  are  attached  to  different 
sorts  of  services  ;  and  while  you  truly  assort  that 


358 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Religion’s  ways  are  ‘  ways  of  pleasantness,  and 
all  her  paths  are  peace,’  take  care  that  you  do 
not  lead  them  to  depend  too  exclusively  on 
worldly  happiness  and  earthly  peace,  for  these 
make  no  part  of  the  covenant ;  they  may  be, 
and  they  often  are,  superadded,  but  they  were 
never  stipulated  in  the  contract. 

But  if,  in  order  to  attract  the  young  to  a  re¬ 
ligious  course,  you  disingenuously  conceal  its 
difficulties,  while  you  are  justly  enlarging  upon 
its  pleasures,  you  will  tempt  them  to  distrust 
the  truth  of  Scripture  itself. — For  what  will 
they  think,  not  only  of  a  few  detached  texts,  but 
of  the  general  cast  and  colour  of  the  Gospel 
when  contrasted  with  your  representation  of  it? 
When  you  are  describing  to  them  the  insepara¬ 
ble  human  advantages  which  will  follow  a  reli¬ 
gious  course,  what  notion  will  they  conceive  of 
‘  the  strait  gate’  and  ‘  narrow  way  ?’  of  the  am¬ 
putation  of  a  ‘  right  hand  ?’  of  the  excision  of  a 

*  right  eye  ?’  of  the  other  strong  metaphors  by 
which  the  Christian  warfare  is  shadowed  out  ? 
of  ‘  crucifying  the  flesh  ?’  of  ‘  mortifying  the  old 
man  ?’  of  ‘  dying  unto  sin  ?’  of*  overcoming  the 
world  ?’  Do  you  not  think  their  meek  and  com¬ 
passionate  Saviour  who  died  for  your  children, 
loved  them  as  well  as  you  love  them  ?  And  if 
this  were  his  language,  ought  it  not  to  be  yours? 
It  is  the  language  of  true  love ;  of  that  love  with 
which  a  merciful  God  loved  the  world,  when  he 
spared  not  his  own  Son.  Do  not  fear  to  tell 
yOui^hildren  what  he  told  his  disciples,  that 

*  in  tl^  world  they  shall  have  tribulation  ;’  but 
teach  them  to  rise  superior  to  it,  on  his  principle, 
by  ‘overcoming  the  world.’  Do  not  then  try  to 
conceal  from  them,  that  the  life  of  a  Christian 
is  necessarily  opposite  to  the  life  of  the  world ; 
and  do  not  seek  by  a  vain  attempt  at  accommo¬ 
dation  to  reconcile  that  difference  which  Christ 
himself  has  pronounced  to  be  irreconcilable. 

May  it  not  be  partly  owing  to  the  want  of  a 
due  introduction  to  the  knowledge  of  the  real 
nature  and  spirit  of  religion,  that  so  many  young 
Christians,  who  set  out  in  a  fair  and  flourishing 
way,  decline  and  wither  when  they  come  to 
perceive  the  requisitions  of  experimental  Chris¬ 
tianity  ?  requisitions  which  they  had  not  sus¬ 
pected  of  making  any  part  of  the  plan ;  and 
from  which,  when  they  afterwards  discover 
them,  they  shrink  back,  as  not  prepared  and 
hardened  for  the  unexpected  contest. 

'  People  are  no  more  to  be  cheated  into  religion 
than  into  learning.  The  same  spirit  which  in¬ 
fluences  your  oath  in  a  court  of  justice  should 
influence  your  discourse  in  that  court  of  equity 
— your  family.  Your  children  should  be  told 
the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the 
truth.  It  is  unnecessary  to  add,  that  it  must  be 
done  gradually  and  discreetly.  We  know  whose 
example  we  have  for  postponing  that  which  the 
mind  is  not  yet  prepared  to  receive :  *  I  have 
many  things  yet  to  say  to  you,  but  ye  cannot 
bear  them  now.'  Accustom  them  to  reason  by 
analogy.  Explain  to  them  that  great  worldly 
attainments  are  never  made  without  great  sa¬ 
crifices;  that  the  merchant  cannot  become  rich 
without  industry  ;  the  statesman  eminent  with¬ 
out  labour;  the  scholar  learned  without  study; 
the  hero  renowned  without  danger :  would  it 
not  then,  on  human  principles,  be  unreasonable 


to  think  that  the  Christian  alone  should  obtain 
a  triumph  without  a  warfare  ?  the  highest  prize 
with  the  lowest  exertion  ?  an  eternal  crown 
without  a  present  cross  ?  and  that  heaven  is  the 
only  reward  which  the  idle  may  reckon  upon 
No  :  though  salvation  *  be  the  gift  of  God,’  yet 
it  must  be  *  worked  out.'  Convince  your  young 
friends,  however,  that  in  this  case  the  difficulty 
of  the  battle  bears  no  proportion  to  the  prize  of 
the  victory.  In  one  respect,  indeed,  the  point 
of  resemblance  between  worldly  and  Christian 
pursuits  fails,  and  that  most  advantageously  for 
the  Christian ;  for  while,  even  by  the  most  pro¬ 
bable  means,  which  are  the  union  of  talents 
with  diligence,  no  human  prosperity  can  be  in¬ 
sured  to  the  worldly  candidate ;  while  the  most 
successful  adventurer  may  fail  by  the  fault  of 
another ;  while  the  best  concerted  project  of  the 
statesman  may  be  crushed ;  the  bravest  hero 
lose  the  battle ;  the  brightest  genius  fail  of  get¬ 
ting  bread ;  and  while  moreover,  the  pleasure 
arising  even  from  success  in  these  may  be  no 
sooner  tasted  than  it  is  poisoned  by  a  more  pros¬ 
perous  rival ;  the  persevering  Christian  is  safe 
and  certain  of  obtaining  his  object ;  no  misfor¬ 
tunes  can  defeat  his  hope ;  no  competition  can 
endanger  his  success  ;  for  though  another  gain, 
he  will  not  lose  ;  nay,  the  success  of  another,  so 
far  from  diminishing  his  gain,  is  an  addition  to 
it ;  the  more  he  diffuses,  the  richer  he  grows  • 
his  blessings  are  enlarged  by  communication ; 
and  that  mortal  hour  which  cuts  off  for  ever  the 
hopes  of  worldly  men,  crowns  and  consummates 
his. 

Beware  at  the  same  time  of  setting  up  any  act 
of  self-denial  or  mortification  as  the  •procuring 
cause  of  salvation.  This  w’ould  be  a  presump¬ 
tuous  project  to  that  eternal  life  which 

is  declared  to  be  the  *  free  gift  of  God.’  This 
would  be  to  send  your  children,  not  to  the  Gos¬ 
pel  to  learn  their  Christianity,  but  to  the  monks 
and  ascetics  of  the  middle  ages ;  it  would  be 
sending  them  to  Peter  the  hermit,  and  the  holy 
fathers  of  the  desert,  and  not  to  Peter  the  apos¬ 
tle  and  his  Divine  Master.  Mortification  is  not 
the  price  ;  it  is  nothing  more  than  the  discipline 
of  a  soul  of  which  sin  is  the  disease,  the  diet 
prescribed  by  the  great  Physician.  Without 
this  guard  the  young  devout  Christian  would  be 
led  to  fancy  that  abstinence,  pilgrimage  and  pe¬ 
nance  might  be  adopted  as  the  cheap  substitute 
for  the  subdued  desire,  the  resisted  temptation, 
the  conquered  corruption,  and  the  obedient  will; 
and  would  be  almost  in  as  much  danger,  on  the 
one  hand,  of  self-righteousness  arising  from  aus¬ 
terities  and  mortification,  as  she  would  be,  on 
the  other,  from  self-gratification  in  the  indul¬ 
gences  of  the  world.  And  while  you  carefully 
impress  on  her  the  necessity  of  living  a  life  of 
strict  obedience  if  she  would  please  God,  do  not 
neglect  to  remind  her  also  that  a  complete  re¬ 
nunciation  of  her  own  performances  as  a  ground 
of  merit,  purchasing  the  favour  of  God  by  their 
own  intrinsic  worth,  is  included  in  that  obe¬ 
dience. 

It  is  of  the  last  importance  in  stamping  on 
young  minds  a  true  impression  of  the  genius  of 
Christianity,  to  possess  them  with  a  conviction 
that  it  is  the  purity  of  the  motive  which  not  only 
gives  worth  and  beauty,  but  which,  in  a  Chris- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


359 


'tian  sense  gives  life  and  soul  to  the  best  action ; 
•nay,  that  while  a  right  intention  will  be  ac- 
•inowledged  and  accepted  at  the  final  judgment, 
•even  without  the  act,  the  act  itself  will  be  dis- 
•own'ed  which  wanted  the  basis  of  a  pure  design. 

Thou  didst  well  that  it  was  in  thy  heart  to 
build  me  a  temple,’  said  the  Almighty  to  that 
.monarch,  whom  yet  he  permitted  not  to  build  it. 
How  many  splendid  actions  will  be  rejected  in 
the  great  day  of  retribution,  to  which  statues  and 
monuments  have  been  raised  on  earth,  while 
their  almost  deified  authors  shall  be  as  much 
-confounded  at  their  own  unexpected  reprobation, 
ns  at  the  Divine  acceptance  of  those  ‘  whose  life 
the  world  counted  madness.’  It  is  worthy  of 
remark,  that  ‘  Depart  from  me,  I  never  knew 
you,’  is  not  the  malediction  denounced  on  the 
sceptic,  or  the  scoffer,  or  the  profligate,  and  the 
libertine,  but  on  the  high  professor,  on  the  un¬ 
fruitful  worker  of  ‘  miracles,’  on  the  unsancti- 
£ed  utterer  of  ‘  prophecies  ;’  for  even  acts  of 
piety  wanting  the  purifying  principle,  however 
they  may  dazzle  men,  offend  God.  Cain  sacri¬ 
ficed,  Balaam  prophesied,  Rousseau  wrote  the 
most  sublime  panegyric  on  the  Son  of  Mary, 
Voltaire  built  a  church  !  nay,  so  superior  was 
Ms  affectation  of  sanctity,  that  he  ostentatiously 
declared,  that  while  others  were  raising  churches 
to  saints,  there  was  one  man  at  least  who  would 
erect  his  church  to  God,«*  that  God  whose  altars 
Jie  was  overthrowing,  whose  name  he  was  villify- 
ing,  whose  gospel  he  was  exterminating,  and  the 
very  name  of  whose  Son  he  had  solemnly  pledg¬ 
ed  himself  to  blot  from  the  face  of  the  earth  ! 

Though  it  be  impossible  here  to  enumerate 
all  those  Christian  virtues  which  should  be  im¬ 
pressed  in  the  progress  of  a  Christian  education, 
yet  in  this  connexion  I  cannot  forbear  mention¬ 
ing  one  which  more  immediately  grows  out  of 
Ihe  subject ;  and  to  remark  that  the  principle 
which  should  be  the  invariable  concomitant  of 
ail  instruction,  and  especially  of  religious  in¬ 
struction,  is  humility.  As  this  temper  is  incul¬ 
cated  in  every  page  of  the  Gospel,  as  it  is  de- 
ducible  from  every  precept  and  every  action  of 
Christ ;  that  is  a  sufficient  intimation  that  it 
should  be  made  to  grow  out  of  every  study, 
that  it  should  be  grafted  on  every  acquisition. 
It  is  the  turning  point,  the  leading  principle  in- 
tiicative  of  the  very  genius,  of  the  very  being 
of  Christianity.  The  chastising  quality  should 
therefore  be  constantly  made  in  education  to 
operate  as  the  only  counteraction  of  that  know¬ 
ledge  which  puffeth  up.’ — Youth  should  be 
taught  that  as  humility  is  the  discriminating 
characteristic  of  our  religion,  therefore  a  proud 
Christian,  a  haughty  disciple  of  a  crucified 
Master,  furnishes  perhaps  a  stronger  opposition 
in  terms  than  tiie  whole  compass  of  language 
■can  exhibit. — They  sliould  be  taught  that  hu¬ 
mility  being  the  appropriate  grace  of  Christi¬ 
anity,  is  precisely  the  thing  which  makes  Chris¬ 
tian  and  pagan  virtues  essentially  different. 
The  virtues  of  the  Romans,  for  instance,  were  ob¬ 
viously  founded  in  pride  ;  as  a  proof  of  this,  they 
'had  not  even  a  word  in  their  copious  language 
to  express  humility,  but  what  was  used  in  a  bad 
eense,  and  convoyed  the  idea  of  meanness  or  vile- 

•  *  Deo  erexit  Voltaire,  is  the  inscriution  affixed  by 
•jimaelf  on  his  church  at  Ferney. 


ness,  of  baseness  and  servility  Christianity  so 
stands  on  its  own  single  ground,  is  so  far  from  as¬ 
similating  itself  to  the  spirit  of  other  religions, 
that,  unlike  the  Roman  emperor,  who,  though  he 
would  not  become  a  Christian,  yet  ordered  that 
the  image  of  Christ  should  be  set  up  in  the  pan¬ 
theon  with  those  of  the  heathen  gods,  and  be  wor¬ 
shipped  in  commoh  with  them ;  Christianity  not 
only  rejects  all  such  partnerships  with  other  reli¬ 
gions,  but  it  pulls  down  their  images,  defaces 
their  temples,  tramples  on  their  honours,  founds 
its  own  existence  on  the  ruins  of  spurious  reli¬ 
gions  and  spurious  virtues,  and  will  be  every 
thing  when  it  is  admitted  to  be  any  thing. 

Will  it  be  going  too  much  out  of  the  way  to 
observe,  that  Christian  Britain  retaliates  upon 
pagan  Rome  ?  For  if  the  former  used  humility 
in  a  bad  sense,  has  not  the  latter  learnt  to  use 
pride  in  a  good  one  ?  May  we  without  imperti¬ 
nence  venture  to  remark,  that  in  the  delibera¬ 
tions  of  as  honourable  and  upright  political  as¬ 
semblies  as  ever  adorned,  or,  under  Providence 
upheld  a  country ;  in  orations  which  leave  us 
nothing  to  envy  in  Attic  or  Roman  eloquence 
in  their  best  days ;  it  were  to  be  wished  that  we 
did  not  borrow  from  Rome  an  epithet  which 
suited  the  genius  of  her  religion  as  much  as  it 
militates  against  ours  ?  The  panegyrist  of  the 
battle  of  Marathon,  q^Pla,tea,  orofZama,  might 
with  propriety  speak  of  a  ‘  proud  day,’  or  a 
‘  proud  event,’  or  a  ‘  proud  success.’  But  surely 
the  Christian  encomiasts  of  the  battle  of  the 
Nile,  might,  from  their  abundance,  select  an 
epithet  better  appropriated  to  such  a  victory — 
a  victory  which,  by  preserving  Europe,  has  per 
haps  preserved  that  religion  which  sets  its  foot 
on  the  very  neck  of  pride,  and  in  which  the 
conqueror  himself,  even  in  the  first  ardours  of 
triumph,  forgot  not  to  ascribe  the  victory  to 
Almightv  God.  Let  us  leave  to  the  enemy  both 
the  terms  and  the  thing  ;  arrogant  words  being 
the  only  weapons  in  which  we  must  ever  vail  to 
theif"  decided  superiority.  As  we  must  despair 
of  the  victory,  let  us  disdain  the  contest. 

Above  all  things  then  you  should  beware  that 
your  pupils  do  not  take  up  with  a  vague,  gene¬ 
ral,  and  undefined  religion,  but  look  to  it  that 
their  Christianity  be  really  the  religion  of 
Christ.  Instead  of  slurring  over  the  doctrines 
of  the  Cross,  as  disreputable  appendages  to  our 
religion,  which  are  to  be  disguised  or  got  over 
as  well  as  we  can,  but  which  are  never  to  be 
dwelt  upon,  take  care  to  make  these  your  grand 
fundamental  articles.  Do  not  dilute  or  explain 
away  these  doctrines,  and  by  some  elegant  peri¬ 
phrasis  hint  at  a  Saviour  instead  of  making  him 
the  foundation-stone  of  your  system.  Do  not 
convey  primary,  and  plain,  and  awful,  and  in¬ 
dispensable  truths  elliptically,  I  mean  as  some¬ 
thing  that  is  to  be  understood  without  being  ex¬ 
pressed  ;  nor  study  fashionable  circumlocutions 
to  avoid  names  and  things  on  which  our  salva¬ 
tion  hangs,  in  order  to  prevent  your  discourse 
from  being  offensive.  Persons  who  are  thus 
instructed  in  religion  with  more  good-breeding 
than  seriousness  and  simplicity,  imbibe  a  dis¬ 
taste  for  plain  scriptural  language :  and  the 
Scriptures  themselves  are  so  little  in  use  with  a 
certain  fashionable  class  of  readers,  that  when 
the  doctrines  and  language  of  the  Bible  ocoa- 


360 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


sionally  occur  in  other  authors,  or  in  conversa-  , 
tion,  they  present  a  sort  of  novelty  and  peculi¬ 
arity  which  offend  ;  and  such  readers  as  disuse 
the  Bible,  are  apt  from  a  supposed  delicacy  of 
taste,  to  call  that  precise  and  puritanical,  which 
is  in  fact  sound  and  scriptural.  Nay,  it  has 
everal  times  happened  to  the  author  to  hear 
persons  of  sense  and  learning  ridicule  insulated 
sentiments  and  expressions  that  have  fallen  in 
their  way,  which  they  would  have  treated  with 
decent  respect,  had  they  known  them  to  be,  as 
they  really  were,  texts  of  Scripture.  This  ob¬ 
servation  is  hazarded  with  a  view  to  enforce  the 
importance  of  early  communicating  religious 
knowledge,  and  of  infusing  an  early  taste  for 
the  venerable  phraseology  of  Scripture. 

The  persons  in  question  thus  possessing  a 
kind  of  pagan  Christianity,  are  apt  to  acquire  a 
sort  of  a  pagan  expression  also,  which  just  en¬ 
ables  them  to  speak  with  complacency  of  the 
‘  Deity,’  of  a  ‘  first  cause,’  and  of  ‘  conscience.’ 
Nay,  some  may  even  go  so  far  as  to  talk  of 
‘the  Founder  of  our  religion,’  of  the  ‘Author  of 
Christianity,’  in  the  same  general  terms,  as 
they  would  talk  of  the  prophet  of  Arabia,  or  the 
lawgiver  of  China,  of  Athens,  or  of  the  Jews. 
But  their  refined  ears  revolt  not  a  little  at  the 
unadorned  name  of  Christ,  and  especially  the 
naked  and  unqualified  teffh  of  our  Saviour,  or 
Redeemer,  carries  with  it  a  queerish,  inelegant, 
not  to  say  suspicious  sound. — They  will  ex¬ 
press  a  serious  disapprobation  of  what  is  wrong, 
under  the  moral  term  of  vice,  or  the  forensic 
term  of  crime  ;  but  they  are  apt  to  think  that  the 
Scripture  term  of  sin  has  something  fanatical 
in  it  and,  while  they  discover  a  respect  for  mo- 
ality,  they  do  not  nruch  relish  holiness,  which 
is  indeed  the  specific  and  only  morality  of  a 
Christian. — They  w'ill  speak  readily  of  a  man’s 
reforming,  or  leaving  off  a  vicious  habit,  or 
growing  more  correct  in  some  individual  prac¬ 
tice  ;  but  the  idea  conveyed  under  any  of  the 
Scripture  phrases  signifying  a  total  change  of 
heart,  they  would  stigmatize  as  the  very  shib¬ 
boleth  of  a  seet,  though  it  is  the  language  of  a 
Liturgy  they  affect  to  admire  and  of  a  Gospel 
which  they  profess  to  receive. 


CHAP.  XIII. 

Hints  suggested  for  furnishing  young  persons 
with  a  scheme  of  prayer. 

Those  who  are  aware  of  the  inestimable  value 
of  prayer  themselves,  will  naturally  be  anxious 
not  only  that  this  duty  should  be  earnestly  in¬ 
culcated  on  their  children,  but  that  they  should 
be  taught  it  in  the  best  manner  ;  and  such  pa¬ 
rents  need  little  persuasion  or  counsel  on  the 
subject.  Yet  children  of  decent  and  orderly 
(I  will  not  say  of  strictly  religious)  families  arc 
often  so  superficially  instructed  in  this  important 
business,  that  when  they  are  asked  what  pray¬ 
ers  they  use,  it  is  not  unusual  for  them  to  an¬ 
swer,  ‘  the  Lord’s  Prayer  and  the  Creed.'  And 
even  some  who  are  better  taught,  are  not  always 
made  to  understand  with  sufficient  clearness 
the  specific  distinction  between  the  two ;  that 


.  the  one  is  the  confession  of  their  faith,  and  the 
other  the  model  for  their  supplications.  By 
this  confused  and  indistinct  beginning,  they  set 
out  with  a  perplexity  in  their  ideas  which  is  not 
always  completely  disentangled  in  more  ad¬ 
vanced  life. 

An  intelligent  mother  will  seize  the  first  occa¬ 
sion  which  the  child’s  opening  understanding 
shall  allow,  for  making  a  little  course  of  lec¬ 
tures  on  the  Lord’s  Prayer,  taking  every  divi¬ 
sion  or  short  sentence  separately  ;  for  each  fur¬ 
nishes  valuable  materials  for  a  distinct  lecture. 
The  child  should  be  led  gradually  through  every 
part  of  this  divine  composition;  she  should  be 
taught  to  break  it  into  all  the  regular  divisions, 
into  which  indeed  it  so  naturally  resolves  itself 
She  should  be  made  to  comprehend  one  by  one 
each  of  its  short  but  weighty  sentences ;  to  am¬ 
plify  and  spread  them  out  for  the  purpose  of 
better  understanding  them,  not  in  their  most 
extensive  and  critical  sense,  but  in  their  most 
simple  and  obvious  meaning.  For  in  those  con¬ 
densed  and  substantial  expressions  every  word 
is  an  ingot  and  will  bear  beating  out ;  so  that 
the  teacher’s  difficulty  will  not  so  much  be  what 
she  shall  say  as  what  she  shall  suppress  ;  so 
abundant  is  the  expository  matter  which  this 
succinct  pattern  suggests. 

When  the  child  has  a  pretty  good  conception 
of  the  meaning  of  each  division,  she  should  then 
be  made  to  observe  the  connexion,  relation  and 
dependance  of  the  several  parts  of  this  prayer 
one  upon  another  ;  for  there  is  a  great  method 
and  connexion  in  it. — We  pray  that  the  ‘king¬ 
dom  of  God  may  come,’  as  the  best  means  to 
‘  hallow  his  name  ;’  and  that  by  us,  the  obedient 
subjects  of  his  kingdom,  ‘  his  will  may  be  done.* 
A  judicious  interpreter  will  observe  how  logically 
and  consequently  one  clause  grows  out  of  an¬ 
other,  though  she  will  use  neither  the  word 
logical  nor  consequence  ;  for  all  explanations 
should  be  made  in  the  most  plain  and  familiar 
terms,  it  being  words,  and  not  things,  which 
commonly  perplex  children,  if,  as  it  sometimes 
happens,  the  teacher,  though  not  wanting  sense, 
wants  perspicuity  and  simplicity.* 

-  The  young  person  from  being  made  a  com¬ 
plete  mistress  of  this  short  composition  (which, 
as  it  is  to  be  her  guide  and  model  through  life, 
too  much  pains  cannot  be  bestowed  on  it)  will 
have  a  clearer  conception,  not  only  of  its  indi¬ 
vidual  contents,  but  of  prayer  in  general,  than 
many  ever  attain,  though  their  memory  has  been 
perhaps  loaded  with  long  and  unexplained  forms, 
which  they  have  been  accustomed  to  swallow  in 
the  lump  without  scrutiny  and  without  discri¬ 
mination.  Prayer  should  not  be  so  swallowed. 
It  is  a  regular  prescription  which  should  stand 
analysis  and  e.xamination  ;  it  is  not  a  charm, 
the  successful  operation  of  which  depends  on 
your  blindly  taking  it,  without  knowing  what  is 
in  it,  and  in  which  the  good  you  receive  is  pro¬ 
moted  by  your  ignorance  of  its  contents. 

*  It  might  perhaps  lie  a  safe  rule  to  establish  for  prayer 
in  general,  to  suspect  that  any  petition  which  cannot  in 
some  shape  or  other  be  accommodated  to  the  spirit  of 
some  part  of  this  prayer  may  not  be  right  to  bf>  adopted. 
Here,  temporal  things  are  kept  in  their  due  suhonlina- 
tion  ;  they  are  asked  for  moderately,  as  an  acknowledg- 
inent  of  on  r  dependance  and  of  God's  power;  ‘for  our 
heavenly  Father  knoweth  that  we  have  need  of  thesii 
things.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


361 


1  would  have  it  understood  that  by  these  little 
comments,  I  do  not  mean  that  the  child  should 
be  put  to  learn  dry,  and  to  her  unintelligible  ex¬ 
positions  ;  but  that  the  exposition  is  to  be  col¬ 
loquial.  And  here  I  must  remark  in  general, 
that  the  teacher  is  sometimes  unreasonably  apt 
to  relieve  herself  at  the  child’s  expense,  by  load¬ 
ing  the  memory  of  a  little  creature  on  occasions 
in  which  far  other  faculties  should  be  put  in 
exercise.  The  child  herself  should  be  made  to 
furnish  a  good  part  of  this  extemporaneous  com¬ 
mentary  by  her  answers  ;  in  which  answers  she 
will  be  much  assisted  by  the  judgment  the  teach¬ 
er  uses  in  her  manner  of  questioning.  And  the 
youthful  understanding,  when  its  powers  are 
properly  set  at  work,  will  soon  strengthen  by 
exercise,  so  as  to  furnish  reasonable  if  not  very 
correct  answers. 

Written  forms  of  prayer  are  not  only  useful 
and  proper,  but  indispensably  necessary  to  begin 
with.  But  I  will  hazard  the  remark,  that  if 
children  are  thrown  exclusively  on  the  best  forms, 
if  they  are  made  to  commit  them  to  memory 
like  a  copy  of  verses,  and  to  repeat  them  in  a 
dry,  customary  way,  they  will  produce  little  ef¬ 
fect  on  their  minds.  They  will  not  understand 
what  they  repeat,  if  we  do  not  early  open  to 
them  the  important  scheme  of  prayer.  Without 
such  an  elementary  introduction  to  this  duty, 
they  will  afterwards  be  either  ignorant  or  en¬ 
thusiasts,  or  both.  We  should  give  them  know¬ 
ledge  before  we  can  expect  them  to  make  much 
progress  in  piety,  and  as  a  due  preparative  to  it : 
Christian  instruction  in  this  resembling  the  Sun, 
who,  in  the  course  of  his  communications,  gives 
light  before  he  gives  heat.  And  to  labour  to 
excite  a  spirit  of  devotion  without  first  infusing 
that  knowledge  out  of  wdiich  it  is  to  grow,  is 
practically  reviving  the  popish  maxim,  that  ig¬ 
norance  is  the  mother  of  devotion,  and  virtually 
adopting  the  popish  rule  of  praying  in  an  un¬ 
known  tongue. 

Children,  let  me  again  observe,  will  not  attend 
to  their  prayers  if  they  do  not  understand  them ; 
and  they  will  not  understand  them,  if  they  are 
not  taught  to  analyze,  to  dissect  them,  to  know 
their  component  parts,  and  to  methodise  them. 

It  is  not  enough  to  teach  them  to  consider 
prayer  under  the  general  idea  that  it  is  an  ap¬ 
plication  to  God  for  what  they  want,  and  an  ac¬ 
knowledgment  to  Him  for  what  they  have. 
This,  though  true  in  the  gross,  is  not  sufficiently 
precise  and  correct.  They  should  learn  to  de¬ 
fine  and  to  arrange  all  the  different  parts  of 
prayer.  And  as  a  preparative  to  prayer  itself, 
they  should  be  impressed  with  as  clear  an  idea 
as  their  capacity  and  the  nature  of  the  subject 
will  admit,  of  ‘  Him  with  whom  they  have  to  do.’ 
His  omnipresence  is  perhaps,  of  alt  his  attri¬ 
butes,  that  of  which  we  may  make  the  first  prac¬ 
tical  use.  Every  head  of  prayer  is  founded  on 
some  great  scriptural  truths,  which  truths  the 
little  analysis  here  suggested  will  materially 
assist  to  fix  in  their  minds. 

On  the  knowledge  that  ‘  God  is,’  that  ho  is  an 
infinitely  Holy  Being,  and  that  ‘  he  is  the  re¬ 
warder  of  all  them  that  diligently  seek  him,’ 
will  be  grounded  the  first  part  of  prayer,  which 
is  adoration.  The  creature,  devoting  itself  to 
the  Creator,  or  self-dedication,  next  presents  it- 
VoL.  I. 


self.  And  if  they  are  first  taught  that  important 
truth,  that  as  needy  creatures  they  want  help, 
which  may  be  done  by  some  easy  analogy,  they 
will  easily  be  led  to  understand  how  naturally 
petition  forms  a  most  considerable  branch  of, 
prayer  :  and  divine  grace  being  among  the  things 
for  which  they  are  to  petition,  this  naturally 
suggests  to  the  mind  the  doctrine  of  the  influ¬ 
ences  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  And  when  to  this  is 
added  the  conviction  which  will  be  readily  work¬ 
ed  into  an  ingenuous  mind,  that  as  offending 
creatures  they  want  pardon,  the  necessity  of 
confession  will  easily  be  made  intelligible  to 
them.  But  they  should  be  brought  to  under¬ 
stand  that  it  must  not  be  such  a  general  and 
vague  confession  as  awakens  no  sense  of  per¬ 
sonal  humiliation,  as  excites  no  recollection  of 
their  own  more  peculiar  and  individual  faults. 
But  it  must  be  a  confession  founded  on  self- 
knowledge,  which  is  itself  to  arise  out  of  the 
practice  of  self-examination  :  for  want  of  this 
sort  of  discriminating  habit,  a  well-meaning  but 
ill-instructed  girl  may  be  caught  confessing  the 
sins  of  some  other  person  and  omitting  those 
which  are  more  especially  her  own.  On  the 
gladness  of  heart  natural  to  youth,  it  will  be  less 
difficult  to  impress  the  delightful  duty  of  thanks¬ 
giving,  which  forms  so  considerable  a  branch  of 
prayer.  In  this  they  should  be  habituated  to 
recapitulate  not  only  their  general,  but  to  enu¬ 
merate  their  peculiar,  daily,  and  incidental  mer¬ 
cies,  in  the  same  specific  manner  as  they  should 
have  been  taught  to  detail  their  individual  and 
personal  lofflnts  in  the  petitionary,  and  their/ceuZ^s 
in  the  confessional  part.  The  same  warmth  of 
feeling  which  will  more  readily  dispose  them  to 
express  their  gratitude  to  God  in  thanksgiving, 
will  also  lead  them  more  gladly. to  express  their 
love  to  their  parents  and  friends,  by  adopting 
another  indispensable,  and,  to  an  affectionate 
heart,  pleasing  part  of  prayer,  which  is  inter- 
cesssion. 

When  they  had  been  made,  by  a  plain  and 
perspicuous  mode  of  instruction,  fully  to  under¬ 
stand  the  different  nature  of  all  these ;  and 
when  they  clearly  comprehend  that  adoration, 
self-dedication,  confession,  petition,  thanksgiv¬ 
ing,  and  intercession,  are  distinct  heads,  which 
must  not  be  involved  in  each  other,  you  may 
exemplify  the  rules  by  pointing  out  to  them 
these  successive  branches  in  any  well  written 
form.  And  they  will  easily  discern,  that  ascrip¬ 
tion  of  glory  to  that  God  to  w'hom  we  owe  so 
much,  and  on  whom  we  so  entirely  depend,  is 
the  conclusion  into  which  a  Christian’s  prayer 
will  naturally  resolve  itself.  It  is  hardly  need¬ 
ful  to  remind  the  teacher  that  our  truly  Scriptu¬ 
ral  Liturgy  invariably  furnishes  the  example  ori 
presenting  every  request  in  the  name  of  the  great 
Mediator.  For  there  is  no  access  to  the  Throno 
of  grace  but  by  that  new  and  living  way.  In 
the  liturgy  too  they  will  meet  with  the  best  ex¬ 
emplifications  of  prayers,  exhibiting  separate 
specimens  of  each  of  the  distinct  heads  we  have 
seen  suggesting. 

But  in  order  that  the  minds  of  young  persons 
may,  without  labour  or  difficulty,  be  gradually 
brought  into  such  a  state  of  preparation  as  to 
be  benefitted  by  such  a  little  course  of  lectures 
I  as  we  have  recommended :  they  should,  froin 


S62 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


the  time  when  they  were  first  able  to  read,  have 
■been  employing  themselves  at  their  leisure 
hours,  in  laying  in  a  store  of  provisions  for  their 
present  demands.  And  here  the  memory  may 
be  employed  to  good  purpose  ;  for  being  the  first 
faculty  which  is  ripened,  and  which  is  indeed 
perfected  when  the  others  are  only  beginning 
to  unfold  themselves,  this  is  an  intimation  of 
Providence  that  it  should  be  the  first  seized  on 
for  the  best  uses.  It  should  therefore  be  devoted 
to  lay  in  a  stock  of  the  more  easy  and  devotional 
parts  of  Scripture.  The  Psalms  alone  are  an 
inexhaustible  storehouse  of  rich  materials.* 
Children,  whose  minds  have  been  early  well  fur¬ 
nished  from  these,  will  be  competent  at  nine  or 
ten  years  old  to  produce  from  them,  and  to  se¬ 
lect  with  no  contemptible  judgment,  suitable 
examples  of  all  the  parts  of  prayer  ;  and  will  be 
able  to  extract  and  appropriate  texts  under  each 
respective  head,  so  as  to  exhibit,  without  help, 
complete  specimens  of  every  part  of  prayer.  By 
confining  them  entirely  to  the  sense,  and  nearly 
to  the  words  of  Scripture,  they  will  be  preserved 
from  enthusiasm,  from  irregularity,  and  conceit. 
By  being  obliged  continually  to  apply  for  them¬ 
selves,  they  will  get  a  habit  in  all  their  difficul¬ 
ties  of  ‘  searching  the  Scriptures,’  which  may 
be  hereafter  useful  to  them  on  other  and  more 
trying  occasions.  But  I  would  at  first  confine 
them  to  the  Bible ;  for  were  they  allowed  with 
equal  freedom  to  ransack  other  books  with  a 
view  to  get  helps  to  embellish  their  little  com¬ 
positions,  or  rather  compilations,  they  might  be 
tempted  to  pass  off  for  their  own  what  they  pick 
up  from  others,  which  might  tend  at  once  to 
make  them  both  vain  and  deceitful.  This  is  a 
temptation  to  which  they  are  too  much  laid  open 
when  they  find  .themselves  extravagantly  com¬ 
mended  for  any  pilfered  passage  with  which 
they  decorate  their  little  themes  and  letters. 
But  in  the  present  instance  there  is  no  danger 
of  any  similar  deception,  for  there  is  such  a  sa¬ 
cred  signature  stamped  on  every  Scripture 
phrase,  that  the  owner’s  name  can  never  be  de¬ 
faced  or  torn  off  from  the  goods,  either  by  fraud 
or  violence. 

It  would  be  well,  if  in  those  Psalms  which 
children  were  first  directed  to  get  by  heart,  an 
eye  wore  had  to  this  their  future  application ; 
and  that  they  were  employed,  but  without  any 
intimation  of  your  subsequent  design,  in  learn¬ 
ing  such  as  may  be  best  turned  to  this  account. 
In  the  hundred  and  thirty-ninth,  the  first  great 
truth  to  be  imprinted  on  the  young  heart,  the 
divine  omnipresence,  as  was  before  observed,  is 
unfolded  with  such  a  mixture  of  majestic  gran¬ 
deur,  and  such  an  interesting  variety  of  intimate 
and  local  circumstances,  as  is  likely  to  seize  on 
the  quick  and  lively  feelings  of  youth.  The 
awful  idea  that  that  Being  whom  she  is  taught 
to  reverence,  is  not  only  in  general  ‘  acquainted 
with  all  her  ways,’  but  that  ‘  he  is  about  her 
path,  and  about  her  bed,’  bestows  such  a  sense 

*  This  will  be  so  far  from  spoiling  the  cheerfulness,  or 
impfiding  the  pleasures  of  childhood,  that  the  author 
knows  a  little  girl  who,  before  she  was  seven  years  old, 
had  learnt  the  whole  Psalter  through  a  second  time ;  anil 
that  without  any  diminution  of  uncommon  gayety  of 
spirits  or  any  interference  with  the  elegant  acquire¬ 
ments  suited  to  her  station. 


of  real  and  present  existence  on  him  of  whonl 
she  is  apt  to  conceive  as  having  his  distant  ha¬ 
bitation  only  in  Heaven,  as  will  greatly  help  her 
to  realize  the  sense  of  his  actual  presence. 

The  hundred  and  third  Psalm  will  open  to 
the  mind  rich  and  abundant  sources  of  expres¬ 
sion  for  gratitude  and  thanksgiving,  and  it  in- 
eludes  the  acknowledgment  of  spiritual  as  well 
as  temporal  favours.  It  illustrates  the  compas. 
sionate  mercies  of  God  by  familiar  and  domestic 
images,  of  such  peculiar  tenderness  and  exqui¬ 
site  endearment,  as  are  calculated  to  strike  upon 
every  chord  of  filial  fondness  in  the  heart  of  an 
affectionate  child.  The  fifty-first  supplies  an 
infinite  variety  of  matter  in  whatever  relates  to 
confession  of  sin,  or  to  supplication  for  the  aids 
of  the  Spirit  The  twentyrthird  abounds  with 
captivating  expressions  of  the  protecting  good¬ 
ness  and  tender  love  of  their  heavenly  Father, 
conveyed  by  pastoral  imagery  of  uncommon 
beauty  and  sweetness :  in  short,  the  greater 
part  of  these  charming  compositions  overflows 
with  materials  for  every  head  of  prayer. 

The  child  who,  while  she  was  engaged  in 
learning  these  scriptures,  was  not  aware  that 
there  was  any  specific  object  in  view,  or  any 
farther  end  to  be  answered  by  it,  will  afterwards 
feel  an  unexpected  pleasure  arising  from  the 
application  of  her  petty  labours,  when  she  is 
called  to  draw  out  from  her  little  treasury  of 
knowledge  the  stores  she  has  been  insensibly 
collecting ;  and  will  be  pleased  to  find  that  with¬ 
out  any  fresh  application  to  study,  for  she  is  now 
obliged  to  exercise  a  higher  faculty  than  me¬ 
mory,  she  has  lying  ready  in  her  mind  the  ma¬ 
terials  with  which  she  is  at  length  called  upon 
to  work.  Her  judgment  must  be  set  about  se¬ 
lecting  one,  or  two,  or  more  texts  which  shall 
contain  the  substance  of  every  specific  head  of 
prayer  before  noticed ;  and  it  will  be  a  farther 
exercise  to  her  understanding  to  concatenate  the 
detached  parts  into'  one  regular  whole,  occasion¬ 
ally  varying  the  arrangement  as  she  likes  ;  that 
is,  changing  the  order,  sometimes  beginning 
with  invocation,  sometimes  with  confession  • 
sometimes  dwelling  longer  on  one  part,  some 
times  on  another.  As  the  hardships  of  a  reli¬ 
gious  Sunday  are  often  so  pathetically  pleaded, 
as  making  one  of  the  heavy  burdens  of  religion ; 
and  as  the  friends  of  religion  are  so  often  called 
upon  to  mitigate  its  intolerable  rigours,  by  re¬ 
commending  pleasant  employment,  might  not 
such  an  exercise  as  has  been  here  suggested 
help,  by  varying  its  occupations,  to  lighten  its 
load. 

The  habits  of  the  pupil  being  thus  early  form¬ 
ed,  her  memory,  attention  and  intellect  being 
bent  in  a  right  direction,  and  the  exercise  in¬ 
variably  maintained,  may  we  not  reasonably 
hope  that  her  affections  also,  through  divine 
grace,  may  become  interested  in  the  work,  till 
she  will  be  enabled  ‘  to  pray  with  the  spirit  and 
with  the  understanding  also  ?’  She  will  now 
be  qualified  to  use  a  well-composed  form,  if  ne¬ 
cessary,  with  seriousness  and  advantage ;  for 
she  will  now  use  it  not  mechanically,  but  ra¬ 
tionally.  That  which  before  appeared  to  her  a 
mere  mass  of  good  words,  will  now  appear  a 
significant  composition,  exhibiting  variety,  and 
regularity,  and  beauty  :  and  while  she  will  have 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


363 


the  farther  advantage  of  being  enabled  by  her 
improved  judgment  to  distinguish  and  select  for 
•her  own  purpose  such  prayers  as  are  more  ju¬ 


dicious  and  more  scriptural,  it  will  also  habitu 
ate  her  to  look  for  plan,  and  design,  and  lucid 
order,  in  other  works. 


A  VIEW 

OF  THE  PRINCIPLES  AND  CONDUCT 

PREVALENT  AMONG  WOMEN  OF  RANK  AND  FORTUNE. 


CHAP.  XIV. 

The  practical  use  of  female  knowledge,  with  a 

sketch  of  the  female  character,  and  a  compara¬ 
tive  view  of  the  sexes. 

The  chief  end  to  be  proposed  in  cultivating 
the  understandings  of  women,  is  to  qualify  them 
for  the  practical  purposes  of  life.  Their  know¬ 
ledge  is  not  often  like  the  learning  of  men,  to  be 
reproduced  in  some  literary  composition,  nor 
ever  in  any  learned  profession  ;  but  it  as  to  come 
out  in  conduct.  It  is  to  be  exhibited  in  life  and 
manners.  A  lady  studies,  nqj  that  she  may 
qualify  herself  to  become  an  ora^gjr  or  a  pleader  ; 
not  that  she  may  learn  to  debate,  but  to  act. 
She  is  to  read  the  best  books,  not  so  much  to 
enable  her  to  talk  of  them,  as  to  bring  the  im¬ 
provement  which  they  furnish,  to  the  rectifica- 
tion  of  her  principles  and  the  formation  of  her 
habits.  The  great  uses  of  study  to  a  woman  are 
to  enable  her  to  regulate  her  own  mind,  and  to 
be  instrumental  to  the  good  of  others. 

To  woman,  therefore,  whatever  be  her  rank, 
I  would  recommend  a  predominance  of. those 
more  sober  studios,  which,  not  having  display 
for  their  object,  may  make  her  wise  without  va¬ 
nity,  happy  without  witnesses,  and  content  with¬ 
out  panegyrists  ;  the  exercise  of  which  will  not 
bring  celebrity,  but  improve  usefulness.  She 
should  pursue  every  kind  of  study  which  will 
teach  her  to  elicit  truth ;  which  will  lead  her  to 
be  intent  upon  realities ;  will  give  precision  to 
her  ideas ;  will  make  an  exact  mind.  She 
should  cultivate  every  study  which,  instead  of 
stimulating  her  sensibility,  will  chastise  it ; 
which  will  neither  create  an  excessive  or  a  false 
refinement;  which  will  give  her  definite  notions; 
will  bring  the  imagination  under  dominion  ;  will 
lead  her  to  think,  to  compare,  to  combine,  to 
methodise ;  which  will  confer  such  a  power  of 
discrimination,  that  her  judgment  shall  learn  to 
reject  what  is  dazzling,  if  it  be  not  solid  ;  and 
to  prefer,  not  what  is  striking,  or  bright,  or  new, 
but  what  is  just.  That  kind  of  knowledge  which 
is  rather  fitted  for  home  consumption  than  fo¬ 
reign  exportation,  is  peculiarly  adapted  to  wo¬ 
men.* 

It  is  because  the  superficial  nature  of  their 
education  furnishes  them  with  a  false  and  low 
standard  of  intellectual  excellence,  that  women 
have  too  often  become  ridiculous  by  the  unfound- 

*  May  I  be  allowed  to  strenathen  my  own  opinion 
with  the  authority  of  Dr.  Johnson,  that  a  woman  cannot 
haoe  too  muck  arithmetic  ?  It  is  a  soliil  practical  acquire¬ 
ment,  in  which  there  is  much  use  and  little  display;  it 
is  a  quiet  sober  kind  of  knowlodae,  which  she  acquiies 
for  herself  and  her  family,  and  not  for  the  world. 


ed  pretensions  of  literary  vanity ;  for  it  is  not 
the  really  learned,  but  the  smatterers  who  have 
generally  brought  their  sex  into  discredit,  by  an 
absurd  atfectation,  which  has  set  them  on  de- 
spising  the  duties  of  ordinary  life.  There  have 
not  indeed  been  wanting  (but  the  character  is 
not  now  common)  precieuses  ridicules,  who  as 
Burning  a  superiority  to  the  sober  cares  which 
ought  to  occupy  their  sex,  have  claimed  a  lofty 
and  supercilious  exemption  from  the  dull  and 
plodding  drudgeries 

Of  this  dim  speck  called  earth  1 

There  have  not  been  wanting  ill-judging  females 
who  have  affected  to  establish  an  unnatural  se¬ 
paration  between  talents  and  usefulness,  instead 
of  bearing  in  mind  that  talents  are  the  great  ap¬ 
pointed  instruments  of  usefulness,  who  have 
acted  as  if  knowledge  were  to  confer  on  woman 
a  kind  of  fantastic  sovereignty  which  should  ex¬ 
onerate  her  from  the  discharge  of  female  duties  ; 
whereas  it  is  only  meant  the  more  eminently  to 
qualify  her  for  the  performance  of  them.  A 
woman  of  real  sense  will  never  forget,  that 
while  the  greater  part  of  her  proper  duties  are 
such  as  the  most  moderately  gifted  may  fulfil 
with  credit  (since  Providence  never  makes  that 
to  be  very  difficult,  which  is  generally  necessa¬ 
ry)  yet  that  the  most  highly  endowed  are  equally 
bound  to  fulfil  tl*em ;  and  let  her  remember  that 
the  humblest  ofthese  offices,  performed  on  Chris¬ 
tian  principles,  are  wholesome  for  the  minds 
even  of  the  most  enlightened,  as  they  tend  to 
the  casting  down  of  those  ‘  high  imaginations* 
which  women  of  genius  are  too  much  tempted 
to  indulge. 

For  instance  ;  ladies  whose  natural  vanity  has 
been  aggravated  by  a  false  education,  may  look 
down  on  economy  as  a  vulgar  attainment ;  un¬ 
worthy  of  the  attention  of  an  highly  cultivated 
intellect ;  but  this  is  the  false  estimate  of  a  shal¬ 
low  mind.  Economy,  such  as  a  woman  of  for¬ 
tune  is  called  on  to  practise,  is  not  merely  tho 
petty  detail  of  small  daily  expenses,  tho  shabby 
curtailments  and  stinted  parsimony  of  a  little 
mind,  operating  on  little  concerns ;  but  it  is  the 
exercise  of  a  sound  judgment  exerted  in  the 
compreliensive  outline  of  order,  of  arrangements, 
of  distribution  ;  of  regulations  by  which  alone 
well  governed  societies,  great  and  small,  sub¬ 
sist.  Slie  who  has  the  best  regulated  mind  will, 
other  things  being  equal,  have  the  best  regulat¬ 
ed  family.  As  in  the  superintendance  of  the 
universe,  wisdom  is  seen  in  its  effects ;  and  as 
in  tho  visible  works  of  Providence  that  which 
goes  on  with  such  beautiful  regularity  is  the  re¬ 
sult  not  of  chance  but  of  design,  so  that  manage- 


364 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


merit  which  seems  the  most  easy  is  commonly 
the  consequence  of  the  best  copcerted  plan  :  and 
a  well  concerted  plan  is  seldom  the  offspring  of 
an  ordinary  mind.  A  sound  economy  is  a  sound 
understanding  brought  into  action :  it  is  calcu¬ 
lation  realized  ;  it  is  the  doctrine  of  proportion 
reduced  to  practice :  it  is  foreseeing  conse¬ 
quences,  and  guarding  against  them  ;  it  is  ex¬ 
pecting  contingencies  and  being  prepared  for 
them.  The-  difference  is,  that  to  a  narrow 
minded  vulgar  economist,  the  details  are  conti¬ 
nually  present;  she  is  overwhelmed  by  their 
weight,  and  is  perpetually  bespeaking  your  pity 
for  her  labours,  and  your  praise  for  her  exer¬ 
tions  ;  she  is  afraid  you  will  not  see  how  much 
she  is  harassed.  She  is  not  satisfied  that  the 
machine  moves  harmoniously,  unless  she  is  per¬ 
petually  exposing  every  secret  spring  to  obser¬ 
vation.  Little  events  and  trivial  operations  en¬ 
gross  her  whole  soul ;  while  a  woman  of  sense, 
having  provided  for  their  probable  recurrence, 
guards  against  the  inconveniences,  without  be¬ 
ing  disconcerted  by  the  casual  obstructions 
which  they  offer  to  her  general  scheme.  Sub¬ 
ordinate  expenses  and  inconsiderable  retrench¬ 
ments  should  not  swallow  up  that  attention 
which  is  better  bestowed  on  regulating  the  ge¬ 
neral  scale  of  expense  ;  correcting  and  reducing 
an  overgrown  establishment,  and  reforming  ra¬ 
dical  and  growing  excesses. 

Superior  talentsj  however,  are  not  so  common, 
as,  by  their  frequency,  to  offer  much  disturb¬ 
ance  to  the  general  course  of  human  affairs  :  j 
and  many  a  lady,  who  tacitly  accuses  herself  of  I 
neglecting  her  ordinary  duties  because  she  is  a 
genius,  will  perhaps  be  found  often  to  accuse 
herself  as  unjustly  as  good  St.  Jerome,  when  he 
laments  that  he  was  beaten  by  the  angel  for  be¬ 
ing  too  Ciceronian  in  his  style. 

The  truth  is,  women  who  are  so  puffed  up 
with  the  conceit  of  talents  as  to  neglect  the  plain 
duties  of  life,  will  not  frequently  be  found  to  be 
women  of  the  best  abilities.  And  here  may  the 
author  be  allowed  the  gratification  of  observing, 
that  those  women  of  real  genius  and  extensive 
knowledge,  whose  friendship  has  conferred  ho¬ 
nour  and  happiness  on  her  own  life,  have  been, 
in  general,  eminent  for  economy  and  the  prac¬ 
tice  of  domestic  virtues ;  and  have  risen  superior 
to  the  poor  affectation  of  neglecting  the  duties 
and  despising  the  knowledge  of  common  life, 
with  which  literary  women  have  been  frequent¬ 
ly,  and  not  always  unjustly,  accused. 

A  romantic  girl  with  a  pretension  to  senti¬ 
ment,  which  her  still  more  ignorant  friends 
mistake  for  genius  (for  in  the  empire  of  the  blind 
the  one-eyed  are  kings)  and  possessing  some¬ 
thing  of  a  natural  ear,  has  perhaps  in  her  child¬ 
hood  exhausted  all  the  images  of  grief,  and  love, 
and  fancy  picked  up  in  her  desultory  poetical 
reading,  in  an  elegy  on  a  sick  linnet,  or  a  son¬ 
net  on  a  dead  lap-dog;  she  begins  thencefor¬ 
ward  to  be  considered  as  a  prodigy  in  her  little 
circle ;  surrounded  with  fond  and  flattering 
friends,  every  avenue  to  truth  is  shut  out ;  she 
has  no  opportunity  of  learning  that  her  fame  is 
derived  not  from  her  powers,  but  her  position ; 
and  that  when  an  impartial  critic  shall  have 
made  all  the  necessary  deductions,  such  as — 
that  she  is  a  neighbour,  that  she  is  a  relation, 


that  she  is  a  female,  that  she  is  young,  that  she 
has  had  no  advantages,  that  she  is  pretty  per* 
haps — when  her  verses  come  to  be  stripped  of 
all  their  extraneous  appendages,  and  the  fait 
author  is  driven  off  her  ‘  vantage  ground’  of 
partiality,  sex,  and  favour,  she  will  commonly 
sink  to  the  level  of  ordinary  capacities.  While 
those  more  quiet  women,  who  have  meekly  sat 
down  in  the  humble  shades  of  prose  and  pru¬ 
dence,  by  a  patient  perseverance  in  rational  stu¬ 
dies,  rise  afterwards  much  higher  in  the  scale 
of  intellect,  and  acquire  a  much  larger  stock  of 
sound  knowledge  for  far  better  purposes  than 
mere  display.  And  though  it  may  seem  a  con¬ 
tradiction,  yet  it  will  generally  be  found  true, 
that  girls  who  take  to  scribble,  are  the  least  stu¬ 
dious,  the  least  reflecting,  and  the  least  rational- 
They  early  acquire  a  false  confidence  in  their 
own  unassisted  powers  :  it  becomes  more  grati¬ 
fying  to  their  natural  vanity  to  be  always  pour¬ 
ing  out  their  minds  on  paper,  than  to  be  draw¬ 
ing  into  them  fresh  ideas  from  richer  sources. 
The  original  stock,  small  perhaps  at  first,  is 
soon  spent.  The  subsequent  efforts  grow  more 
and  more  feeble,  if  the  mind  which  is  continu¬ 
ally  exhausting^tself,  be  not  also  continually 
replenished  ;  ^  the  latter  compositions  become 
little  more  than  reproductions  of  the  same  ideas, 
and  fainter  copies  of  the  same  images,  a  little 
varied  and  modified  perhaps,  and  not  a  little  di 
luted  and  enfeebled. 

It  will  be  necessary  to  combat  vigilantly  that 
favourite  plea  of  lively  ignorance,  that  study  is 
an  enemy  to  originality.  Correct  the  judgment, 
while  you  humble  the  vanity  of  the  young  un¬ 
taught  pretender,  by  convincing  her  that  those 
half-formed  thoughts  and  undigested  ideas  wh.ch 
she  considers  as  proofs  of  her  invention,  prove 
only,  that  she  wants  taste  and  knowledge.  That 
while  conversation  must  polish  and  reflection 
invigorate  her  ideas,  she  must  improve  and  en¬ 
large  them  by  the  accession  of  various  kinds  of 
virtue  and  elegant  literature  ;  and  that  the  cul¬ 
tivated  mind  will  repay  with  large  interest  the 
seeds  sown  in  it  by  judicious  study.  Let  it  be 
observed,  I  am  by  no  means  encouraging  young 
ladies  to  turn  authors:  I  am  only  reminding 
them,  that 

Authors  before  they  write  should  read. 

I  am  only  putting  them  in  mind  that  to  be  ig¬ 
norant  is  not  to  be  original. 

These  self-taught,  and  self-dependant  scrib¬ 
blers  pant  for  the  unmerited  and  unattainable 
praise  of  fancy  and  of  genius,  while  they  disdain 
the  commendation  of  judgment,  knowledge,  and 
perseverance  which  would  probably  be  within 
their  reach.  To  extort  admiratitm  they  are  ac¬ 
customed  to  boast  of  an  impossible  rapidity  in 
composing ;  and  while  they  insinuate  how  little 
time  their  performances  cost  them,  they  intend 
you  should  infer  how  perfect  they  might  have 
made  them  had  they  condescended  to  the  drudg 
ery  of  application:  but  application  with  them 
implies  defect  of  genius.  They  take  superfluous 
pains  to  convince  you  that  there  was  neither 
learning  nor  labour  employed  in  the  work  for 
which  they  solicit  your  praise  :  Alas  !  the  judi¬ 
cious  eye  too  soon  perceives  it !  though  it  does 
not  perceive  that  native  strength  and  mother 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


3C5 


wit,  which  m  works  of  real  genius  make  some 
amenas  for  the  negligence,  which  yet  they  do 
not  justify.  But  instead  of  extolling  those  effu¬ 
sions  for  their  facility,  it  would  be  kind  in 
friends  rather  to  blame  them  for  their  crudeness : 
and  when  the  young  candidates  for  fame,  are 
eager  to  prove  in  how  short  a  time  such  a  poem 
has  been  struck  off,  it  would  be  well  to  regret 
that  they  had  not  either  taken  a  longer  time,  or 
■refrained  from  writing  at  all ;  as  in  the  former 
case  the- work  would  have  been  less  defective, 
and  in  the  latter  the  writer  would  have  discover¬ 
ed  more  humility;  and  self-distrust. 

A  general  capacit}’’  for  knowledge,  and  the 
cultivation  of  the  understanding  at  large,  will 
always  put  a  woman  into  the  best  state  of  di¬ 
recting  her  pursuits  into  those  particular  chan¬ 
nels  which  her  destination  in  life  may  after¬ 
wards  require.  But  she  should  be  carefully  in¬ 
structed  that  her  talents  are  only  a  means  to  a 
still  higher  attainment,  and  that  she  is  not  to 
rest  in  them  as  an  end :  that  merely  to  exercise 
them  as  instruments  for  the  acquisition  of  fame 
and  the  promotion  of  pleasure  is  subversive  of 
her  delicay  as  a  woman,  and  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  a  Christian. 

Study,  therefore,  is  to  be  considered  as  the 
means  of  strengthening  the  mind,  and  of  fitting 
it  for  higher  duties,  just  as  exercise  is  to  be  con¬ 
sidered  as  an  instrument  for  strengthening  the 
bod}^  for  the  same  purpose  !  And  the  valetudi¬ 
narian  who  is  religiously  punctual  in  the  obser¬ 
vance  of  his  daily  rides  to  promote  his  health,  and 
rests  in  that  as  an  end,  without  so  much  as  in¬ 
tending  to  make  his  improved  health  an  instru¬ 
ment  of  increased  usefulness,  acts  on  the  same 
low  and  selfish  principle  with  her  who  reads 
merely  for  pleasure  and  for  fame,  without  any 
design  of  devoting  the  more  enlarged  and  invi¬ 
gorated  mind  to  the  glory  of  the  Giver. 

But  there  is  one  human  consideration  which 
■would  perhaps  more  effectually  tend  to  damp  in 
an  aspiring  woman  the  ardours  of  literary  vanity 
(I  speak  not  of  real  genius,  though  there  the  re¬ 
mark  often  applies)  than  any  which  she  will  de¬ 
rive  from  motives  of  humility,  or  propriety,  or 
religion  ;  which  is,  that  in  the  judgment  passed 
on  her  performances,  she  will  have  to  encounter 
the  mortifying  circumstance  of  having  her  sex 
always  taken  into  account ;  and  her  highest  ex¬ 
ertions  will  probably  be  received  with  the  quali¬ 
fied  approbation  that  it  is  really  extraordinary 
for  a  woman.  Men  of  learning,  who  are  natu¬ 
rally  inclined  to  estimate  works  in  proportion  as 
they  appear  to  be  the  result  of  art,  study,  and 
institution,  are  inclined  to  consider  even  the 
happier  performances  of  the  other  sex  as  the 
spontaneous  productions  of  a  fruitful  but  shallow 
soil ;  and  to  give  them  the  same  kind  of  praise 
which  we  bestow  on  certain  sallads,  which  often 
draw  from  us  a  sort  of  wondering  commenda¬ 
tion,  not  indeed  as  being  worth  much  in  them¬ 
selves,  but  because  by  the  lightness  of  the  earth, 
and  a  happy  knack  in  the  gardener,  these  in¬ 
different  cresses  spring  up  in  a  night,  and  there- 
fore  we  are  ready  to  wonder  they  are  no  worse. 

As  to  men  of  sense,  however,  they  need  be 
the  less  hostile  to  the  improvement  of  the  other 
sex,  as  they  themselves  will  be  sure  to  be  gainers 
by  it ;  the  enlargemen*  of  the  female  understand¬ 


ing  being  the  most  likely  means  to  put  an  end 
to  those  petty  and  absurd  contentions  for  equality 
which  female  smatterers  so  anxiously  maintain. 
I  say  smatterers,  for  between  the  first  class  of 
both  sexes  the  question  is  much  more,  rarely,  and 
always  more  temperately  agitated.  Co-operation 
and  not  competition  is  indeed  the  clear  principle 
we  wish  to  see  reciprocally  adopted  by  those 
higher  minds  in  each  sex  which  readily  approxi- 
mate  the  nearest  to  each  other.  The  more  a  wo¬ 
man’s  understanding  is  improved,  the  more  ob¬ 
viously  she  will  discern  that  there  can  be  no  hap¬ 
piness  in  any  society  where  there  is  a  perpetual 
struggle  for  power ;  and  the  more  her  judgment  is 
rectified,  the  more  accurate  views  will  she  take 
of  the  station  she  was  born  to  fill,  and  the  more 
readily  will  she  accommodate  herself  to  it ; 
while  the  most  vulgar  and  ill  informed  women 
are  ever  rnost  inclined  to  be  tyrants,  and  those 
always  struggle  most  vehemently  for  power, 
who  feel  themselves  at  the  greatest  distance  from 
deserving  it ;  and  who  would  not  fail  to  make 
the  worst  use  of  it  when  attained.  Thus  the 
weakest  reasoners  are  always  the  most  positive 
in  debate  ;  and  the  cause  is  obvious,  for  they  are 
unavoidably  driven  to  maintain  their  pretensions 
by  violence,  who  want  arguments  and  reasons 
to  prove  that  they  are  in  the  right. 

There  is  this  singular  difference  between  a 
woman  vain  of  her  wit,  and  a  woman  vain  of 
her  beauty ;  that  the  beauty  while  she  is  an¬ 
xiously  alive  to  her  own  fame,  is  often  indiffer¬ 
ent  enough  about  the  beauty  of  other  women , 
and  provided  she  herself  is  sure  of  your  admira¬ 
tion,  she  does  not  insist  on  your  thinking  that 
there  is  another  handsome  woman  in  the  world  ; 
while  she  who  is  vain  of  her  genius,  more  liberal 
at  least  in  her  vanity,  is  jealous  for  the  honour 
of  her  whole  sex,  and  contends  for  the  equality 
of  their  pretensions  as  a  body,  in  which  she  feels 
that  her  own  are  involved  as  an  individual. 
The  beauty  vindicates  her  own  rights,  the  wit 
the  rights  of  women  ;  the  beauty  fights  for  her¬ 
self  ;  the  wit  for  a  party ;  and  while  the  more 
selfish  though  more  moderate  beauty 

would  but  be  queen  for  life, 

the  public  spirited  wit  struggles  to  abrogate  the 
Salique  law  of  intellect,  and  to  enthrone 

a  whole  sex  of  queens. 

At  the  revival  of  letters  in  the  sixteenth  ana 
the  following  century,  the  controversy  about 
this  equality  was  agitated  with  more  warmth 
than  wisdom ;  and  the  process  was  instituted 
and  carried  on,  on  the  part  of  the  female  com¬ 
plainant,  with  that  sort  of  acrimony  which  al¬ 
ways  raises  a  suspicion  of  the  justice  of  any 
cause ;  for  violence  commonly  implies  doubt, 
and  invective  indicates  weakness  rather  than 
strength.  The  novelty  of  that  knowledge  that 
was  then  bursting  out  from  the  dawn  of  a  long 
dark  night,  kindled  all  the  ardours  of  a  Icmale 
mind,  and  the  ladies  fought  zealously  for  a  por¬ 
tion  of  that  renown  which  the  reputation  of 
learning  was  beginning  to  bestow.  Besides 
their  own  pons,  they  had  for  their  advocates  all 
those  needy  authors  who  had  any  thing  to  hope 
from  their  power,  their  riches  or  their  influence  ; 
and  so  giddy  did  some  of  these  literary  .adies 


366 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


become  by  the  adulation  of  their  numerous  pane¬ 
gyrists,  that  through  these  repeated  draughts 
of  inebriating  praise,  they  even  lost  their  former 
moderate  measure  of  sober-mindedness,  and 
grew  to  despise  the  equality  for  which  they  had 
before  contended,  as  a  state  below  their  merit, 
and  unworthy  of  their  acceptance.  They  now 
scorned  to  litigate  for  what  they  had  already 
thought  they  obviously  possessed,  and  nothing 
short  of  the  palm  of  superiority  was  at  length 
considered  as  adequate  to  their  growing  claims. 
When  court-ladies  and  princesses  were  the  can¬ 
didates,  they  could  not  long  want  champions  to 
support  their  cause  ;  by  these  champions  female 
authorities  were  produced  as  if  paramount  to 
facts ;  quotations  from  these  female  authors 
were  considered  as  proofs,  and  their  point-blank 
assertions  stood  for  solid  and  irrefragable  argu¬ 
ments.  In  those  parasites  who  offered  this 
homage  to  female  genius,  the  homage  was  the 
effect  neither  of  truth,  nor  of  justice,  nor  of  con¬ 
viction.  It  arose  rather  out  of  gratitude,  or  it 
was  a  reciprocation  of  flattery ;  it  was  sometimes 
vanity,  it  was  often  distress,  which  prompted 
the  adulation  ;  it  was  the  want  of  a  patroness  ; 
it  was  the  want  of  a  dinner.  When  a  lady,  and 
especially  as  it  then  often  happened,  when  a 
lady  who  was  noble  or  royal  sat  with  gratifying 
docility  at  the  foot  of  a  professor’s  chair  ;  when 
she  admired  the  philosopher,  or  took  upon  her  to 
protect  the  theologian,  whom  his  rivals  among 
his  own  sex  were  tearing  to  pieces,  what  could 
the  grateful  professor  or  delighted  theologian  do 
less  in  return  than  make  the  apotheosis  of  her 
W'ho  had  the  penetration  to  discern  his  merit  and 
the  spirit  to  reward  it  ?  Thus  in  fact  it  w’as  not 
so  much  ,Acr  vanity  as  his  own,  that  he  was  often 
flattering,  though  she  was  the  dupe  of  her  more 
deep  and  designing  panegyrist. 

But  it  is  a  little  unfortunate  for  the  perpetuity 
of  that  fame  which  the  encomiast  had  made 
over  to  his  patroness,  in  the  never-dying  records 
of  his  verses  and  orations,  that  in  the  revolution 
of  a  century  or  two  the  names  of  the  flattered 
are  now  almost  as  little  known  as  the  works 
of  the  flatterers.  Their  memorial  is  perished 
with  them.*  An  instructive  lesson,  reminding 
us  that  whoever  bestows,  or  assumes  a  reputa¬ 
tion  disproportioned  to  the  merit  of  the  claimant, 
will  find  that  reputation  as  little  durable  as  it  is 
solid.  For  this  literary  warfare  which  engaged 
such  troops  of  the  second-hand  authors  of  the 
age  in  question  in  such  continual  skirmishes, 
and  not  a  few  pitched  battles  ;  which  provoked 
so  much  rancour,  so  many  volumes,  and  so  little 
wit ;  so  much  vanity,  so  much  flattery,  and  so 
much  invective,  produced  no  useful  nor  lasting 
effect.  Those  who  promised  themselves  that 
their  names  would  outlive  ‘  one  half  of  round 
eternity,’  did  not  reach  the  end  of  the  century 
in  which  the  boast  was  made ;  and  those  who 
prodigally  offered  the  incense,  and  those  who 
greedily  snuffed  up  the  fumes,  are  buried  in  the 
same  blank  oblivion ! 

But  when  the  temple  of  Janus  seemed  to  have 
neen  closed ;  or  when  at  worst  the  peace  was 
only  occasionally  broken  by  a  slight  and  random 
shot  from  the  hand  of  some  single  straggler ; 

« 

*  See  Brantome,  Pere  le  Moine,  Mens.  Thomas,  &c.  ^ 


it  appears  that  though  open  rebellion  had  ceasedr 
yet  the  female  claim  had  not  been  renounced; 
it  had  only  (if  we  may  change  the  metaphor) 
lain  in  abeyance.  The  contest  has  recently 
been  revived  with  added  fury,  and  with  multi¬ 
plied  exactions  ;  for  whereas  the  ancient  demand 
was  merely  a  kind  of  imaginary  prerogative,  a 
speculative  importance,  a  mere  titular  right,  a 
shadowy  claim  to  a  few  unreal  acres  of  Parnas¬ 
sian  territory ;  the  revived  contention  has  taken 
a  more  serious  turn,  and  brings  forward  poli¬ 
tical  as  well  as  intellectual  pretensions ;  and 
among  the  innovations  of  this  innovating  period, 
the  imposing  term  of  rights  has  been  produced 
to  sanctify  the  claim  of  our  female  pretenders,, 
with  a  view  not  only  to  rekindle  in  the  minds  of 
women  a  presumptuous  vanity  dishonourable  to 
their  sex,  but  produced  with  a  view  to  excite  in 
their  hearts  an  impious  discontent  with  the  post 
which  God  has  assigned  them  in  this  world. 

But  they  little  understand  the  true  interests 
of  woman  who  would  lift  her  from  the  impor¬ 
tant  duties  of  her  allotted  station,  to  fill  with 
fantastic  dignity  a  loftier  but  less  appropriate 
niche.  Nor  do  they  understand  her  true  hap¬ 
piness,  who  seek  to  annihilate  distinctions  from 
which  she  derives  advantages,  and  to  attempt 
innovations  which  would  depreciate  her  real 
value.  Each  sex  has  its  proper  excellencies 
which  would  be  lost,  were  they  melted  down 
into  the  common  character  by  the  fusion  of 
the  new  philosophy.  Why  should  we  do 
away  distinctions  which  increase  the  mutual 
benefits  and  enhance  the  satisfactions  of  life  ?. 
Whence,  but  by  carefully  preserving  the  original 
marks  of  difference  stamped  by  the  hand  of  the. 
Creator,  would  be  derived  the  superior  advan¬ 
tage  of  mixed  society  ?  Is  either  sex  so  abound¬ 
ing  in  perfection  as  to  be  independent  on  the 
other  for  improvement  ?  Have  men  no  need  to 
have  their  rough  angles  filed  off,  and  their  harsh¬ 
ness  and  asperities  smoothed  and  polished  by 
assimilating  with  beings  of  more  softness  and 
refinement!  Are  the  ideas  of  women  naturally 
so  uery  judicious,  are  their  principles  so  invinci¬ 
bly  firm,  are  their  views  so  perfectly  correct,  are 
their  judgments  so  completely  exact,  that  there 
is  occasion  for  no  additional  weight,  no  super- 
added  strength,  no  increased  clearness,  none  of 
that  enlargement  of  mind,  none  of  that  addi¬ 
tional  invigoration  which  may  be  derived  from 
the  aids  of  the  stronger  sex?  What  identity 
could  advantageously  supercede  such  an  enliven¬ 
ing  opposition,  such  an  interesting  variety  of 
character?  Is  it  not  then  more  wise,  as  well  as- 
more  honourable  to  move  contentedly  in  the 
plain  path  which  Providence  has  obviously 
marked  out  to  the  sex,  and  in  which  custom  has 
for  the  most  part  rationally  confirmed  them, 
rather  than  to  stray,  awkwardly,  unbecomingly, 
and  unsuccessfully,  in  a  forbidden  road  ?  Is  it 
not  desirable  to  be  the  lawful  possessors  of  a 
lesser  domestic  territory,  rather  than  the  turbu¬ 
lent  usurpers  of  a  wider  foreign  empire?  to  be 
good  originals,  than  bad  imitators  ?  to  be  the 
best  thing  of  one’s  own  kind,  rather  than  an  infe¬ 
rior  thing  even  if  it  were  of an  higher  kind?  to  be 
excellent  women  rather  than  indifferent  men  T 

Is  the  author  then  undervaluing  her  own  sex  7 
— No.  It  is  her  zeal  for  their  true  interests 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


I 


3G7 


which  leads  her  to  oppose  their  imaginary  rights. 
It  is  her  regard  for  their  happiness  which  makes 
her  endeavour  to  cure  them  of  a  feverish  thirst 
for  a  fame  as  unattainable  as  inappropriate  ;  to 
guard  them  against  an  ambition  as  little  becom¬ 
ing  the  delicacy  of  their  female  character  as  the 
meekness  of  their  religious  profession.  A  little 
Christian  humility  and  sober-mindedness  are 
worth  all  the  empty  renown  which  was  ever  at¬ 
tained  by  the  misapplied  energies  of  the  sex ; 
it  is  worth  all  the  wild  metaphysical  discussion 
which  has  ever  been  obtruded  under  the  name 
of  reason  and  philosophy  ;  which  has  unsettled 
the  peace  of  vain  women,  and  forfeited  the  re¬ 
spect  of  reasonable  men.  And  the  most  elabo¬ 
rate  definition  of  ideal  rights,  and  the  most  hardy 
measures  for  obtaining  them,  are  of  less  value 
in  the  eyes  of  a  truly  amiable  woman,  than  ‘  that 
meek  and  quiet  spirit  which  is  in  the  sight  of 
God  of  great  price.’ 

Natural  propensities  best  mark  the  designa¬ 
tions  of  Providence  as  to  their  application.  The 
fin  was  not  more  clearly  bestowed  on  the  fish 
that  he  should  swim,  nor  the  wing  given  to  the 
bird  that  he  should  fly,  than  superior  strength 
of  body,  and  a  firmer  texture  of  mind  was  given 
to  man,  that  he  might  preside  in  the  deep  and 
daring  scenes  of  action  and  of  council ;  in  the 
complicated  arts  of  government,  in  the  conten¬ 
tion  of  arms,  in  the  intricacies  and  depths  of 
science,  in  the  bustle  of  commerce,  and  in  those 
professions  which  demand  a  higher  reach,  and 
a  wider  range  of  powers.  The  true  value  of 
woman  is  not  diminished  by  the  imputation  of 
inferiority  in  those  talents  which  do  not  belong 
to  her,  of  those  qualities  in  which  her  claim  to 
excellence  does  not  consist.  She  has  other  re¬ 
quisites,  better  adapted  to  answer  the  end  and 
purposes  of  her  being,  from  ‘  Him  who  does  all 
things  well who  suits  the  agent  to  the  ac¬ 
tion  ;  who  accommodates  the  instrument  to  the 
work. 

Let  not  then  aspiring,  because  ill-judging 
woman,  view  with  pining  envy  the  keen  satirist, 
hunting  vice  through  all  the  doublings  and  wind¬ 
ings  of  the  heart;  the  sagacious  politician,  lead¬ 
ing  senates  and  directing  the  fate  of  empires  ; 
the  acute  lawyer,  detecting  the  obliquities  of 
fraud  ;  and  the  skilful  dramatist,  exposing  the 
pretensions  of  folly ;  but  let  her  ambition  be 
consoled  by  reflecting,  that  those  who  thus  ex¬ 
cel,  to  all  that  Nature  bestows,  and  books  can 
teach,  must  add  besides,  that  consummate  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  world,  to  which  a  delicate  woman 
has  no  fair  avenues,  and  which  even  if  she  could 
attain,  she  would  never  be  supposed  to  have 
come  honestly  by. 

In  almost  all  that  comes  under  the  description 
of  polite  letters,  in  all  that  captivates  by  image¬ 
ry,  or  warms  by  just  and  affecting  sentiment, 
women  are  excellent.  They  possess  in  a  high 
degree  that  delicacy  and  quickness  of  perception, 
and  that  nice  discernment  between  the  beautiful 
and  defective  which  comes  under  the  denomina- 
ioK  of  taste.  Both  in  composition  and  action 
hey  excel  in  details ;  but  they  do  not  so  much 
generalize  their  ideas  as  men,  nor  do  their  minds 
seize  a  great  subject  with  so  large  a  grasp. 
They  are  acute  observers,  and  accurate  judges 
of  life  and  manners,  as  far  as  their  own  sphere 


of  observation  extends ;  but  they  describe  a 
smaller  circle.  A  woman  sees  the  world,  as  It 
were,  from  a  little  elevation  in  her  own  garden, 
whence  she  makes  an  exact  survey  of  horns 
scenes,  but  takes  not  in  that  wider  range  of  dis¬ 
tant  prospects  which  he  who  stands  on  a  loftier 
eminence  commands.  Women  have  a  certain 
tact  which  often  enables  them  to  feel  what  is 
just,  more  instantaneously  than  they  can  define 
it.  They  have  an  intuitive  penetration  into 
character,  bestowed  on  them  by  Providence,  liko 
the  sensitive  and  tender  organs  of  some  timid 
animals,  as  a  kind  of  natural  guard  to  warn,  of 
the  approach  of  danger,  beings  who  are  often 
called  to  act  defensively. 

In  summing  up  the  evidence,  if  I  may  so 
speak,  of  the  different  capacities  of  the  sexes, 
one  may  venture,  perhaps,  to  assert,  that  women 
have  equal  parts,  but  are  inferior  in  wholeness 
of  mind,  in  the  integral  understanding  :  that 
though  a  superior  woman  may  possess  singla 
faculties  in  equal  perfection,  yet  there  is  com¬ 
monly  a  juster  proportion  in  the  mind  of  a  su¬ 
perior  man  :  that  if  women  have  in  an  equal 
degree  the  faculty  of  fancy  which  creates  images, 
and  the  faculty  of  memory  which  collects  and 
stores  ideas,  they  seem  not  to  possess  in  equal 
measure  the  faculty  of  comparing,  combining, 
analysing,  and  separating  these  ideas  ;  that  deep 
and  patient  thinking  which  goes  to  the  bottom 
of  a  subject;  nor  that  power  of  arrangement 
which  knows  how  to  link  a  thousand  connected 
ideas  in  one  dependant  train,  without  losing 
sight  of  the  original  idea  out  of  which  the  rest 
grow,  and  on  which  they  all  hang.  The  female 
too,  wanting  steadiness  in  her  intellectual  pur- 
suits,  is  perpetually  turned  aside  by  her  charac¬ 
teristic  tastes  and  feelings.  Woman  in  the  ca¬ 
reer  of  genius,  is  the  Atalanta,  who  will  risk 
losing  the  race  by  running  out  of  her  road  to 
pick  up  the  golden  apple  ;  while  her  male  com¬ 
petitor,  without,  perhaps,  possessing  greater  na¬ 
tural  strength  or  swiftness,  will  more  certainly 
attain  his  object,  by  direct  pursuit,  by  being 
less  exposed  to  the  seductions  of  extraneous 
beauty,  and  will  win  the  race,  not  by  excelling 
in  speed,  but  by  despising  the  bait.* 

Here  it  may  be  justly  enough  retorted,  that 
as  it  is  allowed  the  education  of  women  is  so  de¬ 
fective,  the  alleged  inferiority  of  their  minds 
may  be  accounted  for  on  that  ground,  more 
justly  than  by  ascribing  it  to  their  natural  make. 
And,  indeed,  there  is  so  much  truth  in  the  re¬ 
mark,  that  till  women  shall  be  more  reasonably 
educated,  and  till  the  native  growth  of  their 
mind  shall  cease  to  be  stinted  and  cramped,  we 
have  no  juster  ground  for  pronouncing  that  their 
understanding  has  already  reached  its  highest 
attainable  point,  than  the  Chinese  would  have 
for  affirming  that  their  women  have  attained  to 
the  greatest  possible  perfection  in  walking,  whilst 
the  first  care  is,  during  their  infancy,  to  cripple 
their  feet !  At  least,  till  the  female  sex  are  more 
carefully  instructed,  this  question  will  always 

*  Wliat  indisposes  even  reasonable  women  to  concede 
in  these  points  is,  that  the  weakest  man  instantly  lays 
hold  on  the  concession;  and  on  the  mere  Rroiind  of  sox, 
plumes  himself  on  his  own  individual  superiority  ,  in- 
ferrins  that  the  silliest  man  is  su[)crior  to  the  first  ratu 
woman. 


368 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  fllORE. 


remain  as  undecided  as  to  the  degree  of  differ¬ 
ence  between  the  masculine  and  feminine  un¬ 
derstanding',  as  the  question  between  the  under¬ 
standings  of  blacks  and  whites;  for  until  men 
and  women,  and  until  Africans  and  Europeans 
are  put  more  nearly  on  a  par  in  the  cultivation 
of  their  minds,  the  shades  of  distinction,  what¬ 
ever  they  be,  between  their  native  abilities,  can 
never  be  fairly  ascertained. 

And  when  we  see  (and  who  will  deny  that  we 
see  it  frequently  ?)  so  many  women  nobly  rising 
from  under  all  the  pressure  of  a  disadvantageous 
education,  and  a  defective  system  of  society, 
and  exhibiting  the  most  unambiguous  marks  of 
a  vigorous  understanding,  a  correct  judgment, 
and  a  sterling  piety,  it  reminds  us  of  those  shi¬ 
ning  lights  which  have  now  and  then  burst  out 
through  all  the  ‘  darkness  visible’  of  the  Romish 
church,  have  disencumbered  themselves  from 
the  gloom  of  ignorance,  shaken  off  the  fetters  of 
prejudice,  and  with  a  noble  energy  risen  supe¬ 
rior  to  all  the  errors  of  a  corrupt  theology. 

But  whatever  characteristical  distinctions  may 
exist ;  whatever  inferiority  may  be  attached  to 
woman  from  the  slighter  frame  of  her  body,  or 
the  more  circumscribed  powers  of  her  mind  ; 
from  a  less  systematic  education,  and  from  the 
subordinate  station  she  is  called  to  fill  in  life  ; 
there  is  one  great  and  leading  circumstance 
which  raises  her  importance,  and  even  establishes 
her  equality.  Christianity  has  exalted  women 
to  true  and  undisputed  dignity  ;  in  Christ  Jesus, 
as  there  is  neither  ‘  rich  nor  poor,’  ‘  bond  nor 
free,’  so  there  is  neither  ‘  male  nor  female.’  In 
the  view  of  that  immortality,  which  is  brought 
to  light  by  the  Gospel,  she  has  no  superior. 
‘Women’  (to  borrow  the  idea  of  an  excellent 
^  prelate)  ‘  make  up  one  half  of  the  human  race  ; 
equally  with  men  redeemed  by  the  blood  of 
Christ.’  In  this  their  true  dignity  consists ; 
here  their  best  pretensions  rest ;  here  their  high¬ 
est  claims  are  allowed. 

,  All  disputes  then  for  pre-eminence  between 
the  sexes,  have  only  for  their  object  the  poor 
precedence  for  a  few  short  years,  the  attention 
of  which  would  be  better  devoted  to  the  duties 
of  life  and  the  interests  of  eternity. 

And  as  the  final  hope  of  the  female  sex  is 
equal,  so  are  their  present  means,  perhaps,  more 
favourable,  and  their  opportunities,  often,  less 
obstructed  than  those  of  the  other  sex.  In  their 
Christian  course,  women  have  every  superior 
advantage,  whether  wo  consider  the  natural 
make  of  their  minds,  their  leisure  for  acquisi¬ 
tion  in  youth,  or  their  subsequently  less  exposed 
mode  of  life.  Their  hearts  are  naturally  soft 
and  flexible,  open  to  impressions  of  love  and  gra¬ 
titude  ;  their  feelings  tender  and  lively  ;  all  these 
are  favourable  to  the  cultivation  of  a  devotional 
spirit.  Yet  while  wm  remind  them  of  these  na¬ 
tive  benefits,  they  will  do  v/ell  to  be  on  their 
guard  lest  this  very  softness  and  ductility  lay 
them  more  open  to  the  seductions  of  temptation 
and  error. 

They  have  in  the  native  constitution  of  their 
minds,  as  well  as  from  the  relative  situations 
they  are  called  to  fill,  a  certain  sense  of  attach¬ 
ment  and  dependence,  which  is  peculiarly  fa¬ 
vourable  to  religion.  They  feel,  perhaps,  more 
intimately  the  want  of  a  strength  which  is  not 


their  own.  Christianity  brings  that  superindu¬ 
ced  strength  j  it  comes  in  aid  of  their  conscious 
weakness,  and  offers  the  only  true  counterpoise 
to  it. — ‘  Woman  be  thou  healed  of  thine  infirmi¬ 
ty,’  is  still  the  heart-cheering  language  of  a  gra¬ 
cious  Saviour. 

Women  also  bring  to  the  study  of  Christianity 
fewer  of  those  prejudices  which  persons  of  the 
other  sex  too  often  early  contract.  Men,  from 
their  classical  education,  acquire  a  strong  par¬ 
tiality  for  the  manners  of  pagan  antiquity,  and 
the  documents  of  pagan  philosophy :  this,  to¬ 
gether  with  the  impure  taint  caught  from  the 
loose  descriptions  of  their  poets,  and  the  lieen- 
tious  language  even  of  their  historians  (in  whom 
we  reasonably  look  for  more  gravity)  often 
weakens  the  good  impressions  of  young  men, 
and  at  least  confuses  thpir  ideas  of  piety,  by 
mixing  them  with  so  much  heterogeneous  mat¬ 
ter.  Their  very  spirits  are  imbued  all  the  week 
with  the  impure  follies  of  a  depraved  mytholo¬ 
gy  ;  and  it  is  well  if  even  on  Sundays  they  can 
hear  of  the  ‘  true  God,  and  Jesus  Christ  whom 
he  has  sent.’  While  women,  though  struggling 
with  the  same  natural  corruptions,  have  com¬ 
monly  less  knowledge  to  unknow,  and  fewer 
schemes  to  unlearn  ;  they  have  not  to  shake  off 
the  pride  of  system,  and  to  disencumber  their 
\minds  from  the  shackles  of  favourite  theories  : 
they  do  not  bring  from  the  porch  or  the  acade¬ 
my  any  ‘  oppositions  of  science’  to  obstruct  their 
reception  of  those  pure  doctrines  taught  on  the 
Mount :  doctrines  which  ought  to  find  a  readier 
entrance  into  minds  uninfected  with  the  pride 
of  the  school  of  Zeno,  or  the  libertinism  of  that 
of  Epicurus. 

And  as  women  are  naturally  more  affectionate 
than  fastidious,  they  are  likely  both  to  read  and 
to  War  with  a  less  critical  spirit  than  men  :  they 
will  not  be  on  the  watch  to  detect  errors,  so 
much  as  to  gather  improvement ;  they  have  sek 
dom  that  hardness  which  is  acquired  by  dealing 
deeply  in  books  of  controversy,  but  are  more  in¬ 
clined  to  the  perusal  of  works  which  quicken 
the  devotional  feelings,  than  to  such  as  awaken 
a  spirit  of  doubt  and  scepticism.  They  are  less 
disposed  to  consider  the  compositions  they  read, 
as  materials  on  which  to  ground  objections  and 
answers,  than  as  helps  to  faith  and  rules  of  life. 
With  these  advantages,  however,  they  should 
also  bear  in  mind  that  their  more  easily  received 
impressions  being  often  loss  abiding,  and  their 
reason  less  open  to  conviction  by  means  of  the 
strong  evidences  which  exist  in  favour  of  the 
truth  of  Christianity,  ‘  they  ought,  therefore,  to 
give  the  more  earnest  heed  to  the  things  which 
they  have  heard,  lest  at  any  time  they  should 
let  them  slip.’  Women  are,  also,  from  their  do¬ 
mestic  habits,  in  possession  of  more  leisure  and 
tranquility  for  religious  pursuits,  as  well  as  se¬ 
cured  from  those  difficulties  and  strong  tempta¬ 
tions  to  which  men  are  exposed  in  the  tumult 
of  a  bustling  world.  Their  lives  are  more  re¬ 
gular  and  uniform,  less  agitated  by  the  passions, 
the  businesses,  the  contentions,  the  shock  of  opi¬ 
nions,  and  the  opposition  of  interests  which  di¬ 
vide  society  and  convulse  the  world. 

If  we  have  denied  them  the  jwssession  of  ta 
lents  which  might  lead  them  to  excel  as  lawyers, 
they  are  preserved  from  the  peril  of  having  tneir 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


369 


i  . 


pfinciples  warped  by  that  too  indiscriminate  de¬ 
fence  of  right  and  wrong,  to  which  the  profes¬ 
sors  of  the  law  are  exposed.  If  we  should  ques¬ 
tion  their  title  to  eminence  as  mathematicians, 
they  are  happily  exempt  from  the  danger  to 
which  men  devoted  to  that  science  are  said  to 
be  liable ;  namely,  that  of  looking  for  demon¬ 
stration  on  subjects,  which  by  their  very  nature, 
are  incapable  of  affording  it.  If  they  are  less 
conversant  in  the  powers  of  nature,  the  struc¬ 
ture  of  the  human  frame,  and  the  knowledge  of 
the  heavenly  bodies  than  philosophers,  physi¬ 
cians,  and  astronomers ;  they  are,  how;ever,  de¬ 
livered  from  the  error  into  which  many  of  each 
of  these  have  sometimes  fallen,  I  mean  from  the 
fatal  habit  of  resting  in  second  causes,  instead 
of  referring  all  to  the  first;  instead  of  making 
*  the  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  God,  and  pro¬ 
claim  his  handy  work instead  of  concluding, 
when  they  observe  ‘  how  fearfully  and  wonder¬ 
fully  we  are  made,  marvellous  are  thy  works 
O.  Lord,  and  that  my  soul  knoweth  right  well.’ 

And  let  the  weaker  sex  take  comfort,  that  in 
their  very  exemption  from  privileges,  which 
they  are  sometimes  foolishly  disposed  to  envy, 
consists  not  only  their  security,  but  their  hap¬ 
piness.  If  they  enjoy  not  the  distinctions  of 
public  life  and  high  offices,  do  they  not  escape 
tlia  responsibility  attached  to  them,  and  the  mor¬ 
tification  of  being  dismissed  from  them?  If 
they  have  no  voice  in  deliberative  assemblies,  do 
fchey  not  avoid  the  load  of  duty  inseparably  con¬ 
nected  with  such  privileges  ?  Preposterous  pains 
have  been  taken  to  excite  in  women  an  uneasy 
jfealousy,  that  their  talents  aso  neither  rewarded 
with  public  honours  nor  emoluments  in  life ; 
nor  with  inscriptions,  statues,  and  mausoleums 
after  death.  It  has  been  absurdly  represented 
to  them  as  an  hardship,  that  while  they  are  ex¬ 
pected  to  perform  duties,  they  must  yet  be  con¬ 
tent  to  relinquish  honours,  and  must  unjustly  be 
compelled  to  renounce  fame,  while  they  must 
sedulously  labour  to  deserve  it. 

But  for  Christian  women  to  act  on  the  low 
views  suggested  to  them  by  their  ill-judging 
panegyrists;  for  Christian  women  to  look  up 
with  a  giddy  head  and  a  throbbing  heart,  to 
honours  and  remunerations,  so  little  suited  to 
the  wants  and  capacities  of  an  immortal  spirit, 
would  be  no  less  ridiculous  than  if  Christian 
heroes  should  look  back  with  an  envy  on  the 
old  pagan  reward  of  ovations,  oak  garlands, 
parsley  crowns,  and  laurel  wreaths.  The  Chris¬ 
tian  hope  more  than  reconciles  Christian  wo¬ 
men  to  these  petty  privations,  by  substituting  a 
nobler  prize  for  their  ambition,  ‘the  prize  oftlie 
high  calling  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus by  sub¬ 
stituting,  for  that  popular  and  fluctuating  voice, 
which  may  cry,  ‘  Hosanna,’  and  ‘  crucify’  in  a 
breatli,  that  ‘  favour  of  God  which  is  eternal  life.’ 

If  women  should  lament  it  as  a  disadvantage 
attached  to  their  sex,  that  their  character  is  of 
so  delicate  a  texture  as  to  be  sullied  by  the 
slightest  breath  of  calumny,  and  that  the  stain 
once  received  is  indelible  ;  yet  are  they  not  led 
by  that  very  circumstance  as  if  indistinctivcly 
lo  shrink  from  all  those  irregularities  to  which 
the  loss  of  cliaractor  is  so  certainly  expected  to 
be  attached  ;  and  to  shun  with  keener  circum¬ 
spection  the  most  distant  approach  towards  the 
Vox..  I.  A  y 


confines  of  danger  ?  Let  them  not  lament  it  as 
an  hardship,  but  account  it  as  a  privilege,  that 
the  delicacy  of  their  sex  impels  them  more 
scrupulously  to  avoid  the  very  ‘  appearance  of 
evil ;’  let  them  not  regret  that  the  conscious¬ 
ness  of  their  danger  serves  to  secure  their  purity 
by  placing  them  at  a  greater  distance,  and  in  a 
more  deep  intrenchment  from  the  evil  itself. 

Though  it  be  one  main  object  of  this  little 
work,  rather  to  lower  than  to  raise  any  desire 
of  celebrity  in  the  female  heart ;  yet  I  would 
awaken  it  to  a  just  sensibility  to  honest  fame  : 
I  would  call  on  women  to  reflect  that  our  reli¬ 
gion  has  not  only  made  them  heirs  to  a  blessed 
immortality  hereafter,  but  has  greatly  raised 
them  in  the  scale  of  being  here,  by  lifting  them 
to  an  importance  in  society  unknown  to  the 
most  polished  ages  of  antiquity.  The  religion 
of  Christ  has  even  bestowed  a  degree  of  renown 
on  the  sex  beyond  what  any  other  religion  ever 
did.  Perhaps  there  are  hardly  so  many  virtuous 
women  (for  I  reject  the  long  catalogue  whom 
their  vices  have  transferred  from  oblivion  to  in¬ 
famy)  named  in  all  the  pages  of  Greek  or  Roman 
history,  as  are  handed  down  to  eternal  fame,  in 
a  few  of  those  short  chapters  with  which  the 
great  Apostle  to  the  Gentiles  has  concluded  his 
epistles  to  his  converts.  ‘  Of  devout  and  hon¬ 
ourable  women,’  the  sacred  scriptures  record 
‘  not  a  few.’  Some  of  the  most  affecting  scenes, 
the  most  interesting  transactions,  and  the  most 
touching  conversations  which  are  recorded  of 
the  Saviour  of  the  world,  passed  with  women. 
TAeir  examples  have  supplied  some  of  the  most 
eminent  inatances  of  faith  and  love.  T/iey  ar* 
the  first  remarked  as  having  ‘  ministered  to  him 
of  their  substance.’  Theirs  was  the  praise  of 
not  abandoning  their  despised  Redeemer  when 
he  was  led  to  execution,  and  under  all  the  hope¬ 
less  circumstances  of  his  ignominious  death  , 
they  appear  to  have  been  the  last  attending  at 
his  tomb,  and  the  first  on  the  morning  when  ho 
arose  from  it.  Theirs  was  the  privilege  of  re¬ 
ceiving  the  earliest  consolation  from  their  risen 
Lord ;  theirs  was  the  honour  of  being  first  com¬ 
missioned  to  announce  his  glorious  resurrection. 
And  even  to  have  furnished  heroic  confessors, 
devoted  saints,  and  unshrinking  martyrs  to  the 
Church  of  Christ,  has  not  been  the  exclusive 
honour  of  the  bolder  sex. 


CHAP.  XV. 

Conversation. — Hints  sugffested  on  the  subject. 
— On  the  tempers  and  dispositions  to  he  intro~ 
duced  in  it. — Errors  to  be  avoided.  Vanity 
under  va  rious  shapes  the  cause  of  those  errors. 

The  sexes  will  naturally  desire  to  appear  to 
each  otlier,  such  us  each  believes  the  other  will 
best  like ;  their  conversation  will  act  recipro¬ 
cally  ;  and  each  sex  will  wish  to  appear  more  or 
less  rational  as  they  perceive  it  will  more  or 
loss  recommend  them  to  the  other.  It  is  there¬ 
fore  to  be  regretted,  that  many  men,  even  of 
distinguisiied  sense  and  learning,  are  too  apt  to 
consider  the  society  of  ladies  as  a  scene  in  which 
they  arc  rather  to  rest  their  understandings, 


370 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


than  to  exercise  them  ;  while  ladies,  in  return, 
are  too  much  addicted  to  make  their  court  by 
lending-  themselves  to  this  spirit  of  trifling; 
they  often  avoid  making  use  of  what  abilities 
they  have  ;  and  affect  to  talk  below  their  natural 
and  acquired  powers  of  mind ;  considering  it  as 
a  tacit  and  welcome  flattery  to  the  understand¬ 
ing  of  men,  to  renounce  the  exercise  of  their 
own. 

Now  since  taste  and  principles  thus  mutually 
operate ;  men,  by  keeping  up  conversation  to  its 
proper  standard,  would  not  only  call  into  exer¬ 
cise  the  powers  of  mind  which  women  actually 
possess ;  but  would  even  awaken  in  them  new 
energies  which  they  do  not  know  they  possess ; 
and  men  of  sense  would  find  their  account  in 
doing  this,  for  their  own  talents  would  be  more 
highly  rated  by  companions  who  were  better 
able  to  appreciate  them  ;  and  they  would  be  re¬ 
ceiving  as  well  as  imparting  improvement. 
And  on  the  other  hand,  if  young  women  found 
it  did  not  often  recommend  them  in  the  eyes  of 
those  whom  they  most  wish  to  please,  to  be 
frivolous  and  superficial,  they  would  become 
more  sedulous  in  correcting  their  own  habits. 
Whenever  fashionable  women  indicate  a  relish 
for  instructive  conversation,  men  will  not  be 
apt  to  hazard  what  is  vain,  or  unprofitable  ;  much 
less  will  they  ever  presume  to  bring  forward 
what  is  loose  or  corrupt,  where  some  signal  has 
not  been  previously  given,  that  it  will  be  accep¬ 
table,  or  at  least  that  it  will  be  pardoned. 

Ladies  commonly  bring  into  company  minds 
already  too  much  relaxed  by  petty  pursuits, 
rather  than  overstrained  by  intense  application. 
The  littleness  of  the  employ  ments  in  which  they 
are  usually  engaged,  does  not  so  exhaust  their 
spirits  as  to  make  them  stand  in  need  of  that 
relaxation  from  company  which  severe  applica¬ 
tion  or  overwhelming  business  makes  requisite 
for  studious  or  public  men.  The  due  conside¬ 
ration  of  this  circumstance  might  serve  to  bring 
the  sexes  more  nearly  on  a  level  in  society  ;  and 
each  might  meet  the  other  half  way ;  for  that 
degree  of  lively  and  easy  conversation,  which  is 
a  necessary  refreshment  to  the  learned  and  the 
busy,  would  not  decrease  in  pleasantness  by 
being  made  of  so  rational  a  cast  as  would  yet 
somewhat  raise  the  minds  of  women,  who  com¬ 
monly  seek  society  as  a  scene  of  pleasure,  not  as 
a  refuge  from  intense  thought  or  exhausting  la¬ 
bour. 

It  is  a  disadvantage  even  to  those  women  who 
keep  the  best  company,  that  it  is  unhappily 
almost  established  into  a  system,  by  the  other 
sex,  to  postpone  every  thing  like  instructive 
discourse  till  the  ladies  are  withdrawn  ;  their 
retreat  serving  as  a  kind  of  signal  for  the  exer¬ 
cise  of  intellect.  And  in  the  few  cases  in  which 
it  happens  that  any  important  discussion  takes 
place  in  their  presence,  they  are  for  the  most 
part  considered  as  having  little  interest  in 
serious  subjects.  Strong  truths,  whenever  such 
happen  to  be  addressed  to  them,  are  either  di¬ 
luted  with  flattery,  or  kept  back  in  part,  or 
softened  to  their  taste  ;  or  if  the  ladies  express  a 
wish  for  information  on  any  point,  they  are  put 
off  with  a  compliment,  instead  of  a  reason. 
They  are  reminded  of  their  beauty  when  they 
tre  seeking  to  inform  their  understanding,  and 


are  considered  as  beings  who  must  be  contented 
to  behold  every  thing  through  a  false  medium, 
and  who  are  not  expected  to  see  and  to  judge  of 
things  as  they  really  exist. 

Do  we  then  wish  to  see,  the  ladies,  whoss 
want  of  opportunities  leaves  them  so  incompe' 
tent  on  many  points,  and  the  modesty  of  whoMi 
sex  ought  never  to  allow  them  even  to  be  as 
shining  as  they  are  able ;  do  we  wish  to  se& 
them  take  the  lead  in  metaphysical  disquisi¬ 
tions  ?  Do  you  wish  them  to  plunge  into  the 
depths  of  theological  polemics. 

And  find  no  end  in  wand’ring  mazes  lost? 

Do  we  wish  them  to  revive  the  animosities  of 
the  Bangorian  controversy,  or  to  decide  the  pro¬ 
cess  between  the  Jesuits  and  the  five  proposi¬ 
tions  of  Jansenius  ?  Do  we  wish  to  enthrone 
them  in  the  professor’s  chair,  to  deliver  oracles, 
harangues,  and  dissertations  ?  to  weigh  the 
merits  of  every  new  production  in  the  scales  of 
Quintilian,  or  to  regulate  the  unities  of  drama¬ 
tic  composition  hy  Aristotle's  clock  ?  Or  re¬ 
nouncing  those  foreign  aids,  do  we  desire  to 
behold  them  vain  of  a  native  independence  of 
soul,  inflated  with  their  original  powers,  labour¬ 
ing  to  strike  out  sparks  of  wit,  with  a  restless 
anxiety  to  shine,  which  generally  fails,  and  with 
an  anxious  affectation  to  please,  which  never 
pleases  ? 

Diseurs  de  bon  mots,  fades  caracteres !  . 

All  this  be  far  from  them  ! — But  we  do  wish 
to  see  the  conversation  of  well-bred  women 
rescued  from  vapid  eommon  place,  from  unin 
teresting  tattle,  from  trite  and  hackneyed  com¬ 
munications,  from  frivolous  earnestness,  from 
false  sensibility,  from  a  warm  interest  about 
things  of  no  moment,  and  an  indifference  to 
topics  the  most  important ;  from  a  cold  vanity, 
from  the  ill  concealed  overflowings  of  self-love, 
exhibiting  itself  under  the  smiling  mask  of  an 
engaging  flattery,  and  from  all  the  factitious 
manners  of  artificial  intercourse.  We  do  wish 
to  see  the  time  passed  in  polished  and  intelligent 
society,  considered  among  the  beneficial,  as  well 
as  the  pleasant  portions  of  our  existence,  and 
not  consigned  over,  as  it  too  frequently  is,  to 
premeditated  triflings,  to  empty  dulness,  to  un¬ 
meaning  levity,  to  systematic  unprofitableness. 
Let  mo  not  however,  be  misunderstood  :  it  is 
not  meant  to  prescribe  that  ladies  should  affect 
to  discuss  lofty  subjects,  so  much  as  to  suggest 
that  they  should  bring  good  sense,  simplicity, 
precision,  and  truth  to  the  discussion  of  those 
common  subjects,  of  which,  after  all,  both  the 
business  and  conversation  of  mankind  must  be 
in  a  great  measure  made  up. 

It  is  too  well  known  how  much  the  dread  of 
imputed  pedantry  keeps  off  every  thing  that 
verges  towards  learned,  and  the  terror  of  im¬ 
puted  enthusiasm  frightens  away  any  thing  that 
approaches  to  serious  conversation  ;  so  that  the 
two  topics  which  peculiarly  distinguish  us,  as 
rational  and  immortal  beings,  are  by  general 
consent  in  a  good  degree  banished  from  the 
society  of  rational  and  immortal  creatures.  But 
we  might  almost  as  consistently  give  up  the 
comforts  of  fire,  because  a  few  persons  have  been 
burnt,  and  the  benefit  of  water,  because  some 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


371 


others  have  been  drov^ncd,  as  relinquish  the  en¬ 
joyments  of  intellectual,  and  the  blessings  of 
religious  intercourse,  because  the  learned  world 
has  sometimes  been  infested  with  pedants,  and 
the  religious  world  with  fanatics. 

'  As  in  the  momentous  times  in  which  we  live 
it  is  next  to  impossible  to  pass  an  evening  in 
company  but  the  talk  will  so  inevitably  revert 
to  politics,  that  without  any  premeditated  de¬ 
sign,  every  one  present  shall  infallibly  be  able 
to  find  out  to  which  side  the  other  inclines ; 
why,  in  the  far  higher  concern  of  eternal  things, 
should  we  so  carefully  shun  every  offered  op¬ 
portunity  of  bearing  even  a  casual  testimony  to 
the  part  we  espouse  in  religion  ?  Why,  while 
we  make  it  a  sort  of  point  of  conscience  to  leave 
no  doubt  on  the  mind  of  a  stranger,  whether  we 
adopt  the  party  of  Pitt  or  Fox,  shall  we  choose 
to  leave  it  very  problematical  whether  we  belong 
to  God  or  Baal  ?  Why,  in  religion,  as  well  as 
in  politics,  should  wo  not  act  like  people  who, 
having  their  all  at  stake,  cannot  forbear  now 
and  then  adverting  for  a  moment  to  the  object 
of  their  grand  concern,  and  dropping,  at  least, 
an  incidental  intimation  of  the  side  to  which 
they  belong  ? 

Even  the  news  of  the  day,  in  such  an  eventful 
period  as  the  present,  may  lend  frequent  occa¬ 
sions  to  a  woman  of  principle  to  declare,  without 
parade,  her  faith  in  a  moral  Governor  of  the 
world  ;  her  trust  in  a  particular  Providence  ; 
her  belief  in  the  Divine  Omnipotence  ;  her  con¬ 
fidence  in  the  power  of  God,  in  educing  good 
from  evil,  in  his  employing  wicked  nations,  not 
as  favourites,  but  instruments  ;  her  persuasion 
that  present  success  is  no  proof  of  the  Divine 
favour;  in  short,  some  intimation  that  she  is 
not  ashamed  to  declare  that  her  mind  is  under 
the  influence  of  Christian  faith  ;  that  she  is  stea¬ 
dily  governed  by  an  unalterable  principle,  of 
which  no  authority  is  too  great  to  make  her 
ashamed,  which  no  occasion  is  too  trivial  to  call 
into  exercise.  A  general  concurrence  in  habi¬ 
tually  exhibiting  this  spirit  of  decided  faith  and 
holy  trust,  would  inconceivably  discourage  that 
pert  and  wakeful  infidelity  w'hich  is  ever  on  the 
watch  to  produce  itself :  and,  as  we  have  alrea¬ 
dy  observed,  if  women,  who  derive  authority 
from  their  rank  or  talents,  did  but  reflect  how 
their  sentiments  are  repeated,  and  how  their 
authority  is  quoted,  they  would  be  so  on  their 
guard,  that  general  society  might  become  a 
scene  of  profitable  communication  and  common 
improvement;  and  the  young  who  are  looking 
for  models  on  which  to  fashion  themselves,  would 
become  ashamed  and  afraid  of  exhibiting  any 
thing  like  levity,  or  scepticism,  or  profaneness. 

Let  it  be  understood,  that  it  is  not  meant  to 
intimate  that  serious  subjects  should  make  up 
the  bulk  of  conversation;  this,  as  it  is  impossi- 
ble,  would  also  often  be  improper.  It  is  not  in¬ 
tended  to  suggest  that  they  should  be  abruptly 
introduced,  or  unsuitably  prolonged ;  but  only 
that  they  should  not  bo  systematically  shunned  ; 
nor  the  brand  of  fanaticism  be  fixed  on  the  per- 1 
son  who,  with  whatever  propriety  hazards  the 
introduction  of  such  subjects.  It  is  evident, 
nowever,  that  this  general  dread  of  serious  to¬ 
pics  arises  a  good  deal  from  an  ignorance  of  the 
true  nature  of  Christianity  ;  people  avo»4  it  on 


the  principle  expressed  by  the  vulgar  phrase  of 
the  danger  of  playing  with  edge  tools.  They 
conceive  of  religion  as  something  which  involves 
controversy,  and  dispute  ;  something  either  me¬ 
lancholy  or  mischievous ;  something  of  an  in¬ 
flammatory  nature  which  is  to  stir  up  ill  hu¬ 
mours  and  hatred  ;  they  consider  it  as  a  question 
which  has  two  sides ;  as  of  a  sort  of  party-busi¬ 
ness  which  sets  friends  at  variance.  So  much 
is  this  notion  adopted,  that  I  have  seen  announ¬ 
ced  two  works  of  considerable  merit,  in  which 
it  was  stipulated  as  an  attraction,  that  the  sul>- 
ject  of  religion,  as  being  likely  to  excite  anger 
and  party  distinctions,  should  be  carefully  ex¬ 
cluded.  Such  is  the  worldly  idea  of  the  spirit 
of  that  religion  whose  direct  object  it  was  to 
bring  ‘  peace  and  good  will  to  men  1’ 

Women  too  little  live  or  converse  up  to  the 
standard  of  their  understandings,  and  however 
we  have  deprecated  affectation  or  pedantry,  let  it 
be  remembered,  that  both  in  reading  and  conver¬ 
sing,  the  understanding  gains  more  by  stretch¬ 
ing  than  stooping.  If  by  exerting  itself  it  may 
not  attain  to  all  its  desires,  yet  it  will  be  sure  to 
gain  something.  The  mind  by  always  applying 
itself  to  objects  below  its  level,  contracts  its  di¬ 
mensions,  and  shrinks  itself  to  the  size,  and 
lowers  itself  to  the  level,  of  the  object  about 
which  it  is  conversant :  while  the  understanding 
which  is  active  and  aspiring,  expands  and  raises 
itself,  grows  stronger  by  exercise,  larger  by  dif¬ 
fusion,  and  richer  by  communication. 

But  the  taste  of  general  society  is  not  favour¬ 
able  to  improvement.  The  seriousness  with 
which  the  most  frivolous  subjects  are  agitated, 
and  the  levity  with  which  the  most  serious  are 
despatched,  bear  a  pretty  exact  proportion  to 
each  other.  Society  too  is  a  sort  of  magic  lan¬ 
tern  ;  the  scene  is  perpetually  shifting.  In  this 
incessant  change  we  must 
Catch,  e’er  she  fall,  the  Cynthia  of  the  minute ; — 
and  the  fashion  of  the  present  minute,  evanes¬ 
cent  probably  like  its  rapid  precursors,  while  in 
many  it  leads  to  the  cultivation  of  real  know¬ 
ledge,  has  also  not  unfrequently  led  even  the  gay 
and  idle  to  the  affectation  of  mixing  a  sprinkling 
of  science  with  the  mass  of  dissipation.  The 
ambition  of  appearing  to  be  well  informed  breaks 
out  even  in  those  triflers  who  will  not  spare 
time  from  their  pleasurable  pursuits  sufficient 
for  acquiring  that  knowledge,  of  which,  how¬ 
ever,  the  reputation  is  so  desirable.  A  little 
smattering  of  philosophy  often  dignifies  the  pur¬ 
suits  of  their  day,  without  rescuing  them  from 
the  vanities  of  the  night.  A  course  of  lectures 
(that  admirable  assistant  for  enlightening  the 
understanding)  is  not  seldom  resorted  to  as  a 
means  to  substitute  the  appearance  of  knowledge 
for  the  fatigue  of  application.  But  where  this 
valuable  help  is  attended  merely  like  any  other 
public  exhibition,  as  a  fashionable  pursuit,  and 
is  not  furthered  by  correspondent  reading  at 
home  it  often  serves  to  set  off  the  reality  of  ig. 
norance  with  the  affectation  of  skill.  But  in¬ 
stead  of  producing  in  conversation  a  few  reign¬ 
ing  scientific  terms,  with  a  familiarity  and  rea 
dincss,  wliich 

Amaze  tlio  iinlearn’d,  and  make  the  learned  smile, 
would  it  not  be  more  modest  oven  for  those  who 


372 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


are  better  informed  to  avoid  the  use  of  technical 
terms  whenever  the  idea  can  be  as  well  conveyed 
without  them?  For  it  argues  no  real  ability  to 
know  the  nmnes  of  tools;  the  ability  lies  in 
knowing  their  vse ;  and  while  it  is  in  the  thing, 
not  in  the  term,  that  real  knowledge  consists, 
the  charge  of  pedantry  is  attached  to  the  use  of 
the  term,  which  would  not  attach  to  the  know¬ 
ledge  of  the  science. 

In  the  faculty  of  speaking  well,  ladies  have 
such  a  happy  promptitude  of  turning  their  slen¬ 
der  advantages  to  account,  that  there  are  many 
who,  though  they  have  never  been  taught  a  rule 
of  syntax,  yet  by  a  quick  facility  in  profiting 
from  the  best  books  and  the  best  company,  hard¬ 
ly  ever  violate  one ;  and  who  often  exhibit  an 
elegant  and  perspicuous  arrangement  of  style 
without  having  studied  any  of  the  laws  of  com¬ 
position.  Every  kind  of  knowledge  which  ap¬ 
pears  to  be  the  result  of  observation,  reflection, 
and  natural  taste,  sits  gracefully  on  women. — 
Yet  on  the  other  hand  it  sometimes  happens, 
that  ladies  of  no  contemptible  natural  parts  are 
too  ready  to  produce,  not  only  pedantic  expres¬ 
sions,  but  crude  and  unfounded  notions ;  and 
still  oftener  to  bring  forward  obvious  and  hack¬ 
neyed  remarks ;  which  float  on  the  very  surface 
of  a  subject,  with  the  imposing  air  of  recent  in¬ 
vention,  and  all  the  vanity  of  conscious  discove¬ 
ry.  This  is  because  their  acquirements  have 
not  bee.n  worked  into  their  minds  by  early  in¬ 
struction  ;  what  knowledge  they  have  gotten 
stands  out  as  it  were  above  the  very  surface  of 
their  minds,  like  the  appliquee  of  the  embroider¬ 
er,  instead  of  having  been  interwoven  with  the 
growth  of  the  piece,  so  as  to  have  become  a  part 
of  the  stuff.  They  did  not,  like  men,  acquire 
what  t.iey  know  while  the  texture  was  forming. 
Perhaps  no  better  preventive  could  be  devised 
for  this  literary  vanity,  than  early  instruction  : 
that  woman  would  be  less  likely  to  be  vain  of 
her  knowledge  who  did  not  remember  the  time 
when  she  was  ignorant.  Knowledge  that  is 
burnt  in  if  I  may  so  speak,  is  seldom  obtrusive, 
rarely  impertinent. 

Their  reading  also  has  probably  consisted 
much  in  abridgments  from  larger  works,  as  was 
observed  in  a  fbrmer  chapter  ;  this  makes  a  rea¬ 
dier  talker,  but  a  shallower  thinker,  than  the 
perusal  of  books  of  more  bulk.  By  these  scanty 
sketches,  their  critical  powers  have  not  been 
formed  ;  for  in  those  crippled  mutilations  they 
have  seen  nothing  of  that  just  proportion  of 
parts,  that  skilful  arrangement  of  the  plan,  and 
that  artful  distribution  of  the  subject,  which, 
while  they  prove  the  master  hand  of  the  writer, 
seem  also  to  form  the  taste  of  the  reader,  far 
more  than  a  disjointed  skeleton,  or  a  beautiful 
feature  or  two,  can  do.  The  instruction  of  wo¬ 
men  is  also  too  much  drawn  from  the  scanty  and 
penurious  sources  of  short  writings  of  tlie  essay 
kind  :  this,  when  it  comprises  the  best  part  of  a 
person’s  reading,  makes  a  smatterer  and  spoils 
a  scholar ;  for  though  it  supplies  current  talk, 
yet  it  does  not  make  a  full  mind  ;  it  does  not 
furnish  a  storehouse  of  materials,  to  stock  the 
understanding,  neither  does  it  accustom  the 
mind  to  any  trains  of  reflection  :  for  the  subjects, 
besides  being  each  succinctly,  and,  on  account 
of  this  brevity,  superficially  treated,  are  distinct 


and  disconnected ;  they  arise  out  of  no  concato- 
nation  of  ideas,  nor  any  dependent  series  of  de¬ 
duction.  Yet  on  this  pleasant  but  desultory 
reading,  the  mind  which  has  not  been  trained 
to  severe  exercise,  loves  to  repose  itself  in  a  sort 
of  creditable  indolence,  instead  of  stretching  its’ 
energies  in  the  wholesome  labour  of  consecutive 
investigation.* 

I  am  not  discouraging  study  at  a  late  period 
of  life,  or  even  censuring  slender  knowledge 
information  is  good  at  whatever  period  and  ir 
whatever  degree  it  be  acquired.  But  in  such 
cases  it  should  be  altended  with  peculiar  humi¬ 
lity  :  and  the  new  possessor  should  bear  in  mind, 
that  what  is  fresh  to  her  has  been  long  known 
to  others ;  and  she  should  therefore  be  aware  of 
advancing  as  novel  that  which  is  common,  and 
obtruding  as  rare  that  which  every  body  pos¬ 
sesses. — Some  ladies  are  eager  to  exhibit  proofs 
of  their  reading,  though  at  the  expense  of  their 
judgment,  and  will  introduce  in  conversation 
quotations  quite  irrelevant  to  the  matter  in  hand, 
because  they  happen  at  the  instant  to  recur  to 
their  recollection,  or  were,  perhaps,  found  in  the 
book  they  have  just  been  reading.  Unappro¬ 
priate  quotations  or  strained  analogy  may  show 
reading,  but  they  do  not  show  taste.  That  just 
and  happy  allusion  which  knows  by  a  word 
how  to  awaken  a  corresponding  image,  or  to 
excite  in  the  hearer  the  idea  which  fills  the 
mind  of  the  speaker,  shows  less  pedantry  and 
more  taste  than  bare  citations ;  and  a  mind  im¬ 
bued  with  elegant  knowledge  will  inevitably 
betray  the  opulence  of  its  resources,  even  on  to¬ 
pics  whicT:  do  not  relate  to  science  or  literature. 
It  is  the  union  of  parts  and  acquirements,  of 
spirit  and  modesty,  which  produces  the  indefi¬ 
nable  charm  of  conversation.  Well-informed 
persons  will  easily  be  discovered  to  have  read 
the  best  books,  though  they  are  not  always  de¬ 
tailing  lists  of  authors ;  for  a  muster-roll  of 
names  may  be  learnt  from  the  catalogue  as  well 
as  from  the  library. — Though  honey  owes  its 
exquisite  taste  to  the  fragrance  of  the  sweetest 
flowers,  yet  the  skill  of  the  little  artificer  appears 
in  this,  that  the  delicious  stores  are  so  admira¬ 
bly  worked  up,  and  there  is  such  a  due  propor¬ 
tion  observed  in  mixing  them,  that  the  perfection 
of  the  whole  consists  in  its  not  tasting  individu¬ 
ally  of  the  rose,  the  jessamine,  the  earnation,  or 
any  of  those  sweets  of  the  vefy  essence  of  all 
which  it  is  compounded.  But  true  judgment 
will  discover  the  infusion  which  true  modesty 
will  not  display;  and  even  common  subjects 
passing  through  a  cultivated  understanding, 
borrow  a  flavour  of  its  richness.  A  power  of 
apt  selection  is  more  valuable  than  any  power 
of  general  retention  ;  and  an  apposite  remark 
which  shoots  straight  to  the  point,  demands  a 
higher  capacity  of  mind  than  an  hundred  simple 
acts  of  memory  ;  for  the  business  of  the  memory 
is  oivly  to  store  up  materials  wliich  the  jnder- 
standing  is  to  mix  and  work  up  with  its  native 

*  Tin  writer  cannot  be  suppose  I  desirous  of  depreci¬ 
ating  tile  value  of  those  many  h  ‘aiitiful  periodical  essays 
which  adorn  our  language.  Hut,  perhain,  it  might  bo 
better  to  regale  tin  mind  with  them  singly,  at  difTireiit 
limes,  than  to  rend,  at  tin  same  sitting,  a  multituile  of 
short  pieces  on  dissimilar  and  unconnected  topics,  by 
way  of  gelling  Ihrougk  Ihe  book 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


373 


faculties,  and  which  the  judgment  is  to  bring 
out  and  apply.  But  young  women  who  have 
more  vivacity  than  sense,  and  more  vanity  than 
vivacity,  often  risk  the  charge  of  absurdity  to 
escape  that  of  ignorance,  and  will  even  compare 
two  authors  who  are  totally  unlike,  rather  than 
miss  the  occasion  to  show  that  they  have  read 
both. 

Among  the  arts  to  spoil  conversation  some 
ladies  possess  that  of  suddenly  diverting  it  from 
the  channel  in  which  it  was  beneficially  flowing, 
because  some  word  used  by  the  person  who  was 
speaking  has  accidentally  struck  out  a  new  train 
of  thinking  in  their  own  minds,  and  not  because 
the  general  idea  expressed  has  struck  out  a  cor¬ 
responding  idea,  which  sort  of  collision  is  in¬ 
deed  the  way  of  eliciting  the  true  fire.  Young 
ladies,  whose  sprightliness  has  not  been  disci¬ 
plined  by  a  correct  education,  consider  how 
things  may  be  prettily  said,  rather  than  how 
they  may  be  prudently  or  seasonably  spoken ; 
and  willingly  hazard  being  thought  wrong,  or 
rash,  or  vain,  for  the  chance  of  being  reckoned 
pleasant.  The  graces  of  rhetoric  captivate  them 
more  than  the  justest  deductions  of  reason ; 
when  they  have  no  arms  they  use  flowers,  and 
to  repel  an  argument,  they  arm  themselves  with 
a  metaphor. — Those  also  who  do  not  aim  so 
high  as  eloquence,  are  often  surprised  that  you 
refuse  to  accept  of  a  prejudice  instead  of  a  rea¬ 
son  ;  they  are  apt  to  take  up  with  a  probability 
instead  of  a  demonstration,  and  cheaply  putyou 
off  with  an  assertion,  when  you  are  requiring  a 
proof.  The  mode  of  education  which  renders 
them  light  in  assumption,  and  superficial  in 
reasoning,  renders  them  also  impatient  of  oppo¬ 
sition  ;  and  if  they  happen  to  possess  beauty, 
and  to  be  vain  of  it,  they  may  be  tempted  to 
consider  that  this  is  an  additional  proof  of  their 
being  always  in  the  right.  In  this  case,  they 
will  not  ask  you  to  submit  your  judgment  to  the 
force  of  their  argument,  so  much  as  to  the  au¬ 
thority  of  their  charms. 

The  same  fault  in  the  mind,  strengthened  by 
the  same  error  (a  neglected  education)  leads 
lively  women  often  to  pronounce  on  a  question, 
without  examining  it:  on  any  given  point  they 
seldomer  doubt  than  men ;  not  because  they  are 
more  clear-sighted,  but  because  they  have  not 
been  accustomed  to  look  into  a  subject  long 
enough  to  discover  its  depths  and  its  intricacies; 

•  and  not  discerning  its  difficulties,  they  conclude 
that  it  has  none.  Is  it  a  contradiction  to  say, 
that  they  seem  at  once  to  be  quick-sighted  and 
short-sighted  ?  What  they  see  at  all,  they  com¬ 
monly  see  at  once;  a  little  difficulty  discourages 
them  ;  and,  having  caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  a 
subject,  they  rush  to  this  conclusion,  that  either 
there  is  no  more  to  be  seen,  or  that  what  is  be¬ 
hind  will  not  pay  them  for  the  trouble  of  search¬ 
ing.  They  pursue  their  object  eagerly,  but  not 
regularly  ;  rapidly,  but  not  pertinaciously  ;  for 
they  want  that  obstinate  patience  of  investiga¬ 
tion  which  grows  stouter  by  repulse.  What 
they  have  not  attained,  they  do  not  believe  ex¬ 
ists  :  what  they  cannot  seize  at  once,  they  per¬ 
suade  themselves  is  not  worth  having. 

Is  a  subject  of  moment  started  in  company  ? 
While  the  more  sagacious  are  deliberating  on 
its  difficulties,  and  viewing  it  under  all  its  as¬ 


pects,  in  order  to  form  a  competent  judgment 
before  they  decide ;  you  will  often  find  the  most 
superficial  woman  present  determine  the  mat¬ 
ter,  without  hesitation.  Not  seeing  the  per¬ 
plexities  in  which  the  question  is  involved,  she 
wonders  at  the  want  of  penetration  in  the  man 
whose  very  penetration  keeps  him  silent.  She 
secretly  despises  the  dull  perception  and  slow 
decision  of  him  who  is  patiently  untying  the 
knot  which  she  fancies  she  exhibits  more  dex¬ 
terity  by  cutting.  By  this  shallow  sprightliness, 
of  which  vanity  is  commonly  the  radical  princi¬ 
ple,  the  most  ignorant  person  in  the  company 
leads  the  conversation,  while  he  whose  opinion 
is  best  worth  having  is  discouraged  from  deli¬ 
vering  it,  and  an  important  subject  is  dismissed 
without  discussion,  by  inconsequent  flippancy 
and  voluble  rashness.  It  is  this  abundance  of 
florid  talk,  from  superficial  matter,  which  has 
brought  on  so  manj?  of  the  sex  the  charge  of  in¬ 
verting  the  Apostle’s  precept,  and  being  swift  to 
speak,  slow  to  hear. 

If  the  great  Roman  orator  could  observe,  that 
silence  was  so  important  a  part  of  conversation, 
that  ‘  there  was  not  only  an  art  but  an  eloquence 
in  it,’  how  peculiarly  does  the  remark  apply  to 
the  modesty  of  youthful  fernales  !  But  the  si¬ 
lence  of  listless  and  vapid  ignorance,  and  the 
animated  silence  of  sparkling  intelligence,  are 
two  things  almost  as  obviously  distinct,  as  the 
wisdom  and  the  folly  of  the  tongue.  An  invio¬ 
lable  and  marked  attention  may  show  that  a 
woman  is  pleased  with  a  subject,  and  an  illu¬ 
minated  countenance  may  prove  that  she  under¬ 
stands  it  almost  as  unequivocally  as  language 
itself  could  do ;  and  this,  with  a  modest  ques¬ 
tion,  which  indicates  at  once  rational  curiosity 
and  becoming  diffidence,  is  in  many  cases  as 
large  a  share  of  the  conversation  as  it  is  deco¬ 
rous  for  feminine  delicacy  to  take.  It  is  also 
as  flattering  an  encouragement  as  men  of  sense 
and  politeness  require,  for  pursuing  useful  topics 
in  the  presence  of  women,  which  they  would  be 
more  disposed  to  do,  did  they  oftener  gain  by  it 
the  attention  which  it  is  natural  to  wish  to  ex¬ 
cite  ;  and  did  women  themselves  discover  that 
desire  of  improvement  which  liberal-minded 
men  are  pleased  with  communicating. 

Yet  do  we  not  sometimes  see  an  impatience 
to  bo  heard  (nor  is  it  a  feminine  failing  only) 
which  good  breeding  can  scarcely  subdue  ?  And 
even  when  these  incorrigible  talkers  are  com¬ 
pelled  to  be  quiet,.is  it  not  evident  that  they  are 
not  silent  because  they  are  listening  to  what  is 
said,  but  because  they  are  thinking  of  what  they 
themdelves  shall  say  when  they  can  seize  the 
first  lucky  interval  for  which  they  are  so  nar¬ 
rowly  watching  ?  The  very  turn  of  their  coun¬ 
tenance  betrays  that  they  do  not  take  the  slight¬ 
est  degree  of  interest  in  any  thing  that  is  said 
by  others,  except  with  a  view  to  lie  in  wait  for 
any  little  chasm  in  the  discourse,  on  whiclr  they 
may  lay  hold,  and  give  vent  to  their  own  over¬ 
flowing  vanity. 

But  conversation  must  not  be  considered  as  a 
stage  for  the  display  of  our  talents,  so  much  as 
a  field  for  the  exercise  and  improvement  of  our 
virtues ;  as  a  means  for  promoting  the  glory  of 
our  Creator,  and  the  good  and  happiness  of  our 
follow  creatures.  Well-bred  and  intelligent 


374 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Christians  are  not,  when  they  join  in  society,  to 
consider  themselves  as  enteringf  the  lists  like  in¬ 
tellectual  prize-fighters,  in  order  to  exhibit  their 
own  vigour  and  dexterity,  to  discomfit  their  ad¬ 
versary,  and  to  bear  away  the  palm  of  victory. 
Truth  and  not  triumph  should  be  the  invariable 
object ;  and  there  are  few  occasions  in  life,  in 
which  we  are  more  unremittingly  called  upon 
to  watch  ourselves  narrowly,  and  to  resist  the 
assaults  of  various  temptations,  than  in  conver¬ 
sation.  Vanity,  jealousy,  envy,  misrepresenta¬ 
tion,  resentment,  disdain,  levity,  impatience,  in¬ 
sincerity,  and  pride,  will  in  turn  solicit  to  be 
gratified.  Constantly  to  struggle  against  the 
desire  of  being  thought  more  wise,  more  witty, 
and  more  knowing,  than  those  with  whom  we 
associate,  demands  the  incessant  exertion  of 
Christian  vigilance ;  a  vigilance  which  the  ge¬ 
nerality  are  far  from  suspecting  to  be  at  all  ne¬ 
cessary  in  the  intercourse  of  common  society. 
On  the  contrary,  cheerful  conversation  is  rather 
considered  as  an  exemption  and  release  from 
watchfulness,  than  as  an  additional  obligation  to 
it.  But  a  circumspect  soldier  of  Christ  will 
never  be  off  his  post ;  even  when  he  is  not  call¬ 
ed  to  public  combat  hy  the  open  assaults  of  his 
great  spiritual  enemy,  he  must  still  be  acting  as 
a  sentinel,  for  the  dangers  of  an  ordinary  Chris¬ 
tian  will  arise  more  from  these  little  skirmishes 
which  are  daily  happening  in  the  warfare  of 
human  life,  than  from  those  pitched  battles 
which  more  rarely  occur,  and  for  which  he  will 
probably  think  it  sufficient  to  be  armed. 

But  society,  as  was  observed  before,  is  not 
a  stage  on  which  to  throw  down  our  gauntlet, 
and  prove  our  own  prowess  by  the  number  of 
falls  we  give  to  our  adversary  ;  so  far  from  it, 
true  good-breeding  as  well  as  Christianity,  con¬ 
siders  as  an  indispensable  requisite  for  conver¬ 
sation,  the  disposition  to  bring  forward  to  no¬ 
tice  any  talent  in  others,  which  their  own  mo¬ 
desty,  or  ponscious  inferiority,  would  lead  them 
to  keep  back.  To  do  this  with  effect  it  requires 
a  penetration  exercised  to  discern  merit,  and  a 
generous  candour  which  delights  in  drawing  it 
out.  There  are  few  who  cannot  converse  tole¬ 
rably  on  some  one  topic :  what  that  is,  we 
should  try  to  discover,  and  in  general  introduce 
that  topic,  though  to  the  suppression  of  any  one 
on  which  wo  ourselves  are  supposed  to  excel: 
and  however  superior  we  may  be  in  other  re¬ 
spects  to  the  persons  in  question,  wo  may,  per¬ 
haps,  in  that  particular  pointy  improve  by  them  ; 
or  if  we  do  not  gain  information,  we  shall  at 
least  gain  a  wholesome  exercise  to  our  humility 
and  self-denial ;  we  shall  be  restraining  our  own 
impetuosity ;  we  shall,  if  we  take  this  course  on 
just  occasions  only,  and  so  as  to  beware  lest  we 
gratify  the  vanity  of  others,  be  giving  confi¬ 
dence  to  a  doubting,  or  cheerfulness  to  a  de¬ 
pressed  spirit.  And  to  place  a  just  remark,  ha¬ 
zarded  by  the  diffident,  in  the  most  advantage¬ 
ous  point  of  view ;  to  call  the  attention  of  the 
inattentive,  the  forward,  and  the  self-sufficient, 
to  the  unobtrusive  merit  of  some  quiet  person 
in  tlie  company,  who,  though  of  much  worth,  is 
|>erhaps  of  little  note ;  these  are  requisites  for 
conversation,  le^JS  brilliant,  but  far  more  valua¬ 
ble,  than  the  power  of  exciting  bursts  of  laugli- 


ter  by  the  brightest  wit,  or  of  exciting  admira¬ 
tion  by  the  most  poignant  sallies  of  ridicule. 

Wit  is,  of  all  the  qualities  of  the  female  mind, 
that  which  requires  the  severest  castigation  :  yet 
the  temperate  exercise  of  this  fascinating  quality 
throws  an  additional  lustre  round  the  character 
of  an  amiable  woman;  for  to  manage  with  dis¬ 
creet  modesty  a  damgerous  talent,  confers  a 
higher  praise  than  can  be  claimed  by  those  from 
whom  the  absence  of  the  talent  remewes  the 
temptation  to  misemploy  it.  To  women,  wit  is 
a  peculiar  perilous  possession,  which  nothing 
short  of  the  sober-mindedness  of  religion  can- 
keep  in  subjection  ;  and  perhaps  there  is  scarce¬ 
ly  any  one  order  of  human  beings  that  requires 
the  powerful  curb  of  Christian  control  more  than 
women  whose  genius  has  this  tendency.  In¬ 
temperate  wit  craves  admiration  as  its  natural 
aliment :  it  lives  on  flattery  as  its  daily  bread  ! 
The  professed  wit  is  a  hungry  beggar,  subsist¬ 
ing  on  the  extorted  alms  of  perpetual  panegyric; 
and  like  the  vulture  in  the  Grecian  fable,  the 
appetite  increases  by  indulgence.  Simple  truth 
and  sober  approbation  become  tasteless  and  in¬ 
sipid  to  the  palate  daily  vitiated  by  the  delicious 
poignancies  of  exaggerated  commendation.  Un¬ 
der  the  above  restrictions,  however,  wit  may  be 
safely  and  pleasantly  exercised  ;  for  chastised 
wit  is  an  elegant  and  well-bred,  and  not  unfemi¬ 
nine  quality.  But  humour,  especially  if  it  de¬ 
generates  into  imitation,  or  mimicry,  is  very 
sparingly  to  be  ventured  on  ;  for  it  is  so  difficult 
totally  td  detach  it  from  the  suspicion  of  buf¬ 
foonery,  that  a  woman  will  be  likely  to  lose 
more  of  the  delicacy  which  is  her  appropriate 
grace,  and  without  which  every  other  quality 
loses  its  charm,  than  she  will  gain  in  another 
way  in  the  eyes  of  the  judicious,  by  the  most 
successful  display  of  humour. 

A  woman  of  genius,  if  she  have  true  humility, 
will  not  despise  those  lesser  arts  which  she  may 
not  happen  to  possess,  even  though  she  be  some¬ 
times  put  to  the  trial  of  having  her  superior 
mental  endowments  overlooked,  while  she  is 
held  cheap  for  being  destitute  of  some  more  or¬ 
dinary  accomplishment.  Though  the  rebuke  of 
Themistocles*  was  just  to  one  who  thought  that 
so  great  a  general  and  politician  should  employ 
his  time  like  an  effeminate  lutinist,  yet  he  would 
probably  have  made  a  different  answer  if  he  had 
happened  to  understand  music. 

If  it  be  true  that  some  women  are  too  apt  to 
affect  brilliancy  and  display  in  their  own  dis-’ 
course,  and  to  undervalue  the  more  humble  pre¬ 
tensions  of  less  showy  characters;  it  must  be 
confessed  also,  that  some  of  more  ordinary  abi¬ 
lities  are  now  and  then  guilty  of  the  opposite 
error  and  foolishly  affect  to  value  themselves  on 
not  making  use  of  the  understanding  they  real¬ 
ly  possess  ;  and  affect  to  bo  thought  even  more 
silly  than  they  are.  They  exhibit  no  small  sa¬ 
tisfaction  in  ridiculing  women  of  high  intellec¬ 
tual  endowments,  while  they  exclaim,  with 
much  affected  humility,  and  much  real  envy, 
that  ‘  they  are  thankful  they  are  not  geniuses. 
Now,  though  we  are  glad  to  hear  gratitude  ex- 

•‘Cnn  you  play  on  the  lute  T’  saidacertain  Athenian 
to  Themistocles.  ‘  No,’  replied  he,  ‘  but  I  can  make  a 
little  village  a  great  city.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


375 


pressed  on  any  occasion,  yet  the  want  of  sense 
is  really  no  such  great  mercy  to  be  thankful  for; 
and  it  would  indicate  a  better  spirit,  were  they 
to  pray  to  be  enabled  to  make  a  right  use  of  the 
moderate  understanding  they  possess,  than  to 
expose  with  a  too  visible  pleasure,  the  imaginary 
or  real  defects  of  their  more  shining  acquaint¬ 
ance.  Women  of  the  brightest  faculties  should 
not  only  ‘bear  those  faculties  meekly,’  but 
should,  consider  it  as  no  derogation,  cheerfully 
to  fulfil  those  humbler  offices  which  make  up 
the  business  and  the  duties  of  common  life, 
while  they  should  always  take  into  the  account 
the  nobler  exertions  as  well  as  the  higher  re¬ 
sponsibilities  attached  to  higher  gifts.  In  the 
mean  time  women  of  lower  attainments  should 
©xert  to  the  utmost  such  abilities  as  Providence 
has  assigned  them  ;  and  while  they  should  not 
deride  excellences  which  are  above  their  reach, 
they  should  not  despond  at  any  inferiority  v^hich 
did  not  depend  on  themselves  ;  nor,  because  God 
has  denied  them  ten  talents,  should  they  forget 
that  they  are  equally  responsible  for  the  one  he 
has  allotted  them,  but  set  about  devoting  that 
one  with  humble  diligence  to  the  glory  of  the 
giver. 

Vanity,  however,  is  not  the  monopoly  of  ta¬ 
lents.  Let  not  a  young  lady,  therefore,  fancy 
that  she  is  humble,  merely  because  she  is  not 
ingenious,  or  consider  the  absence  of  tajents  as 
the  criterion  of  v/orth.  Humility  is  not  the  ex¬ 
clusive  privilege  of  dulness.  FUly  is  as  con¬ 
ceited  as  wit,  and  ignorance  many  a  time  out¬ 
strips  knowledge  in  the  race  of  vanity.  Equally 
earnest  competitions  spring  from  causes  less 
worthy  to  excite  them  than  wit  and  genius. 
Vanity  insinuates  itself  into  the  female  heart 
under  a  variety  of  unsuspected  forms,  and  is  on 
the  watch  to  enter  it  by  seizing  on  many  a  little 
pass  which  was  not  thought  worth  guarding. 

Who  has  not  seen  as  restless  emotion  agitate 
the  features  of  an  anxious  matron,  while  peace 
and  fame  hung  trembling  in  doubtful  suspense 
on  the  success  of  a  soup  or  sauce,  on  which  sen¬ 
tence  was  about  to  be  pronounced  by  some  con¬ 
summate  critic,  as  could  have  been  excited  by 
any  competition  for  literary  renown,  or  any 
struggle  for  contested  wit  7  Anxiety  for  fame  is 
by  no  means  measured  by  tlie  real  value  of  the 
object  pursued,  but  by  the  degree  of  estimation 
in  which  it  is  held  by  the  pursuer.  Nor  was 
the  illustrious  hero  of  Greece  more  effectually 
hindered  from  sleeping  by  the  trophies  of  Mil- 
tiades,  than  many  a  modish  damsel  by  the 
eclipsing  superiority  of  some  newer  decoration 
exhibited  by  her  more  successful  friend. 

There  is  another  species  of  vanity  in  some 
women  which  disguises  itself  under  the  thin  veil 
of  an  affected  humility;  they  will  accuse  them¬ 
selves  of  some  fault  from  which  they  are  re¬ 
markably  exempt,  and  lament  the  want  of  some 
talent  which  they  are  rather  notorious  for  pos¬ 
sessing.  Now  though  the  wisest  are  commonly 
the  most  humble,  and  those  who  are  freest  from 
faults  are  most  forward  in  confessing  error;  yet 
the  practice  we  are  censuring  is  not  only  a 
clumsy  trap  for  praise,  but  a  disingenuous  inten¬ 
tion,  by  renouncing  a  quality  they  eminently 
possess,  to  gain  credit  for  others  in  which  they 
are  really  deficient.  All  affectation  involves  a 


species  of  deceit.  The  Apostle  when  he  enjoins, 

‘  not  to  think  of  ourselves  more  highly  than  we 
ought,’  does  not  exhort  us  to  t\\\nk  falsely  of  our 
selves,  but  to  think  ‘  soberly  :’  and  it  is  worth 
observing  that  in  this  injunction  he  does  not  use 
the  word  speak,  but  think,  inferring  possibly, 
that  it  would  be  safer  to  speak  little  of  ourselves 
or  not  at  all ;  for  it  is  so  far  from  being  an  un¬ 
equivocal  proof  of  our  humility  to  talk  even  of 
our  defects,  that  whfie  we  make  self  the  subject, 
in  whatever  way,  self-love  contrives  to  be  grati¬ 
fied,  and  will  even  be  content  that  our  faults 
should  be  talked  of,  rather  than  that  we  should 
not  be  talked  of  at  all.  Some  are  also  attacked 
with  such  proud  fits  of  humility,  that  while 
they  are  ready  to  accuse  themselves  of  almost 
every  sin  in  the  lump,  they  yet  take  fire  at  the 
imputation  of  the  slightest  individual  fault; 
and  instantly  enter  upon  their  own  vindication 
as  warmly  as  if  you,  and  not  themselves,  had 
brought  forward  the  charge.  The  truth  is,  they 
ventured  to  condemn  themselves,  in  the  full  con¬ 
fidence  that  you  would  contradict  the  self-accu¬ 
sation  ;  the  last  thing  they  intended  was  that 
you  should  believe  them,  and  they  are  never  so 
much  piqued  and  disappointed  as  when  they  are 
taken  at  their  word. 

Of  the  various  shapes  and  undefined  forms 
into  which  vanity  branches  out  in  conversation, 
there  is  no  end.  Out  of  restless  desire  to  please, 
grows  the  vain  desire  to  astonish :  for  from 
vanity,  as  much  as  from  credulity,  arises  that 
strong  love  of  the  marvellous,  with  which  the 
conversation  of  the  ill-educated  abounds.  Hence 
that  fondness  for  dealing  in  narratives  hardly 
within  the  compass  of  possibility.  Here  vanity 
has  many  shades  of  gratification  ;  those  shades 
will  be  stronger  or  weaker,  whether  the  relater 
chance  to  have  been  an  eye-witness  of  the  won¬ 
der  she  records  ;  or  whether  she  claim  only  the 
second-hand  renown  of  its  having  happened  to 
her  friend,  or  the  still  remoter  celebrity  of  its 
having  been  witnessed  only  by  her  friend’s 
friend :  but  even  though  that  friend  only  knew 
the  man,  v/ho  remembered  the  woman,  who  con¬ 
versed  with  the  person,  who  actually  beheld  the 
thing  which  is  now  causing  admiration  in  the 
company,  still  self,  though  in  a  fainter  degree, 
is  brought  into  notice,  and  the  relater  contrives 
in  some  circuitous  and  distant  way  to  be  con¬ 
nected  with  the  wonder. 

To  correct  this  propensity,  ‘to  elevate  and 
surprise,’*  it  would  be  well  in  mixed  society  to 
abstain  altogether  from  hazarding  stories,  which 
though  they  may  not  be  absolutely  false,  yet 
lying  without  the  verge  of  probability,  are  apt 
to  impeach  the  credit  of  the  narrator  ;  in  whom 
the  very  consciousness  that  she  is  not  believed, 
excites  an  increased  eagerness  to  depart  still 
farther  from  the  soberness  of  truth,  and  induces 
a  habit  of  vehement  asseveration,  which  is  too 
often  called  in  to  help  out  a  questionable  point.t 

*  Tlie  Rehearsal. 

t  This  is  also  a  good  rule  in  composition.  An  event 
thoiiffh  it.  may  actually  have  happf'ned,  yet  if  it  he  out 
of  the  reach  of  probability,  or  contrary  the  common 
course  of  nature,  will  seldom  Ik!  choson  as  a  subject  by 
a  writer  of  good  taste  ;  for  he  knows  that  a  probable 
fiction  will  interest  the  feeling  more  than  an  unlikely 
truth.  Vorisiniilitiide  is  inilceil  the  poi't's  truth,  but  the 
truth  of  the  moralist  is  of  a  more  sturdy  growth. 


376 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Or  if  the  propensity  be  irresistible,-  I  would  re¬ 
commend  to  those  persons  who  are  much  addict¬ 
ed  to  relate  doubtful,  or  improbable,  or  wonder¬ 
ful  circumstances,  :o  imitate  the  example  of  the 
two  great  naturalists,  Aristotle  and  Boyle,  who 
not  being  willing  to  discredit  their  works  with 
incredible  realities  threw  all  their  improbabili¬ 
ties  into  a  lump,  under  the  general  name  of 
Strange  Reports,  May  we  not  suspect  that,  in 
some  instances,  the  chag^er  of  strange  reports 
would  be  a  bulky  one? 

There  is  another  shape,  and  a  very  deformed 
shape  it  is,  in  which  loquacious  vanity  shows 
itself:  I  mean  the  betraying  of  confidence. 
Though  the  act  be  treacherous,  yet  the  fault,  in 
the  first  instance,  is  not  treachery,  but  vanity. 
It  does  not  so  often  spring  from  the  mischievous 
desire  of  divulging  a  secret,  as  from  the  pride 
of  having  been  trusted  with  it.  It  is  the  secret 
inclination  of  mixing  self  with  whatever  is  im¬ 
portant.  The  secret  would  be  oflittle  value,  if 
the  revealing  it  did  not  serve  to  intimate  our 
connexion  with  it ;  the  pleasure  of  its  having 
been  deposited  with  us  would  be  nothing,  if 
others  may  not  know  that  it  has  been  so  depo¬ 
sited. — When  we  continue  to  see  the  variety  of 
serious  evils  which  this  principle  involves,  shall 
we  persist  in  asserting  that  Vanity  is  a  slender 
mischief? 

There  is  one  offence  committed  in  conversa¬ 
tion  of  much  too  serious  a  nature  to  be  over¬ 
looked,  or  to  be  animadverted  on  without  sorrow 
and  indignation :  I  mean,  the  habitual  thought¬ 
less  profaneness  of  those  who  are  repeatedly  in¬ 
voking  their  Maker’s  name  on  occasions  the 
most  trivial.  It  is  offensive  in  all  its  variety  of 
aspects  ; — it  is  very  pernicious  in  its  effects  ; — 
it  is  a  growing  evil ; — those  who  are  most  guilty 
of  it,  are  from  habit  hardly  conscious  when  they 
do  it ;  are  not  aware  of  the  sin  ;  and  for  both 
these  reasons  without  the  admonitions  of  faithful 
friendship,  are  little  likely  to  discontinue  it.  It 
is  utterly  inexcusable  ; — it  has  none  of  the  pal¬ 
liatives  of  temptation  which  other  vices  plead, 
and  in  that  respect  stands  distinguished  from  all 
others  both  in  its  nature  and  degree  of  guilt. — 
Like  many  other  sins,  however,  it  is  at  once 
cause  and  effect :  it  proceeds  from  want  of  love 
and  reverence  to  the  best  of  Beings,  and  causes 
the  want  of  that  love  both  in  themselves  and 
others.  Yet  with  all  these  aggravations,  there 
is  perhaps,  hardly  any  sin  so  frequently  com¬ 
mitted,  so  slightly  censured,  so  seldom  repented 
of,  and  so  little  guarded  against.  On  the  score 
of  impropriety  too,  it  is  additionally  offensive,  as 
to  being  utterly  repugnant  to  female  delicacy, 
which  often  does  not  see  the  turpitude  of  this 
sin,  while  it  affects  to  be  shocked  at  swearing 
in  a  man.  Now  this  species  of  profaneness  is 
not  only  swearing,  but,  perhaps,  in  some  re¬ 
spects,  swearing  of  the  worst  sort ;  as  it  is  a 
direct  breach  of  an  express  command,  and 
offends  against  the  very  letter  of  that  law  which 
s.ays  in  so  many  words,  thou  siialt  not  take 
THE  NAME  OV  THE  LORD  THY  GoD  IN  VAI.V.  It 
offends  a^inst  politeness  and  good  breeding; 
for  those  who  commit  it,  little  think  of  the  pain 
they  are  inflicting  on  the  sober  mind,  which  is 
deeply  wounded  when  it  hears  the  holy  name  it 
loves  dishonoured ;  and  it  is  as  contrary  to  good 


breeding  to  give  pain,  as  it  is  to  true  piety  to-bo 
profane.  It  is  astonishing  that  the  refined  and 
elegant  should  not  reprobate  this  practice  for  ita 
coarseness  and  vulgarity,  as  much  as  the  pious 
abhor  it  for  its  sinfulness. 

1  would  endeavour  to  give  some  faint  idea  of 
the  grossness  of  this  offence,  by  an  analogy 
(oh !  how  inadequate !)  with  which  the  feeling 
heart,  even  though  not  seasoned  with  religion, 
may  yet  be  touched.  To  such  I  would  earnestly 
say  : — Suppose  you  had  some  beloved  friend — 
to  put  the  case  still  more  strongly,  a  depart¬ 
ed  friend — a  revered  parent,  perhaps — whosa 
image  never  occurs  without  awaking  in  your  * 
bosom  sentiments  of  tender  love  and  lively 
gratitude ;  how  would  you  feel  if  you  heard  this 
honourable  name  bandied  about  with  unfeeling 
familiarity  and  indecent  levity ;  or  at  best,  thrust 
into  every  pause  of  speech  as  a  vulgar  expletive  ? 
Does  not  your  affectionate  heart  recoil  at  the 
thought  ?  And  yet  the  hallowed  name  of  your 
truest  Benefactor,  your  heavenly  Father,  your 
best  friend,  to  whom  you  are  indebted  for  all 
you  enjoy  ;  who  gives  you  those  very  friends  in. 
whom  you  so  much  delight,  those  very  talents 
with  which  you  dishonour  him,  those  very  or- 
gans  of  speech  with  which  you  blaspheme  him, 
is  treated  with  an  irreverence,  a  contempt,  a 
wantonness,  with  which  you  cannot  bear  the 
very  thought  or  mention  of  treating  a  human 
friend.  His  name  is  impiously,  is  unfeelingly, 
is  ungratefdBy  singled  out  as  the  object  of  de¬ 
cided  irreverence,  of  systematic  contempt,  of 
thoughtless  levity.  His  sacred  name  is  used 
indiscriminately  to  express  anger,  joy,  griefj 
surprise,  impatience ;  and  what  is  almost  still 
more  unpardonable  than  all,  it  is  wantonly  used 
as  a  mere  unmeaning  expletive,  which,  being 
excited  by  no  temptation,  can  have  nothing  to 
extenuate  it ;  which,  causing  no  emotion,  can. 
have  nothing  to  recommend  it,  unless  it  be  tho 
pleasure  of  the  sin. 

Among  the  deep,  but  less  obvious  mischiefs 
of  conversation,  misrepresentation  must  not  be 
overlooked.  Self-love  is  continually  at  work,  to 
give  to  all  we  say  a  bias  in  our  own  favour. 
The  counteraction  of  this  fault  should  be  set 
about  in  the  earliest  stages  of  education.  If 
young  persons  have  not  been  discouraged  in  the 
natural,  but  evil,  propensity  to  relate  every  dis¬ 
pute  they  have  had  with  others  to  their  own  ad¬ 
vantage  ;  if  they  have  not  been  trained  to  the 
bounden  duty  of  doing  justice  even  to  those  with 
whom  they  are  at  variance ;  if  they  have  not 
been  led  to  aim  at  a  complete  impartiality  in 
their  little  narratives,  and  instructed  never  te 
take  advantage  of  the  absence  of  the  other  party, 
in  order  to  make  the  story  lean  to  their  own 
side  more  than  the  truth  will  admit :  how  shall 
we  in  advanced  life  look  for  correct  habits,  for 
unprejudiced  representations,  for  fidelity,  accu¬ 
racy,  and  unbiassed  justice  ? 

Yet,  how  often  in  society,  otherwise  respect¬ 
able,  arc  we  pained  with  narrations  in  which 
prejudice  warjis,  and  self-love  binds  !  How  often 
do  we  see,  that  withholding  part  of  a  truth  an¬ 
swers  the  worst  ends  of  a  falsehood  !  How  often 
regret  the  unfair  turn  given  to  a  cause,  by 
placing  a  sentiment  in  one  point  of  view,  which 
the  speaker  had  used  in  another  !  the  letter  of 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


377 


truth  preserved  where  its  spirit  is  violated !  a 
superstitious  exactness  scrupulously  maintained 
in  the  under  parts  of  a  detail,  in  order  to  impress 
such  an  idea  of  integrity  as  shall  gain  credit  for 
the  misrepresenter,  while  he  is  designedly  mis¬ 
taking  the  leading  principle.  How  may  we ‘ob¬ 
serve  a  new  character  given  to  a  fact  by  a  differ¬ 
ent  look,  tone,  or  emphasis,  which  alters  it  as 
much  as  words  could  have  done !  the  false  im¬ 
pression  of  a  sermon  conveyed,  when  we  do  not 
like  the  preacher,  or  when  through  him  we  wish 
to  make  religion  itself  ridiculous  !  the  care  to 
avoid  literal  untruths,  while  the  mischief  is  bet¬ 
ter  effected  by  the  unfair  quotation  of  a  passage 
divested  of  its  context ;  the  bringing  together 
detached  portions  of  a  subject,  and  making  those 
parts  ludicrous,  when  connected,  which  were 
serious  in  their  distinct  position  !  the  insidious 
use  made  of  a  sentiment  by  representing  it  as 
the  opinion  of  him  who  had  only  brought  it  for¬ 
ward  in  order  to  expose  it !  the  relating  opinions 
which  had  merely  been  put  hypothetically,  as  if 
they  were  the  avowed  principles  of  him  we  would 
discredit !  that  subtle  falsehood  which  is  so  made 
to  incorporate  with  a  certain  quantity  of  truth, 
that  the  most  skilful  moral  chemists  cannot  ana¬ 
lyse  or  separate  ihem  !  for  a  good  misrepresenter 
knows  that  a  successful  lie  must  have  a  certain 
infusion  of  truth,  or  it  will  not  go  down-  And 
this  amalgamation  is  the  test  of  his  skill ;  as  too 
much  truth  would  defeat  the  end  of  his  mischief; 
and  too  little  would  destroy  the  belief  of  the 
hearer.  All  that  indefinable  ambiguity  and 
equivocation  ;  all  that  prudent  deceit,  which  is 
rather  implied  than  expressed  ;  those  more  deli¬ 
cate  artifices  of  the  school  of  Loyola  and  of 
Chesterfield,  which  allow  us  when  we  dare  not 
deny  a  truth,  yet  so  to  disguise  and  discolour  it, 
that  the  truth  we  relate  shall  not  resemble  the 
truth  we  heard  !  These  and  all  the  thousand 
shades  of  simulation  and  dissimulation  will  be 
carefully  guarded  against  in  the  conversation  of 
vigilant  Christians. 

Again,  it  is  surprising  to  mark  the  common 
deviations  from  strict  veracity  which  spring,  not 
from  enmity  to  truth,  not  from  intentional  de¬ 
ceit,  not  from  malevolence  or  envy,  not  from  the 
least  design  to  injure ;  but  from  mere  levity,  ha¬ 
bitual  inattention,  and  a  current  notion  that  it 
is  not  worth  while  to  be  correct  in  small  things. 
But  here  the  doctrine  of  habits  comes  in  with 
great  force,  and  in  that  view  no  error  is  small. 
The  cure  of  this  disease  in  its  more  inveterate 
stages  being  next  to  impossible,  its  prevention 
ought  to  be  one  of  the  earliest  objects  of  educa¬ 
tion.* 

Some  women  indulge  themselves  in  sharp 
raillery,  unfeeling  wit,  and  cutting  sarcasms, 
from  the  consciousness,  it  is  to  be  feared,  that 
they  are  secure  from  the  danger  of  being  called 
to  account;  this  license  of  speech  being  encou¬ 
raged  by  the  very  circumstance  which  ought  to 
suppress  it.  To  bo  severe,  because  they  can  bo 
so  with  impunity,  is  a  most  ungenerous  reason. 
It  is  taking  a  base  and  dishonourable  advantage 
of  their  sex,  the  weakness  of  which,  instead  of 
tempting  them  to  commit  offences  because  they 
can  commit  them  with  safety,  ought  rather  to 
make  them  more  scrupulously  careful  to  avoid 
*  See  the  chapter  the  use  of  definitions. 

VoL.  I- 


indiscretions  for  which  no  reparation  can  be  de¬ 
manded.  What  can  be  said  for  those  who  care¬ 
lessly  involve  the  injured  party  in  consequenceo 
from  which  they  know  themselves  exemptedo 
and  whose  very  sense  of  their  own  security 
leads  them  to  be  indifferent  to  the  security  of 
others  ! 

The  grievous  fault  of  gross  and  obvious  detrac¬ 
tion  which  infects  conversation,  has  been  so 
heavily  and  so  justly  condemned  by  divines  and 
moralists,  that  the  subject,  copious  as  it  is,  is 
exhausted.  But  there  is  an  error  of  an  opposite 
complexion,  which  we  have  before  noticed,  and 
against  which  the  peculiar  temper  of  the  times 
requires  that  young  ladies  of  a  better  cast  should 
be  guarded.  From  the  narrowness  of  their  own 
sphere  of  observation,  they  are  sometimes  ad¬ 
dicted  to  accuse  of  uncharitableness,  that  dis¬ 
tinguishing  judgment  which,  resulting  from  a 
sound  penetration  and  a  zeal  for  truth,  forbids 
persons  of  a  very  correct  principle  to  be  indis¬ 
criminately  prodigal  of  commendation  without 
inquiry  and  without  distinction.  There  is  an 
affectation  of  candour,  which  is  almost  as  mis¬ 
chievous  as  calundny  itself;  nay,  if  it  be  less  in¬ 
jurious  in  its  individual  application,  it  is  per¬ 
haps,  more  alarming  in  its  general  principle,  as 
it  lays  waste  the  strong  fences  which  separata 
good  from  evil.  They  know,  as  a  general  prin¬ 
ciple  (though  they  sometimes  calumniate)  that 
calumny  is  wrong  ;  but  they  have  not  been  told 
that  flattery  is  wrong  also ;  and  youth,  being  apt 
to  fancy  that  the  direct  contrary  to  wrong  must 
necessarily  be  right,  aro  apt  to  be  driven  into 
violent  extremes.  The  dread  of  being  only  sus¬ 
pected  of  one  fault,  makes  them  actually  guilty 
of  the  opposite  ;  and  to  avoid  the  charge  of  harsh¬ 
ness  or  of  envy,  they  plunge  into  insincerity  and 
falsehood.  In  this  they  are  actuated  either  by 
an  unsound  judgment  which  does  not  see  what 
is  right,  or  an  unsound  principle  which  prefers 
what  is  wrong.  Some  also  commend  to  conceal 
envy  ;  and  others  are  compassionate  to  indulge 
superiority. 

In  this  age  of  high-minded  independence  when 
oilr  youth  are  apt  to  set  up  for  themselves,  and 
every  man  is  too  much  disposed  to  be  his  own. 
legislator  without  looking  to  the  established  law 
of  the  land  as  his  standard  ;  and  to  set  up  for 
his  own  divine,  without  looking  tt  the  revealed 
will  of  God  as  his  rule — by  a  candour  equally 
vicious  with  our  vanity,  we  are  also  complai- 
santly  led  to  give  the  latitude  we  take :  and  it  is 
become  too  frequent  a  practice  in  our  tolerating 
young  ladies,  when  speaking  of  their  more 
erring  and  misled  acquaintance,  to  offer  for  them 
this  flimsy  vindication,  ‘that  what  they  do  is 
right  if  it  appear  right  to  them — *  if  they  see 
the  thing  in  that  light,  and  act  up  to  it  witli  sin¬ 
cerity,  they  cannot  be  materially  wrong.’  But 
tlie  standard  of  truth,  justice,  and  religion,  must 
neither  .be  elevated  nor  depressed,  in  order  to 
accommodate  it  to  actual  circumstances;  it  must 
never  be  lowered  to  palliate  error,  to  justify  lolly, 
or  to  vindicate  vice.  Good  natured  young  peo¬ 
ple  often  speak  favourably  of  unwortliy,  or  extra  | 
vagantly  of  common  characters,  from  one  of, 
those  motives ;  either  their  own  views  of  excel 
Icnce  are  low,  or  they  speak  respectfully  of  the 
undeserving,  to  purchase  for  thejnveh'es  tire  re 


378 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


nutation  of  tenderness  and  generosity  ;  or  they 
lavish  unsparing  praise  on  almost  all  alike,  in 
the  usurious  hope  of  buying  back  universal  com¬ 
mendation  in  return  ;  or  in  those  captivating 
characters  in  which  the  simple  and  masculine 
language  of  truth  is  sacrificed  to  the  jargon  of 
affected  softness;  and  in  which  smooth  and  pli¬ 
ant  manners  are  substituted  for  intrinsic  worth, 
the  inexperienced  are  too  apt  to  suppose  virtues, 
and  to  forgive  vices.  "But  they  should  carefully 
guard  against  the  error  of  making  mantier  the 
criterion  of  merit,  and  of  giving  unlimited  cre¬ 
dit  to  .strangers  for  possessing  every  perfection, 
only  because  they  bring  into  company  the  en¬ 
gaging  exterior  of  urbanity  and  alluring  gentle¬ 
ness.  They  should  also  remember  that  it  is  an 
easy,  but  not  an  honest  way  of  obtaining  the 
praise  of  candour,  to  get  into  the  soft  and  popu¬ 
lar  habit  of  saying  of  all  their  acquaintance, 
•when  speaking  of  them,  that  they  are  so  good  ! 
True  Christian  candour  conceals  faults,  but  it 
does  not  invent  virtues.  It  tenderly  forbears  to 
expose  the  evil  which  may  belong  to  a  charac¬ 
ter,  but  it  dares  not  ascribe  to  it  the  good  which 
does  not  exist.  To  correc^this  propensity  to 
false  judgment  and  insincent}',  it  would  be  well 
to  bear  in  mind,  that  while  every  good  action, 
come  from  wliat  source  it  may,  and  every  good 
quality,  be  it  found  in  whomsoever  it  will,  de¬ 
serves  its  fair  proportion  of  distinct  and  willing 
commendation  ;  yet  no  character  is  good,  in  the 
true  sense  of  the  word,  which  is  not  religious. 

In  fine — to  recapitulate  what  has  been  said, 
with  some  additional  hints  : — Study  to  promote 
both  intellectual  and  moral  improvement  in  con¬ 
versation  ;  labour  to  bring  into  it  a  disposition 
to  bear  with  others,  and  to  be  watchful  over 
yourself ;  keep  out  of  sight  any  prominent  ta- 
lent  of  your  own,  which,  if  indulged,  might  dis¬ 
courage  or  oppress  the  feeble  minded;  and  try 
to  bring  their  modest  virtues  into  notice.  If 
you  know  any  one  present  to  possess  any  parti¬ 
cular  weakness  or  infirmity,  never  exercise  your 
wit  by  maliciously  inventing  occasions  which 
may  lead  her  to  expose  or  betray  it ;  but  giv^  as 
favourable  a  turn  as  you  can  to  the  follies  which 
appear,  and  kindly  help  her  to  keep  the  restout 
of  sight.  Never  gratify  your  own  humour,  by 
hazarding  wbat  you  suspect  may  wound  any 
one  present  in  their  persons,  connexions,  pro¬ 
fessions  in  life,  or  religious  opinions  ;  and  do  not 
forget  to  examine  whether  the  laugh  your  wit 
has  raised  be  never  bought  at  this  expense. 
Give  credit  to  those  who,  without  your  kindness, 
will  get  none ;  do  not  talk  at  any  one  whom  you 
dare  not  talk  to,  unless  from  motives  in  which 
the  golden  rule  will  bear  you  out.  Seek  neither 
to  shine  nor  to  triumph  ;  and  if  you  seek  to 
please,  take  care  that  it  be  in  order  to  convert 
the  influence  you  may  gain  by  pleasing  to  the 
good  of  others.  Cultivate  true  politeness,  for  it 
grows  out  of  true  principle,  and  is  Consistent 
with  the  Gospel  of  Christ ;  but  avoid  those  feign¬ 
ed  attentions  which  are  not  stimulated  by  good 
will,  and  those  staled  professions  of  fondness 
which  are  not  dictated  by  esteem.  Remember 
that  tlie  pleasure  of  being  thought  amiahle  by 
strangers  may  be  too  dearly  purchased,  if  it  be 
purchased  at  the  expense  of  truth  and  simplici¬ 
ty .  remember  that  simplicity  is  the  first  charm 


in  manner  as  truth  is  in  mind ;  and  could  truth 
make  herself  visible,  she  would  appear  invested 
in  simplicity. 

Remember  also  that  true  Christian  good  na- 
ture  is  the  soul,  of  which  politeness  is  only  the 
garb.  It  is  not  that  artificial  quality  which  is 
taken  up  by  many  when  they  go  into  society,  in 
order  to  charm  those  whom  it  is  not  their  par¬ 
ticular  business  to  please ;  and  is  laid  down  when 
they  return  home  to  those  to  whom  to  appear 
amiable  is  a  real  duty.  It  is  not  that  fascinating 
but  deceitful  softness,  which,  after  having  acted 
over  a  hundred  scenes  of  the  most  lively  sympa¬ 
thy  and  tender  interest  with  every  slight  ac¬ 
quaintance  ;  after  having  exhausted  every  phrase 
of  feeling,  for  the  trivial  sicknesses  or  petty  soi'- 
rows  of  multitudes  who  are  scarcely  known, 
leaves  it  doubtful  v.'hether  a  grain  of  real  feeling 
or  genuine  sympathy  be  reserved  for  tlie  dearest 
connexions ;  and  which  dismisses  a  woman  to 
her  immediate  friends  with  little  affection,  and 
to  her  own  family  with  little  attachment. 

True  good-nature,  that  which  alone  deserves 
the  name,  is  not  a  holyday  ornament,  but  an 
every-day  habit.  It  does  not  consist  in  servile 
complaisance,  or  dishonest  flattery,  or  affected 
sympathy,  or  unqualified  assent,  or  unwarranta¬ 
ble  compliance,  or  eternal  smiles;  Before  it  can 
be  allowed  to  rank  with  the  virtues,  it  must  be 
wrought  up  from  a  humour  into  a  principle, 
from  an  occasional  disposition  into  a  habit.  It 
must  be  the  result  of  an  equal  aud  well-governed 
mind,  not  the  start  of  casual  gayety,  the  trick 
of  designing  vanity,  or  the  whim  of  capricious 
fondness.  It  is  compounded  of  kindness,  for¬ 
bearance,  forgiveness,  and  self-denial ;  ‘  it  seck- 
eth  not  its  own,’  but  is  capable  of  making  con¬ 
tinual  sacrifices  of  its  own  tastes,  humours,  and 
self-love ;  yet  knows  that  among  the  sacrifices 
it  makes,  it  must  never  include  its  integrity. 
Politeness  on  the  one  hand,  and  insensibility  on 
the  other,  assume  its  name,  and  wear  its  ho¬ 
nours  ;  but  they  assume  the  honours  of  a  tri¬ 
umph,  without  the  merit  of  a  victory ;  for  po¬ 
liteness  subdues  nothing,  and  insensibility  has 
nothing  to  subdue.  Good-nature  of  the  true  cast, 
and  under  the  foregoing  regulations,  is  above 
all  price  in  the  common  intercourse  of  domestic 
society  ;  for  an  ordinary  quality,  which  is  con¬ 
stantly  brought  into  action  by  the  perpetually 
recurring  through  minute  events  of  daily  life,  is 
of  higher  value  than  more  brilliant  qualities 
which  are  less  frequently  called  into  use ;  as 
small  pieces  of  ordinary  current  coin  are  of 
more  importance  in  the  commerce  of  the  world 
than  the  medals  of  the  antiquary.  And,  indeed, 
Christianity  has  given  that  new  turn  to  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  all  the  virtues,  that  perhaps  it  is  the 
best  test  of  the  c.xccllence  of  many  that  they 
have  little  brilliancy  in  them. — The  Christian 
religion  has  degraded  some  splendid  qualities 
from  the  rank  they  hold,  and  elevated  those 
which  were  obscure  into  distinction. 


CHAP.  XVI. 

On  the  danger  of  an  ill-directed  Sensibility. 

In’  considering  the  human  mind  with  a  view 


379 


THja  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


•  .  * 

to  its  improvement,  it  is  prudent  to  endeavour 

to  discover  the  natural  bent  of  the  individual 
character  :  and  having  found  it,  to  direct  your 
force  against  that  side  on  which  tlie  warp  lies, 
that  you  may  lessen  by  counteraction  the  defect 
which  you  might  be  promoting,  by  applying 
3’’our  aid  in  a  contrary  direction.  But  the  mis¬ 
fortune  is,  people  who  mean  better  than  they 
judge  are  apt  to  take  up  a  set  of  general  rules, 
good  perhaps  in  themselves,  and  originally 
gleaned  from  experience  and  observation  on  the 
nature  of  human  things,  but  not  applicable  in 
all  cases.  These  rules  they  keep  by  them  as 
nostrums  of  universal  efficacy,  which  they 
therefore  often  bring  out  for  use  in  cases  to 
which  they  do  not  apply.  For  to  make  any  re- 
medy  effectual,  it  is  not  enough  to  know  the 
medicine,  you  must  study  the  constitution  also ; 
if  there  be  not  a  congruity  between  the  two, 
you  may  be  injuring  one  patient  by  the  means 
which  are  requisite  to  raise  and  restore  another. 

In  forming  the  female  character  it  is  of  im¬ 
portance  that  those  on  whom  the  task  devolves 
should  possess  so  much  penetration  as  accu¬ 
rately  to  discern  the  degree  pf  sensibility,  and 
so  much  judgment  as  to  accommodate  the  treat¬ 
ment  to  the  individual  character.  By  constantly 
stimulating  and  extolling  feelings  naturally 
quick,  those  feelings  will  be  rendered  too  acute 
and  irritable.  On  the  other  hand,  a  calm  and 
equable  temper  will  become  obtuse  by  the  total 
want  of  excitement :  the  former  treatment  con¬ 
verts  the  feelings  into  a  source  of  error,  agita¬ 
tion,  and  calamity ;  the  latter  starves  their  na¬ 
tive  energy,  deadens  the  afiections  and  produces 
a  cold,  dull,  selfish  spirit;  for  the  human  mind 
is  an  instrument  which  will  lose  its  sweetness 
if  strained  too  high,  and  will  be  deprived  of  its 
tone  and  strength  if  not  sufficiently  raised. 

It  is  cruel  to  chill  the  precious  sensibility  of 
an  ingenuous  soul,  by  treating  with  supercilious 
coldness  and  unfeeling  ridicule  every  indication 
of  a  warm,  tender,  disinterested,  and  enthusi¬ 
astic  spirit,  as  if  it  exhibited  symptoms  of  a  de¬ 
ficiency  in  understanding  or  in  prudence.  How 
many  are  apt  to  intimate,  with  a  smile  of  min¬ 
gled  pity  and  contempt,  in  considering  such  a 
character,  that  when  she  knows  the  world,  that 
is,  in  other  words,  '^hen  she  shall  be  grown  cun¬ 
ning,  selfish,  and  suspicious,  she  will  be  ashamed 
of  her  present  glow  of  honest  warmth,  and  of 
her  lovely  susceptibility  of  heart.  May  she 
never  know  the  world,  if  the  knowledge  of  it 
must  be  acquired  at  such  an  expense  !  But  to 
sensible  hearts,  every  indication  of  genuine  feel¬ 
ing  will  be  dear,  for  they  well  know  that  it  is 
this  temper  which,  by  the  guidance  of  the  Di¬ 
vine  Spirit,  may  make  her  one  day  become 
more  enamoured  of  the  beauty  of  holiness ; 
which,  with  the  co-operation  of  principle,  ahd 
under  its  direction  will  render  her  the  lively 
agent  of  Providence  in  diminishing  the  misery 
that  is  in  the  world ;  into  which  misery  this 
temper  will  give  her  a  quicker  intuition  than 
colder  characters  possess.  It  is  this  temper 
which,  when  it  is  touched  and  purified  by  a 
‘live  coal  from  the  altar,’*  will  give  her  a  keener 
taste  for  the  spirit  of  religion,  and  a  quicker 


zeal  in  discharging  its  duties.  But  let  it  be  re¬ 
membered  likewise,  that  as  there  is  no  quality  in 
the  female  character  which  more  raises  its  tone, 
so  there  is  none  vVliich  will  be  so  Jikely  to  en¬ 
danger  the  peace,  and  to  expose  the  virtue  of 
the  possessor  ;  none  which  requires  to  have  its 
luxuriances  more  carefully  watched,  and  its 
wild  shoots  niore  closely  lopped. 

For  young  women  of  affections  naturally 
warm  but  not  carefully  disciplined,  are  in  dan¬ 
ger  of  incurring  an  unnatural  irritability  ;  and 
while  their  happiness  falls  a  victim  to  the  ex¬ 
cess  of  uncontrolled  feelings,  they  are  liable  at 
the  same  time  to  indulge  a  vanity  of  all  others 
the  most  preposterous,  that  of  being  vain  of 
their  very  defect.  They  have  heard  sensibility 
highly  commended,  without  having  heard  any 
thing  of  those  bounds  and  fences  which  were 
intended  to  confine  it,  and  without  having  been 
imbued  with  that  principle  which  would  have 
given  it  a  beneficial  direction.  Conscious  that 
they  possess  the  quality  its^  ifi  the  extreme, 
and  not  aware  that  they  vrant  all  that  makes 
that  quality  safe  and  delightful,  they  plunge 
headlong  into  thA  sins  and  miseries  from 
which  they  conceitedly  and  ignorantly  imagine, 
that  not  principle,  but  coldness,  has  preserved 
the  more  sober-minded  and  well-instructed  of 
their  sex. 

As  it  would  be  foreign  to  the  present  design 
to  expatiate  on  those  criminal  excesses  which 
are  some  of  the  sad  effects  of  ungoverned  pas¬ 
sion,  it  is  only  intended  here  to  hazard  a  few 
remarks  on  those  lighter  consequences  of  it 
which  consist  in  the  loss  of  comfort  without  ruin 
of  character,  and  occasion  the  privation  of  much 
of  the  happiness  of  life  without  involving  any 
very  censurable  degree  of  guilt  or  discredit.  It 
may,  however,  be  incidentally  remarked,  and 
let  it  be  carefully  remembered,  that  if  no  women 
have  risen  so  high  in  the  scale  of  moral  excel¬ 
lence  as  those  whose  natural  warmth  has  been 
conscientiously  governed  by  its  true  guide,  and 
directed  to  its  true  end  ;  so  none  have  furnished 
such  deplorable  instances  of  extreme  depravity 
as  those  who,  through  the  ignorance  or  the  de¬ 
reliction  of  principle,  have  been  abandoned  by 
the  excess  of  this  very  temper  to  the  violence  of 
ungoverned  passions  and  uncontrolled  inclina¬ 
tions.  Perhaps,  if  we  were  to  inquire  into  the 
remote  cause  of  some  of  the  blackest  crimes 
which  stain  the  annals  of  mankind,  profligacy, 
murder,  and  especially  suicide,  we  might  trace 
them  back  to  this  original  principle,  an  ungo¬ 
verned  sensibility. 

Notwithstanding  all  the  fine  theories  in  prose 
and  verse  to  which  this  topic  has  given  birth,  it 
will  be  found  that  very  exquisite  sensibility  con¬ 
tributes  so  little  to  happiness,  and  may  yet  be 
made  to  contribute  so  much  to  usefulness,  that 
it  may  perhaps  be  generally  considered  as  be¬ 
stowed  for  an  exercise  to  the  possessor’s  own 
virtue,  and  at  the  same  time,  as  a  keen  instru¬ 
ment  with  which  he  may  better  vAork  for  the 
good  of  others. 

Women  of  this  cast  of  mind  are  less  careful 
to  avoid  the  charge  of  unbounded  extremes,  than 
to  escape  at  all  events  the  imputation  of  insen¬ 
sibility.  They  are  little  alarmed  at  the  danger 
of  exceeding,  though  terrified  at  the  suspicion 


*  Isaiah,  vi.  8. 


380 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


of  coming  short,  of  what  they  take  to  be  the  ex¬ 
treme  point  of  feeling.  They  will  even  resolve 
to  prove  the  warmth  of  their  sensibility,  though 
at  the  exppnse  of  their  judgment,  and  some¬ 
times  also  of  their  justice.  Even  when  they 
earnestly  desire  to  be  and  to  do  good,  they  are 
apt  to  employ  the  wrong  instrument  to  accom¬ 
plish  the  right  end.  They  employ  the  passions 
to  do  the  work  of  the  judgment;  forgetting,  or 
not  knowing,  that  the  passions  were  not  given 
us  to  be  used  in  the  search  and  discovery  of 
truth,  which  is  the  office  of  a  cooler  and  more 
discriminating  faculty;  but  to  animate  us  to 
warmer  zeal  in  the  pursuit  and  practice  of  truth, 
when  the  judgment  shall  have  pointed  out  what 
is  truth. 

Through  this  natural  warmth,  which  they 
have  been  justly  told  is  so  pleasing,  but  which 
perhaps,  they  have  not  been  told  will  be  conti¬ 
nually  exposing  them  to  peril  and  to  suffering, 
their  joys  and  sorrows  are  excessive.  Of  this 
extreme  irritabi^y,  as  was  before  remarked, 
the  ill-educated  learn  to  boast  as  if  it  were  a  de¬ 
cided  indication  of  superiority  of  soul,  instead 
of  labouring  to  restrain  it  cAhe  excess  of  a  tem¬ 
per  which  ceases  to  be  amiable  when  it  is  no 
longer  under  the  control  of  the  governing  facul¬ 
ty.  It  is  misfortune  enough  to  be  born  more 
liable  to  suffer  and  to  sin,  from  this  conformation 
of  mind,  it  is  too  much  to  nourish  the  evil  by 
unrestrained  indulgence;  it  is  still  worse  to  be 
proud  of  so  misleading  a  quality. 

Flippancy,  impetuosity,  resentment,  and  vio¬ 
lence  of  spirit,  grow  out  of  this  disposition,  which 
will  be  rather  promoted  than  corrected,  by  the 
system  of  education,  on  which  we  have  been 
animadverting;  in  which  system  emotions  are 
too  early  and  too  much  excited,  and  tastes  and 
feelings  are  considered  as  too  exclusively  mak¬ 
ing  up  the  whole  of  the  female  character ;  in 
which  the  judgment  is  little  exercised,  the  rea¬ 
soning  powers  are  seldom  brought  into  action, 
and  self-knowledge  and  self-denial  scarcely  in¬ 
cluded. 

The  propensity  of  mind  which  we  are  consi¬ 
dering,  if  unchecked,  lays  its  possessors  open  to 
unjust  prepossessions,  and.  exposes  them  to  all 
the  danger  of  unfounded  attachments.  In  early 
youth,  not  only  love  at  first  sight,  but  also  friend¬ 
ship  of  the  same  instantaneous  growth,  springs 
up  from  an  ill-directed  sensibility,  and  in  after¬ 
life,  women  under  the  powerful  influence  of  this 
temper,  conscious  that  they  have  much  to  be 
borne  with,  are  too  readily  inclined  to  select  for 
their  confidential  connexions,  flexible  and  flat¬ 
tering  companions,  who  will  indulge  and  per¬ 
haps  admire  her  faults,  rather  than  firm  and  ho¬ 
nest  friends,  who  will  reprove  and  would  assist 
in  curing  them.  We  may  adopt  it  as  a  general 
maxim,  that  an  obliging,  weak,  yielding,  com¬ 
plaisant  friend,  full  of  small  attentions,  with  lit¬ 
tle  religion,  little  judgment,  and  much  natural 
acquiescence  and  civility,  is  a  most  dangerous, 
though  generally  a  too  much  desired  confidhnte  : 
she  soothes  the  indolence,  and  gratifies  the  va¬ 
nity  of  her  friend,  by  reconciling  her  to  her 
faults,  while  she  neither  keeps  the  understand¬ 
ing  nor  the  virtues  of  that  friend  in  exercise  ; 
but  withholds  from  her  every  useful  truth,  which 
by  opening  her  eyes  might  give  her  pain.  These 


obsequious  qualities  are  the  ‘soft  green,’*  on 
which  the  soul  loves  to  repose  itself. — But  it  is 
not  a  refreshing  or  a  wholesome  repose  ;  we 
should  not  select,  for  the  sake  of  present  ease,  a 
soothing  flatterer,  who  will  lull  us  into  a  pleas¬ 
ing  oblivion  of  our  failings,  but  a  friend  who, 
valuing  our  soul’s  health  above  our  immediate 
comfort,  will  rouse  us  from  torpid  indulgence, 
to  animation,  vigilance,  and  virtue. 

An  ill-directed  sensibility  also  leads  a  woman 
to  be  injudicious  and  eccentric  in  her  charities  ; 
she  will  be  in  danger  of  proportioning  her  bounty 
to  the  immediate  effect  which  the  distressed  ob¬ 
ject  produces  on  her  senses ;  and  will  therefore 
be  more  liberal  to  a  small  distress  presenting 
itself  to  her  own  eyes,  than  to  the  more  pressing 
wants  and  better  claims  of  those  miseries  of 
which  she  only  hears  the  relation.  There  is  a 
sort  of  stage  effect  which  some  people  require 
for  their  charities ;  and  such  a  character  as  we 
are  considering,  will  be  apt  also  to  desire,  that 
the  object  of  her  compassion  shall  have  some¬ 
thing  interesting  and  amiable  in  it,  such  as 
shall  furnish  pleasing  images  and  lively  pic¬ 
tures  to  her  imagination,  that  in  her  charities 
as  well  as  in  every  thing  else,  and  engaging 
subjects  for  description  ;  forgetting  she  is  to  be 
a  ‘  follower  of  Him  who  pleased  not  himself 
forgetting  that  the  most  coarse  and  disgusting 
object  may  be  as  much  the  representative  of 
Him,  who  said,  *  Inasmuch  as  ye  do  it  to  one 
of  the  least  of  these  ye  do  it  unto  me,’  as  the 
most  interesting.  Nay,  the  more  uninviting 
and  repulsive  cases  may  be  better  tests  of  the 
principle  on  which  we  relieve,  than  those  which 
abound  in  pathos  and  interest,  as  we  can  have 
less  suspicion  of  our  motive  in  the  latter  case 
than  in  the  former.  But  while  we  ought  to  ne¬ 
glect  neither  of  these  supposed  cases,  yet  the 
less  our  feelings  are  caught  by  pleasing  circum¬ 
stances,  the  less  will  be  the  danger  of  our  in¬ 
dulging  self-complacency,  and  the  more  likely 
shall  we  be  to  do  what  we  do  for  the  sake  of 
Him  who  has  taught  us,  that  no  deeds  but  what 
are  performed  on  that  principle  ‘  shall  be  recom¬ 
pensed  at  the  resurrection  of  the  just.’ 

But  through  the  want  of  that  governing  prin¬ 
ciple  which  should  direct  her  sensibility,  a  ten- 
der-hearted  woman,  whose  hand,  if  she  be  actu¬ 
ally  surrounded  with  scenes  and  circumstances 
to  call  it  into  action,  is 

Open  as  day  to  melting  charity ; 

nevertheless  may  utterly  fail  in  the  great  and 
comprehensive  duty  of  Christian  love,  for  she 
has  feelings  which  are  acted  upon  solely  by  lo¬ 
cal  circumstances  and  present  events.  Only  re¬ 
move  her  into  another  scene,  distant  from  the 
wants  she  has  been  relieving  ;  place  her  in  the 
lap  of  indulgence,  so  entrenched  with  ease  and 
pleasure,  so  immersed  in  the  softness  of  lifoi, 
that  distress  no  longer  finds  any  access  to  her 
presence,  but  through  the  faint  and  dull  medium 
of  a  distant  representation  ;  remove  her  from  the 
sight  and  sound  of  that  misery,  which,  when 
present,  so  tenderly  affected  her — she  r.ow  for¬ 
gets  that  misery  exists  ;  as  she  hears  but  little, 
and  sees  nothing  of  want  and  sorrovT,  she  is 


*  Burke's  ‘  Sublime  and  Beautiful.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


381 


ready  to  fancy  that  the  world  is  grown  happier 
than  it  was  :  in  the  meantime,  with  a  quiet  coft- 
science  and  a  thoughtless  vanity,  she  has  been 
lavishing  on  superfluities  that  money,  which  she 
would  cheerfully  have  given  to  a  charitable  case, 
had  she  not  forgotten  that  any  such  were  in  ex¬ 
istence,  because  pleasure  had  blocked  up  the 
avenues  through  which  misery  used  to  find  its 
way  to  her  heart ;  and  now,  when  again  such  a 
case  enforces  itself  into  her  presence,  she  la¬ 
ments  with  real  sincerity  that  the  money  is  gone 
which  should  have  relieved  it. 

In  the  mean  time,  perhaps,  other  women  of 
less  natural  sympathy,  but  whose  sympathies 
are  under  better  regulation,  or  who  act  from  a 
principle  which  requires  little  stimulus,  have, 
by  an  habitual  course  of  self-denial,  by  a  con¬ 
stant  determination  to  refuse  themselves  un¬ 
necessary  indulgences,  and  by  guarding  against 
that  dissolving  pleasure  which  melts  down  the 
firmest  virtue  that  allows  itself  to  bask  in  its 
beams,  have  been  quietly  furnishing  a  regular 
provision  for  miseries,  which  their  knowledge 
of  the  state  of  the  world  teaches  them  are  every 
where  to  be  found,  and  which  their  obedience 
to  the  will  of  God  tells  them  it  is  their  duty  both 
to  find  out  and  relieve ;  a  general  expectation  of 
being  liable  to  be  called  upon  for  acts  of  charity, 
will  lead  the  conscientiously  charitable  always 
to  be  prepared. 

On  such  a  mind  as  we  have  been  describing. 
Novelty  also  will  operate  with  peculiar  force,  and 
in  nothing  more  than  in  the  article  of  charity. 
Old  established  institutions,  whose  continued  ex¬ 
istence  must  depend  on  the  continued  bounty  of 
that  affluence  to  which  they  owed  their  origin, 
will  bo  sometimes  neglected,  as  presenting  no 
variety  to  the  imagination,  as  having  by  their 
uniformity  ceased  to  be  interesting ;  there  is 
now  a  total  failure  of  those  springs  of  more  sen¬ 
sitive  feeling  which  set  the  charity  a-going,  and 
those  sudden  emotions  of  tenderness  and  gusts 
of  pity,  which  once  were  felt,  must  now  be  ex¬ 
cited  by  newer  forms  of  distress.  As  age  comes 
on,  that  charity  which  has  been  the  effect  of 
mere  feeling,  grows  cold  and  rigid :  this  hard¬ 
ness  is  also  increased  by  the  Irequent  disap¬ 
pointments  charity  has  experienced  in  its  too 
high  expectations  of  the  gratitude  and  subse¬ 
quent  merit  of  those  it  has  relieved ;  and  by 
withdrawing  its  bounty,  because  some  of  its  ob¬ 
jects  have  been  undeserving,  it  gives  clear  proof 
that  what  it  bestowed  was  for  its  own  gratifica¬ 
tion  ;  and  now  finding  that  self-complacency  at 
an  end,  it  bestows  no  longer.  Probably  too  the 
cause  of  so  much  disappointment  may  have 
been,  that  ill  choice  of  the  objects  to  which  feel¬ 
ing,  rather  than  a  discriminating  judgment,  has 
led.  The  summer  showers  of  mere  sensibility 
soon  dry  up,  while  the  living  spring  of  Christian 
charity  flows  alike  in  all  seasons. 

The  impatience,  levity,  and  fickleness,  of 
which  women  have  been  somewhat  too  gene¬ 
rally  accused,  are  perhaps  in  no  small  ^Jegreo 
aggravated  by  the  littleness  and  frivUousness 
of  female  pursuits.  The  sort  of  education  they 
commonly  receive,  teaches  girls  to  set  a  great 
price  on  small  things. — Besides  this,  they  do  not 
always  learn  to  keep  a  very  correct  scale  of  do- 
S'rees  for  rating  the  value  of  the  objects  of  their 


admiration  and  attachment ;  but  by  a  kind  of 
unconscious  idolatry,  they  rather  make  a  merit 
of  loving  supremely  things  and  persons  which 
ought  to  be  loved  with  moderation  and  in  a  sub¬ 
ordinate  degree  the  one  to  the  other.  Unfor¬ 
tunately,  they  consider  moderation  as  so  neces¬ 
sarily  indicating  a  cold  heart,  and  narrow  soul, 
and  they  look  upon  a  state  of  indifference  with 
so  much  horror,  that  either  to  love  or  hate  with 
energy  is  supposed  by  them  to  proceed  from  a 
higher  state  of  mind  than  is  possessed  by  more 
steady  and  equable  characters.  Whereas  it  is 
in  fact  the  criterion  of  a  warm  but  well-directed 
sensibility,  that  while  it  is  capable  of  loving  with 
energy,  it  must  be  enabled,  by  the  judgment 
which  governs  it,  to  suit  and  adjust  its  degree  of 
interest  to  the  nature  and  excellence  of  the  ob¬ 
ject  about  which  it  is  interested  ;  for  unreason¬ 
able  prepossession,  disproportionate  attachment, 
and  capricious  or  precarious  fondness,  is  not 
sensibility. 

Excessive  but  unintentional  J^attery  is  another 
fault  into  which  a  strong  sensibility  is  in  danger 
of  leading  its  possessor.  A  tender  heart  and  a 
warm  imagination  Conspire  to  throw  a  sort 
of  radiance  round  the  object  of  their  love,  till 
they  are  dazzled  by  a  brightness  of  their  own 
creating.  The  worldly  and  fashionable  borrow 
the  warm  language  of  sensibility  without  having 
the  really  warm  feeling;  and  young  ladies  get 
such  a  habit  of  saying,  and  especially  of  writing 
such  over-obliging  and  flattering  things  to  each 
other,  that  this  mutual  politeness,  aided  by  the 
self-love  so  natural  to  us  all,  and  by  an  unwilling¬ 
ness  to  search  into  our  own  hearts,  keeps  up  the 
illusion,  and  we  acquire  a  habit  of  taking  our 
character  from  the  good  we  hear  of  ourselves, 
whieh  others  assume,  but  do  not  very  well 
know,  rather  than  from  the  evil  we  feel  in  our¬ 
selves,  and  whieh  we  therefore  ougjitlo  be  too 
thoroughly  acquainted  with  to  take  our  opinion 
of  ourselves  from  what  we  hear  from  others. 

Ungoverned  sensibility  is  apt  to  give  a  wrong 
direction  to  its  anxieties ;  and  its  affection  often 
falls  short  of  the  true  end  of  friendship.  If  the 
object  of  its  regard  happen  to  be  sick,  what 
inquiries !  what  prescription  !  what  an  accumu¬ 
lation  is  made  of  cases  in  which  the  remedy  its 
fondness  suggests  has  been  successful!  What 
an  unaffected  tenderness  for  the  perishing  body ! 
Yet  is  this  sensibility  equally  alive  to  the  im¬ 
mortal  interests  of  the  sufferer  7  Is  it  not  silent 
and  at  case  when  it  contemplates  the  dearest 
friend  persisting  in  opinions  essentially  dan¬ 
gerous  ;  in  practiees  unquestionably  wrong? 
Does  it  not  view  all  this,  not  only  without  a 
generous  ardour  to  point  out  the  peril,  and  rescue 
the  friend  ;  but  if  that  friend  be  supposed  to  be 
dying,  does  it  not  even  make  it  the  criterion  of 
kindness  to  let  her  die,  undeceived  as  to  her  true 
state  ?  What  a  wajit  of  real  sensibility,  to  feel 
for  the  pain  but  not  for  the  danger  of  those  we 
love  ?  Now  see  what  sort  of  sensibility  the 
Bible  teaches  ?  ‘  Thou  shaft  not  hate  thy  brother 
in  thine  heart,  but  thou  shaft  in  any  wise  rebuke 
him,  and  slialt  not  suffer  sin  upon  him.’*  But 
let  that  tenderness  which  shrinks  from  the  idea 
of  exposing  what  it  loves  to  a  momentary  pang, 

*  Tx)viticu9,  xix.  17. 


382 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


figure  to  itself  the  bare  possibibility,  that  the 
object  of  its  own  fond  affection  may  not  be  the 
object  of  Divine  favour  !  Let  it  shrink  from  the 
bare  conjecture,  that  ‘  the  familiar  friend  with 
whom  It  has  taken  sweet  counsel,’  is  going 
down  to  the  gates  of  death,  unrepenting,  unpre¬ 
pared  and  yet  unwarned ! 

But  mere  human  sensibility  goes  a  shorter 
way  to  work.  Not  being  able  to  give  its  friend 
the  pain  of  hearing  her  faults  or  of  knowing  her 
danger,  it  works  itself  up  into  the  quieting  de¬ 
lusion  that  no  danger  exists,  at  least  not  for  the 
objects  of  its  own  affection  ;  it  gratifies  itself  by 
inventing  a  salvation  so  comprehensive  as  shall 
take  in  all  itself  loves  with  aU  their  faults ;  it 
creates  to  its  own  fond  heart  an  ideal  and  exag¬ 
gerated  divine  mercy,  which  shall  pardon  and 
receive  all  in  whom  this  blind  sensibility  has 
an  interest,  whether  they  be  good  or  whether 
they  be  evil. 

In  regard  to  its  application  to  religious  pur¬ 
poses,  it  is  a  test^that  sensibility  has  received 
its  true  direction  when  it  is  supremely  turned 
to  the  love  of  God :  for  to  possess  an  overflowing 
fondness  for  our  fellovv-crdatures  and  fellow- 
sinners,  and  to  be  cold  and  insensible  to  the 
essence  of  goodness  and  perfection,  is  an  incon¬ 
sistency  to  which  the  feeling  heart  is  awfully 
liable.  God  has  himself  the  first  claim  to  the 
sensibility  he  bestowed.  ‘  He  Jirst  loved  us 
this  is  a  natural  cause  of  love.  ‘  He  loved  us 
while  we  were  sinners this  is  a  supernatural 
cause.  He  continues  to  love  us  though  we  ne¬ 
glect  his  favours  and  slight  his  mercies :  this 
would  wear  out  any  earthly  kindness.  He 
forgives  us,  not  petty  neglects,  not  occasional 
slights,  but  grievous  sins,  repeated  offences, 
broken  vows,  and  unrequited  love.  What  hu¬ 
man  friendship  performs  offices  so  calculated  to 
touch  the  S04I  of  sensibility  ? 

Those  young  women  in  whom  feeling  is  in¬ 
dulged  to  the  exclusion  of  reason  and  examina¬ 
tion,  are  peculiarly  liable  to  be  the  dupes  of  preju¬ 
dice,  rash  decisions,  and  false  judgment.  The 
understanding  having  but  little  power  over  the 
will,  their  affections  are  not  well  poised,  and 
their  minds  are  kept  in  a  state  ready  to  be  acted 
upon  by  the  fluctuations  of  alternate  impulses  ; 
by  sudden  and  varying  impressions;  by  casual 
and  contradictory  circumstances ;  and  by  emo¬ 
tions  excited  by  every  accident.  Instead  of 
being  guided  by  the  broad  views  of  general 
truth,  instead  of  having  one  fixed  principle,  they 
are  driven  on  by  the  impetuosity  of  the  moment. 
And  this  impetuosity  blinds  the  judgment  as 
much  as  it  misleads  the  conduct ;  so  that  for 
want  of  a  habit  of  cool  investigation  and  inquiry, 
they  meet  every  event  without  any  previously 
formed  opinion  or  settled  rule  of  action.  And 
as  they  do  not  accustom  themselves  to  appre¬ 
ciate  the  real  value  of  things,  J,heir  attention  is 
as  likely  to  be  led  away  by  the  under  parts  of  a 
subject,  as  to  seize  on  the  leading  featui'e.  The 
same  eagerness  of  mind  which  hinders  the  ope¬ 
ration  of  the  discriminating  faculty  leads  also  to 
the  error  of  determining  on  the  rectitude  of  an 
action  by  its  success,  and  to  that  of  making  the 
event  of  an  undertaking  decide  on  its  justice 
or  propriety  :  it  also  leads  to  that  superficial  and 
erroneous  way  of  judging  which  fastens  on  ex¬ 


ceptions,  if  they  make  in  our  own  favour,  aa 
grounds  of  reasoning,  while  they  lead  us  to  over¬ 
look  received  and  general  rules  which  tend  to 
establish  a  doctrine  contrary  to  our  wishes. 

Open-hearted,  indiscreet  girls,  often  pick  up 
a  few  strong  notions,  which  are  as  false  in  them- 
selves  as  they  are  popular  among  the  class  in 
question :  such  as  *  that  warm  friends  must  make 
warm  enemies;’ — that  ‘ the  generous  love  and 
hate  with  all  their  heart ;’  that  ‘  a  reformed  rake 
makes  the  best  husband  ;’ — that  ‘  there  is  no 
medium  in  marriage,  but  that  it  is  a  state  of 
exquisite  happiness  or  exquisite  misery  ;’  with 
many  other  doctrines  of  equal  currency  and 
equal  soundness!  These  they  consider  as  axioms,, 
and  adopt  them  as  rules  of  life.  From  the  two 
first  of  these  oracular  sayings,  girls  are  in  no 
small  danger  of  becoming  unjust  through  the 
very  warmth  of  their  hearts :  for  they  will  ac¬ 
quire  a  habit  of  making  their  estimate  of  the 
good  or  ill  quality  of  others  merely  in  propor¬ 
tion  to  the  greater  or  less  degree  of  kindness 
which  they  themselves  have  received  from  them. 
Their  estimation  of  general  character  is  thus 
formed  on  insulated  and  partial  grounds  ;  on'  the 
accidental  circumstance  of  personal  predilection 
or  personal  pique.  Kindness  to  themselves  or 
their  friends  involves  all  possible  excellence; 
neglect,  all  imaginable  defects.  Friendship  and 
gratitude  can  and  should  go  a  great  way  ;  but  as 
they  cannot  convert  vice  into  virtue,  so  they 
ought  never  to  convert  truth  into  falsehood. 
And  it  may  he  the  more  necessary  to  be  upon 
our  guard  in  this  instance,  because  the  very 
idea  of  gratitude  may  mislead  us,  by  converting 
injustice  into  the  semblance  of  a  virtue.  Warm 
expressions  should  therefore  be  limited  to  the  con¬ 
veying  a  sense  of  our  own  individual  obligations 
which  are  real,  rather  than  employed  to  give  an 
impression  of  general  excellence  in  the  person 
who  has  obliged  us,  which  may  be  imaginary. 
A  good  man  is  still  good,  though  it  may  not  have 
fallen  in  his  way  to  oblige  or  serve  us,  nay, 
though  he  may  have  neglected,  or  even  unin¬ 
tentionally  hurt  us  :  and  sin  is  still  sin,  though 
committed  by  the  person  in  the  world  to  whom 
we  are  the  most  obliged,  and  whom  we  best  love. 

There  is  danger  lest  our  excessive  commen¬ 
dation  of  our  friends,  merely  as  such,  may  be 
derived  from  vanity  as  well  as  gratitude.  While 
we  only  appear  to  be  triumphing  in  the  virtues 
of  our  friend,  we  may  be  guilty  of  self-com¬ 
placency  ;  the  person  so  excellent  is  the  person 
who  distinguishes  us,  and  we  are  too  apt  to  in¬ 
sert  into  the  general  eulogium  the  distinction 
we  ourselves  have  received  from  him  who  is 
himself  so  much  distinguished  by  others. 

With  respect  to  that  fatal  and  most  indelicate, 
nay  gross  maxim,  that  a  ‘  reformed  rake  makes 
the  best  husband,’  (an  aphorism  to  which  the 
principles  and  happiness  of  so  many  young  wo¬ 
men  have  been  sacrificed) — it  goes  upon  the 
preposterous  supposition,  not  only  that  effects  do 
not  follow  causes,  but  that  they  oppose  them  ; 
on  the  svlfl^position,  that  habitual  vice  creates 
rectitude  of  character,  and  that  sin  produces 
happiness  :  thus  flatly  contradicting  what  the 
moral  government  of  God  uniformly  exhibits  in 
the  course  of  human  events;  and  what  revela 
tion  so  evidently  and  universally  teaches. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


383 


Forit  should  be  observed  that  the  reformation 
js  generally,  if  not  always  supposed  to  be  brought 
s^bout  by  the  all-conquering  force  of  female 
charms.  Let  but  a  profligate  young  man  have  a 
point  to  carry  by  winning  the  affections  of  a  vain 
and  thoughtless  girl ;  he  will  begin  his  attack 
upon  her  heart  by  undermining  her  religious 
principles,  and  artfully  removing  every  impedi¬ 
ment  which  might  have  obstructed  her  receiving 
the  addresses  of  a  man  without  character.  And 
■while  he  will  lead  her  not  to  hear  without  ridi¬ 
cule  the  mention  of  that  change  of  heart  which 
Scripture  teaches  and  experience  proves,  that 
the  power  of  Divine  grace  can  work  on  a  vicious 
character ;  while  he  will  teach  her  to  sneer  at  a 
change  which  he  would  treat  with  contempt,  be¬ 
cause  he  denies  the  possibility  of  so  strange  and 
miraculous  a  conversion ;  yet  he  will  not  scru¬ 
ple  to  swear  that  the  power  of  her  beauty  has 
worked  a  revolution  in  his  own  loose  practices 
which  is  equally  complete  and  instantaneous. 

But  supposing  his  reformation  to  be  genuine, 
it  would  even  then  by  no  means  involve  the 
truth  of  her  proposition,  that  past  libertinism  in¬ 
sures  ■  future  felicity ;  yet  many  a  weak  girl, 
confirmed  in  this  palatable  doctrine  by  examples 
she  has  frequently  admired  of  those  surprising 
reformations  so  conveniently  effected  in  the  last 
scene  of  most  of  our  comedies,  has  not  scrupled 
to  risk  her  earthly  and  eternal  happiness  with  a 
man,  who  is  not  ashamed  to  ascribe  to  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  her  beauty  that  power  of  changing 
the  heart  which  he  impiously  denies  to  Omni¬ 
potence.  itself.  • 

As  to  the  last  of  these  practical  aphorisms, 
that  ‘  there  is  no  medium  in  marriage,  but  that 
it  is  a  state  of  exquisite  happiness  or  exquisite 
misery this,  though  not  equally  sinful,  is  equal¬ 
ly  delusive ;  for  marriage  is  only  one  modifica¬ 
tion  of  human  life,  and  human  life  is  not  com¬ 
monly  in  itself  a  state  of  exquisite  extremes ; 
but  is  for  the  most  part  that  mixed  and  mode¬ 
rate  state,  so  naturally  dreaded  by  those  who  set 
out  with  fancying  this  world  a  state  of  rapture  ; 
and  so  naturally  expected  by  those  who  know  it 
to  be  a  state  of  probation  and  discipline.  Mar¬ 
riage,  therefore,  is  only  one  condition,  and  often 
the  best  condition,  of  that  imperfect  state  of  be¬ 
ing  which,  though  seldom  very  exquisite,  is  often 
very  tolerable  ;  and  which  may  yield  much  com¬ 
fort  to  those  who  do  not  look  for  constant  trans¬ 
port.  But  unfortunately,  those  who  find  them¬ 
selves  disappointed  of  the  unceasing  raptures 
they  had  anticipated  in  marriage  disdaining  to 
sit  down  with  so  poor  a  provision  as  comfort, 
and  scorning  the  acceptance  of  that  moderate 
lot  which  Providence  commonly  bestows  with  a 
view  to  check  despondency  and  to  repress  pre¬ 
sumption,  give  themselves  up  to  the  other  alter¬ 
native  ;  and,  by  abandoning  their  hearts  to  dis¬ 
content,  make  to  themselves  that  misery  with 
which  their  fervid  imagination  had  filled  the  op¬ 
posite  scale. 

The  truth  is,  these  young  ladies  are  very  apt 
to  pick  up  their  opinions,  less  from  the  divines 
than  the  poets  ;  and  the  poets,  though  it  must  be 
confessed  they  are  some  of  the  best  embellishers 
of  life,  are  not  quite  the  safest  conductors  through 
it.  In  travelling  through  a  wilderness,  though 
we  avail  ourselves  of  the  harmony  of  singing 


birds  to  render  the  grove  delightful,  yet  we  never 
think  of  following  them  as  guides  to  conduct  uo 
through  its  labyrinths. 

Those  women  in  whom  the  natural  defects  of 
a  warm  temper  have  been  strengthened  by  am 
education  which  fosters  their  faults,  are  very 
dexterous  in  availing  themselves  of  a  hint,  when 
it  favours  a  ruling  inclination,  sooths  vanity,  in¬ 
dulges  indolence,  or  gratifies  their  love  of  power. 
They  have  heard  so  often  from  their  favourite 
sentimental  authors,  and  their  more  flattering- 
male  friends,  ‘  that  when  nature  denied  them 
strength,  she  gave  them  fascinating  graces  in 
compensation ;  that  their  strength  consists  in 
their  weakness  and  that  ‘  they  are  endowed 
with  arts  of  persuasion  which  supply  the  absence 
of  force,  and  the  place  of  reason  that  they  may 
learn,  in  time,  to  pride  themselves  on  that  very 
weakness,  and  to  become  vain  of  their  imperfec¬ 
tions  ;  till  at  length  they  begin  to  claim  for  their 
defects  not  only  pardon,  but  admiration.  Hence 
they  acquire  a  habit  of  cherishing  a  species  of 
feeling  which,  if  not  checked,  terminates  in  ex¬ 
cessive  selfishness;  they  learn  to  produce  their 
inability  to  bear  contradiction  as  a  proof  of  their 
tenderness  ;  and  to  indulge  in  that  sort  of  irrita¬ 
bility  in  all  that  relates  to  themselves,  which  in¬ 
evitably  lekds  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  ail  interest 
in  the  sufferings  of  others.  Instead  of  exercising 
their  sensibility  in  the  wholesome  duty  of  re¬ 
lieving  distress  and  visiting  scenes  of  sorrow 
that  sensibility  itself  is  pleaded  as  a  reason  for 
their  not  being  able  to  endure  sights  of  wo,  and 
for  shunning  the  distress  it  should  be  exerted  in 
removing.  That  exquisite  sense  of  feeling  which 
God  implanted  in  the  heart  as  a  stimulus  to 
quicken  us  in  relieving  the  miseries  of  others,  is 
thus  introverted,  and  learns  to  consider  self  not 
as  the  agent,  but  the  object  of  compassion.  Ten¬ 
derness  is  made  an  excuse  for  being  hard-heart¬ 
ed  ;  and  instead  of  drying  the  weeping  eyes  of 
others,  this  false  delicacy  reserves  its  selfish  and 
ready  tears  for  the  more  elegant  and  less  expen¬ 
sive  sorrows  of  the  melting  novel,  or  the  pathetic 
tragedy. 

When  feeling  stimulates  only  to  self-indul¬ 
gence  ;  when  the  more  exquisite  affections  of 
sympathy  and  pity  evaporate  in  sentiment,  in¬ 
stead  of  flowing  out  in  active  charity,  and  afford¬ 
ing  assistance,  protection,  or  consolation  to  every 
species  of  distress  within  its  reach,  it  is  an  evi¬ 
dence  that  the  feeling  is  of  a  spurious  kind  ;  and 
instead  of  being  nourished  as  an  amiable  tender¬ 
ness,  it  should  be  subdued  as  a  fond  and  base 
self-love. 

That  idleness,  to  whose  cruel  inroads  many 
women  of  fortune  are  unhappily  exposed,  from 
not  having  been  trained  to  consider  wholesome 
occupation,  vigorous  exertion,  and  systematic 
employment,  as  making  part  of  the  indispensable 
duties  and  pleasures  of  life,  lays  them  open  to  a 
thousand  evils  of  this  kind,  from  which  the  use¬ 
ful  and  the  busy  are  exempted  ;  and,  perhaps,  it 
would  not  be  easy  to  find  a  more  pitiable  object 
than  a  woman  with  a  great  deal  of  time,  and  a 
great  deal  of  flioney  on  her  hands,  who,  never 
having  been  taught  the  conscientious  use  of 
either  squanders  both  at  random,  or  rather  moul¬ 
ders  both  away,  without  plan,  without  principle, 
and  without  pleasure :  all  whose  projects  begin 


384 


THE  WORKS  Of  HANNAH  MORE. 


and  terminate  in  self;  who  considers  the  rest  of 
the  world  only  as  they  may  be  subservient  to 
her  gratification  ;  and  to  whom  it  never  occurred, 
that  both  her  time  and  money  were  given  for  the 
gratification  and  good  of  others. 

It  is  not  much  to  the  credit  of  the  other  sex, 
that  they  now  and  then  lend  themselves  to  the 
indulgence  of  this  selfish  spirit  in  their  wives, 
and  cherish  by  a  kind  of  false  fondness  those 
faults  which  should  be  combatted  by  good  sense 
and  a  reasonable  counteraction  ;  sloihfully  pre¬ 
ferring  a  little  false  peace,  the  purchase  of  pre¬ 
carious  quiet,  and  the  popular  reputation  of  good 
nature,  to  the  higher  duty  of  forming  the  mind, 
fixing  the  principles,  and  strengthening  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  her  with  whom  they  are  connefcted. 
Perhaps  too,  a  little  vanity  in  the  husband  helps 
out  his  good  nature ;  he  secretly  rewards  him¬ 
self  for  his  sacrifice  by  the  consciousness  of  his' 
superiority  ;  he  feels  a  self-complacency  in  his 
patient  condescension  to  her  weakness,  which 
tacitly  flatters  his  own  strength  :  and  he  is,  as 
it  were,  paid  for  stooping,  by  the  increased  sense 
of  his  own  tallness.  Seeing  also,  perhaps,  but 
little  of  other  women,  he  is  taught  to  believe  that 
they  are  all  pretty  much  alike,  and  that,  as  a 
man  of  sense,  he  must  content  himself  with  what 
he  takes  to  be  the  common  lot.  Whereas,  in 
truth,  by  his  misplaced  indulgence,  he  has  ra¬ 
ther  made  his  own  lot  than  drawn  it ;  and  thus, 
through  an  indolent  despair  in  the  husband  of 
’being  able  to  effect  any  amendment  by  opposi¬ 
tion,  and  through  the  want  of  that  sound  affection 
which  labours  to  improve  and  exalt  the  character 
of  its  object;  it  happens,  that  many  a  helpless, 
fretful,  and  daudling  wife  acquires  a  more  pow¬ 
erful  ascendancy  than  the  most  discreet  and 
amiable  woman;  and  that  the  most  absolute  fe¬ 
male  tyranny  is  established  by  these  sickly  and 
capricious  humours. 

The  poets  again,  who,  to  do  them  justice,  are 
always  ready  to  lend  a  helping  hand  when  any 
miscliief  is  to  be  done,  have  contributed  their 
full  share  towards  confirming  these  feminine 
follies :  they  have  strengthened  by  adulatory 
maxims,  sung  in  seducing  strains,  those  faults 
which  their  talents  and  their  influence  should 
have  been  employed  in  correcting.  By  fair  and 
youthful  females,  an  argument,  drawn  from 
sound  experience  and  real  life,  is  commonly  re¬ 
pelled  by  a  stanza  or  a  sonnet ;  and  a  couplet  is 
considered  as  nearly  of  the  same  validity  with 
a  text.  When  ladies  are  complimented  with 
being 

Fine  by  defect,  and  delicately  weak 

is  not  a  standard  of  feebleness  held  out  to  them, 
to  which  vanity  will  gladly  resort,  and  to  which 
soilness  and  indolence  can  easily  act  up,  or  ra¬ 
ther  act  down,  if  I  may  be  allowed  the  expres¬ 
sion  ? 

When  ladies  are  told  by  the  same  misleading, 
hut  to  them,  high  atithority,  that ‘smiles  and 
tears  are  the  irresistible  arms  with  which  nature 
nas  furnished  the  weak  for  conquering  the 
strong,’  will  they  not  eagerly  fly  to  this  cheap 
and  ready  artillery,  instead  of  labouring  to  fur¬ 
nish  themselves  with  a  reasonable  mind,  an  equa¬ 
ble  temper,  and  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit  ? 


Every  animal  is  endowed  by  Providence  with 
the  peculiar  powers  adapted  to  its  nature  and 
its  wants ;  while  none,  except  the  human,  by 
grafling  art  on  natural  sagacity,  injures  or  mars 
the  gill.  Spoilt  women,  who  fancy  there  is 
something  more  picquant  and  alluring  in  the 
mutable  graces  of  caprice,  than  in  the  monoto¬ 
nous  smoothness  of  an  even  temper ;  and  who 
also  having  heard  much,  as  was  observed  be¬ 
fore,  about  their  ‘  amiable  weakness,’  learn  to 
look  about  them  for  the  best  succedaneum  to 
strength,  the  supposed  absence  of  which,  they 
sometimes  endeavour  to  supply  by  artifice.  By 
this  engine  the  weakest  woman  frequently  fur¬ 
nishes  the  converse  to  the  famous  reply  of  the 
French  minister,  who,  when  he  was  accused  of 
governing  the  mind  of  that  feeble  queen,  Mary 
de  Medicis,  by  sorcery,  replied,  ‘  that  the  only 
sorcery  he  had  used,  was  that  influence  which 
strong  minds  naturally  have  over  weak  ones.’ 

But  though  it  be  fair  so  to  study  the  tempers, 
defects,  and  weaknesses  of  others,  as  to  convert 
our  knowledge  of  them  to  the  promotion  of  their 
benefit  and  our  own  ;  and  though  it  be  making 
a  lawful  use  of  our  penetration  to  avail  ourselves 
of  the  faults  of  others  for their  good  to  edifica¬ 
tion  ;’  yet  all  deviations  from  the  straight  line 
of  truth  and  simplicity ;  every  plot  insidiously 
to  turn  influence  to  unfair  account ;  all  contri¬ 
vances  to  extort  from  a  bribed  complaisance 
what  reason  and  justice  would  refuse  to  our 
wishes ;  these  are  some  of  the  operations  of  that 
lowest  and  most  despicable  engine,  selfish  cun¬ 
ning,  by  which  little  m\nds  sometimes  govern 
great  ones. 

And,  unfortunately,  women  from  their  natural 
desire  to  please,  and  frorp  their  sometimes  doubt¬ 
ing  by  what  means  this  grand  end  may  be  best 
effected,  are  in  more  danger  of  being  led  into 
dissimulation  than  men ;  for  dissimulation  is 
the  result  of  weakness ;  it  is  the  refuge  of  doubt 
and  distrust,  rather  than  of  conscious  strength, 
the  dangers  of  which  lie  another  way.  Frank¬ 
ness,  truth,  and  simplicity,  therefore,  as  they 
are  inexpressibly  charming,  so  are  they  pecu¬ 
liarly  commendable  in  women  ;  and  nobly  evince 
that  while  the  possessors  of  them  wish  to  please 
(and  why  should  they  not  wish  it  ?)  they  dis¬ 
dain  to  have  recourse  to  any  thing  but  what  is 
fair,  and  just,  and  honourable  to  effeet  it ;  that 
they  scorn  to  attain  the  most  desired  end  by  any 
but  the  most  lawful  means.  The  beauty  of 
simplicity  is  indeed  so  intimately  felt  and  gene¬ 
rally  acknowledged  by  all  who  have  a  true  taste 
for  personal,  moral,  or  intellectual  beauty,  that 
women  of  the  deepest  dissimulation  often  find 
tlieir  account  in  assuming  an  exterior  the  most 
foreign  to  their  charaeter,  and  exhibiting  the 
most  engaging  naivete.  It  is  curious  to  see  how 
much  art  they  put  in  practice  in  order  to  appear 
natural;  and  the  deep  design  which  is  set  at 
work  to  display  simplicity.  And,  indeed,  this 
feigned  simplicity  is  the  most  mischievous,  be¬ 
cause  the  most  engaging  of  all  the  Proteus  forms 
which  artifice  can  put  on.  For  the  most  free 
and  bold  sentiments  have  been  sometimes  ha¬ 
zarded  with  fatal  success  under  this  unsuspect¬ 
ed  mask.  And  an  innocent,  quiet,  indolent,  art¬ 
less  manner,  has  been  adopted  as  the  mos’  re 
fined  and  unsuccessful  accompaniment  of  scati 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


385 


menta,  ideas,  and  designs,  neither  artless,  quiet, 
nor  innocent. 


CHAP.  XVII. 

On  dissipation,  and  the  modern  habits  of  fashion¬ 
able  life. 

Perhaps  the  interests  of  true  friendship,  ele¬ 
gant  conversation,  mental  improvement,  social 
pleasure,  maternal  duty,  and  conjugal  comfort, 
never  received  such  a  blow  as  when  Fashion 
issued  out  that  arbitrary  and  universal  decree, 
that  every  body  must  be  acquainted  with  every 
hddy ;  together  with  that  consequent,  authori¬ 
tative,  but  father  inconvenient  clause  that  every 
iddy  must  also  go  every  where  every  night.  The 
implicit  and  devout  obedience  paid  to  this  law, 
is  incompatible  with  the  very  being  of  friend¬ 
ship  ;  for  as  the  circle  of  acquaintance  expands, 
and  it  will  be  continually  expanding,  the  affec¬ 
tions  will  be  beaten  out  into  such  thin  lamina, 
as  to  leave  little  solidity  remaining.  The  heart 
which  is  continually  exhausting  itself  in  profes¬ 
sions,  grows  cold  and  hard.  The  feelings  of 
kindness  diminish  in  proportion  as  the  expres¬ 
sion  of  it  becomes  more  diffuse  and  indiscrimi¬ 
nate.  The  very  traces  of  ‘  simplicity  and  Godly 
sincerity,’  in  a  delicate  female,  wear  away  im¬ 
perceptibly  by  constant  collision  with  the  world 
at  large.  And  perhaps  no  woman  takes  so  little 
interest  in  the  happiness  of  her  real  friends,  as 
she  whose  affections  are  incessantly  evaporat¬ 
ing  in  universal  civilities;  as  she  who  is  saying 
fond  and  flattering  things  at  random,  to  a  circle 
of  five  hundred  people  every  night. 

The  decline  and  fall  of  animated  and  instruc¬ 
tive  conversation,  has  been  in  a  good  measure 
effected  by  this  barbarous  project  of  assembling 
en  masse.  An  excellent  prelate,*  with  whose 
friendship  the  author  was  long  honoured,  and 
who  himself  excelled  in  the  art  of  conversation, 
used  to  remark,  that  a  few  years  had  brought 
about  a  great  revolution  in  the  manners  of  so¬ 
ciety  ;  that  it  used  to  be  the  custom,  previously 
to  going  into  company,  to  think  that  something 
was  to  be  communicated  or  received,  taught  or 
learnt ;  that  the  powers  of  the  understanding 
were  expected  to  he  brought  into  exereise,  and 
that  it  was  therefore  necessary  to  quicken  the 
mind,  by  reading  and  thinking,  for  the  share 
the  individual  might  be  expeeted  to  take  in  the 
.general  discourse  ;  but  that  now,  knowledge  and 
taste,  and  wit,  and  erudition,  seemed  to  be 
ecarcely  considered  as  necessary  materials  to 
be  brought  into  the  pleasurable  commerce  of  the 
world ;  because  now  there  was  little  chance  of 
turning  them  to  much  account;  and  therefore, 
he  who  possessed  them,  and  he  who  possessed 
them  not,  were  nearly  on  a  footing. 

It  is  obvious  also  that  multitudinous  assem¬ 
blies  are  so  little  favourable  to  that  cheerfulness 
which  it  should  seem  to  be  their  very  end  to 
promote,  that  if  there  were  any  chemical  pro¬ 
cess  by  which  the  quantum  of  spirits,  animal  or 
intellectual,  could  be  ascertained,  the  diminu¬ 
tion  would  be  found  to  have  been  inconceivably 

*  The  late  Bishop  Horne, 

B  3 


great,  since  the  transformation  of  man  and  wo 
man  from  a  social  to  a  gregarious  animal. 

But  if  it  be  true  that  friendship,  society,  and 
cheerfulness,  have  sustained  so  much  injury  by 
this  change  of  manners,  how  much  more  point¬ 
edly  does  the  remark  apply  to  family  happiness. 

Notwithstanding  the  known  fluctuation  of 
manners,  and  the  mutability  of  language,  could 
it  be  foreseen  when  the  apostle  Paul  exhorted 
‘  married  women  to  be  keepers  at  home'  that 
the  time  would  arrive  when  that  very  phrase 
would  be  selected  to  designate  one  of  the  most 
decided  acts  of  dissipation  ?  Could  it  be  foreseen 
that  when  a  fine  lady  should  send  out  a  notifi¬ 
cation  that  on  such  a  night  she  shall  be  at  home, 
these  two  significant  words  (besides  imitating 
the  rarity  of  the  thing)  would  present  to  the 
mind  an  image  the  most  undomestic  which  lan¬ 
guage  can  convey  ?  Could  it  be  anticipated  that 
the  event  of  one  lady’s  being  at  home  could  only 
be  effected  by  the  universal  concurrence  of  all 
her  acquaintance  to  be  abroad  ?  That  so  simple 
an  act  should  require  such  complicated  co-ope¬ 
ration  ?  And  that  the  report  that  one  person 
would  be  found  in  her  own  house,  should  ope¬ 
rate  with  such  an  electric  force  as  to  empty  the 
houses  of  all  her  friends  1 

My  country  readers,  who  may  require  to  have 
it  explained  that  these  two  magnetic  words  at 
home,  now  possess  the  powerful  influence  of 
drawing  together  every  thing  fine  within  the 
sphere  of  their  attraction,  may  need  also  to  be 
apprized,  that  the  guests  afterwards  are  not  ask¬ 
ed  what  was  said  by  the  company,  but  wliether 
the  crowd  was  prodigious ;  the  rule  for  deciding 
on  the  merit  of  a  fashionable  society,  not  being 
by  the  taste  or  the  spirit,  but  by  , the  score  and 
the  hundred.  The  question  of  pleasure,  like  a 
parliamentary  question,  is  now  carried  by  num¬ 
bers.  And  when  two  parties  modish,  like  two 
parties  political,  are  run  one  against  another  on 
the  same  night,  the  same  kind  of  mortification 
attends  the  leader  of  a  defeated  minority,  the 
same  triumph  attends  the  exulting  carrier  of 
superior  nambers,  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other. 
The  scale  of  enjoyment  is  rated  by  the  measure 
of  fatigue,  and  the  quantity  of  inconvenience 
furnishes  the  standard  of  gratification ;  the 
smallness  of  the  dimensions  to  which  each  per¬ 
son  is  limited  on  account  of  the  multitudes 
which  must  divide  among  them  a  certain  given 
space,  adds  to  the  sum  total  of  general  delight ; 
the  aggregate  of  pleasure  is  produced  by  the' 
proportion  of  individual  suffering;  and  not  till 
every  guest  feels  herself  in  the  state  of  a  eat  in 
an  exhausted  receiver,  does  the  delighted  host¬ 
ess  attain  the  consummation  of  that  renown 
which  is  derived  from  such  overflowing  rooms 
as  shall  throw  all  her  competitors  at  a  disgrace¬ 
ful  distance. 

An  eminent  divine  has  said,  that  either  ‘  per¬ 
severance  in  prayer  will  make  a  man  leave  off 
sinning,  or  a  continuance  in  sin  will  make  him 
leave  off  prayer.’  This  remark  may  be  accom¬ 
modated  to  those  ladies  who,  while  they  are  de¬ 
voted  to  the  enjoyments  of  the  world,  yet  retain 
considerable  solicitude  for  the  instruction  of 
their  daughters.  But  if  they  are  really  in  earnest 
to  give  them  a  Christian  education,  they  must 
themselves  renounce  a  dissipated  life.  Or  if 


VoL.  I. 


386 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


they  resolve  to  pursue  the  chase  of  pleasure,  they 
must  renounce  this  prime  duty.  Contraries  can¬ 
not  unite.  The  moral  nurture  of  a  tall  daughter 
can  no  more  be  administered  by  a  mother  whose 
time  is  absorbed  by  crowds  abroad,  than  the 
physical  nurture  of  her  infant  offspring  can  be 
supplied  by  her  in  a  perpetual  absence  from 
home.  And  is  not  that  a  preposterous  affection, 
which,  after  leading  a  mother  to  devote  a  few 
months  to  the  inferior  duty  of  furnishing  ali- 
ment  to  the  mere  animal  life,  allows  her  to  de¬ 
sert  her  post  when  the  more  important  moral 
and  intellectual  cravings  require  sustenance  ? 
This  great  object  is  not  to  be  effected  with  the 
shreds  and  parings  rounded  off  from  the  circle 
of  a  dissipated  life  ;  but  in  order  to  its  adequate 
execution,  the  mother  should  carry  it  on  with 
the  same  spirit  and  perseverance  at  home,  which 
the  father  thinks  it  necessary  to  be  exerting 
abroad  in  his  public  duty  or  professional  en¬ 
gagement. 

The  usual  vindication  (and  in  theory  it  has  a 
plausible  sound)  which  has  been  offered  for  the 
large  portion  of  time  spent  by  women  in  ac¬ 
quiring  ornamental  talents  is,  that  they  are  cal¬ 
culated  to  make  the  possessor  love,  home,  and 
that  they  innocently  fill  up  the  hours  of  leisure. 
The  plea  has  indeed  so  promi.sing  an  appear¬ 
ance,  that  it  is  worth  inquiring  whether  it  be  in 
fact  true.  Do  we  then,  on  fairly  pursuing  the 
inquiry,  discover  that  those  who  have  spent  most 
time  in  such  light  acquisitions,  are  really  re¬ 
markable  for  loving  home,  or  staying  quietly 
there  ?•  or  that  when  there,  they  are  sedulous  in 
turning  time  to  the  best  account  1  I  speak  not 
of  that  rational  and  respectable  class  of  women, 
who,  applying  (as  many  of  them  do)  these  ele. 
gant  talents  to  their  true  purpose,  employ  them 
to  fill  up  the  vacancies  of  better  occupations, 
and  to  embellish  the  leisure  of  a  life  actively 
good.  But  do  wo  generally  see  that  even  the 
most  valuable  and  sober  part  of  the  reigning  fe¬ 
male  acquisitions  leads  their  possessor  to  scenes 
most  favourable  to  the  enjoyment  of  them  ?  to 
scenes  which  we  should  naturally  suppose  she 
would  seek,  in  order  to  the  more  effectual  culti¬ 
vation  of  such  rational  pleasures?  To  learn  to 
endure,  to  enjoy,  and  to  adorn  solitude,  seems 
to  be  one  great  end  for  bestowing  accomplish¬ 
ments,  instead  of  making  them  the  motive  for 
hurrying  those  who  have  acquired  them  into 
crowds,  in  order  for  their  most  effectual  dis¬ 
play. 

Would  not  those  delightful  pursuits,  botany 
and  drawing,  for  instance,  seem  likely  to  court 
the  fields,  the  woods,  and  gardens  of  the  pater¬ 
nal  seat,  as  more  congenial  to  their  nature,  and 
more  appropriate  to  their  exercise,  than  barren 
watering  places,  destitute  of  a  tree,  or  an  herb, 
or  a  flower,  and  not  affording  an  hour’s  interval 
from  successive  pleasures,  to  profit  by  the  scene, 
even  it  abounded  with  the  whole  vegetable  world, 
from  the  ‘  cedar  of  Lebanon  to  the  hyssop  on 
the  wall.’ 

From  the  mention  of  watering  places,  may 
the  author  be  allowed  to  suggest  a  few  remarks 
on  the  evils  which  have  arisen  from  the  general 
conspiracy  of  the  gay  to  usurp  the  regions  of 
the  sick ;  and  from  tlieir  converting  the  health- 
restoring  fountains,  meant  as  a  refuge  for  dis¬ 


ease,  into  the  resorts  of  vanity  for  those  who 
have  no  disease  but  idleness  ? 

This  inability  of  staying  at  home,ias  it  is  one 
of  the  most  infallible,  so  it  is  one  of  the  most 
dangerous  symptoms  of  the  reigning  mania.  It 
would  be  more  tolerable,  did  this  epidemic  ma¬ 
lady  break  out  only  as  formerly  during  the  win¬ 
ter,  or  some  one  season. — Heretofore,  the  tenan- 
try  and  the  poor,  the  natural  dependants  on  the 
rural  mansions  of  the  opulent,  had  some  definite 
period  to  which  they  might  joyfully  look  for¬ 
ward  for  the  approach  of  those  patrons,  part  of 
whose  business  in  life  it  is  to  influence  by  their 
presence,  to  instruct  by  their  example,  to  sooth 
by  their  kinkness,  and  to  assist  by  their  liberal¬ 
ity,  (hose  whom  Providence,  in  the  distribution 
of  human  lots,  has  placed  under  their  more  im¬ 
mediate  protection.  Though  it  would  be  far 
from  truth  to  assert,  that  dissipated  people  are 
never  charitable,  yet  I  will  venture  to  say  that 
dissipation  is  inconsistent  with  the  spirit  of 
charity.  That  .aflTecting  precept  followed  by  so 
gracious  a  promise,  ‘  Never  turn  away  thy  face 
from  any  poor  man,  and  then  the  face  of  the 
Lord  shall  never  be  turned  away  from  thee,* 
cannot  literally  mean  that  we  should  give  to  all, 
as  then  we  should  soon  have  nothing  left  to  give; 
but  it  seems  to  intimate  the  habitual  attention, 
the  duty  of  inquiring  out  all  cases  of  distress, 
in  order  to  judge  which  are  fit  to  be  relieved  , 
now  for  this  inquiry,  for  this  attention,  for  this 
sympathy,  the  dissipated  have  little  taste,  and 
less  leisure. 

Let  a  reasonable  conjecture  (for  calculaticn 
would  fail !)  be  made  of  how  large  a  diminution 
of  the  general  good  has  been  effected  in  this 
single  respect  by  causes  which,  though  they  do 
not  seem  important  in  themselves,  yet  make  no 
inconsiderable  part  of  the  mischief  arising  from 
modern  manners  :  and  I  speak  now  to  persons 
who  intend  to  be  charita’ule  :  what  a  deduction 
will  be  made  from  the  aggregate  of  charity  by 
a  circumstance  apparently  trifling,  when  we 
consider  what  would  be  the  beneficial  effects  of 
that  regular  bounty  which  must  almost  unavoid¬ 
ably  result  from  the  evening  walks  of  a  great 
and  benevolent  family  among  the  cottages  of 
their  own  domain  :  the  thousand  little  acts  of 
comparatively  unexpensive  kindness  which  the 
sight  of  petty  wants  and  difficulties  would  ex¬ 
cite  ;  wants,  which  will  scarcely  be  felt  in  the 
relation ;  and  which  will  probably  bo  neither 
seen,  nor  felt,  nor  fairly  represented,  in  their 
long  absences,  by  an  agent.  And  what  is  even 
almost  more  than  the  good  done,  is  the  habit  of 
mind  kept  up  in  those  who  do  it.  Would  not 
this  habit,  exercised  on  the  Christian  principle, 
that  ‘  even  a  cup  of  cold  water,’  given  upon  right 
motives,  shall  not  lose  its  reward  ;  while  the  giv¬ 
ing  ‘  all  their  goods  to  feed  the  poor,’  without 
the  true  principle  of  charity,  shall  profit  them 
nothing ;  would  not  this  habit,  I  say,  and  the 
inculcation  of  the  spirit  which  produces  it,  be 
almost  the  best  part  of  the  education  of  daugh¬ 
ters.* 

♦  It  would  be  a  pleasant  summer  amusement  for  our 
young  ladies  of  fortune,  if  they  were  to  preside  at  such 
spinning  fea.sts  as  are  instituted  at  Niineham  for  the 
promotion  of  virtue  and  industry  in  their  own  sex. 
Pleasurable  anniversaries  of  this  kind  would  serve  to 
combine  in  the  minds  of  the  poor  two  ideas  which  ought 


387 


THE  WORKS  OF 

Transplant  this  wealthy  and  bountiful  family 
periodically,  to  the  frivolous  and  uninteresting 
hustle  of  the  watering  place  ;  there  it  is  not  de- 
■nied  that  frequent  public  and  fashionable  acts 
of  charity  may  make  a  part  (and  it  is  well  they 
do)  of  the  business  and  amusement  of  the  day  ; 
with  this  latter,  indeed,  they  are  sometimes 
good  naturedly  mixed  up.  But  how  shall  we 
compare  the  regular  systematical  good  these 
persons  would  be  doing  at  their  own  home,  with 
the  light,  and  amusing,  and  bustling  bounties 
of  the  public  place  ?  The  illegal  raffle  at  the  toy¬ 
shop,  may  relieve,  it  is  true,  some  distress  ;  but 
this  distress,  though  it  may  be  real,  and  if  real 
it  ought  to  be  relieved,  is  far  less  easily  ascer¬ 
tained  than  the  wants  of  the  poor  round  a  per¬ 
son’s  own  neighbourhood,  or  the  debts  of  a  dis¬ 
tressed  tenant.  How  shall  we  compare  the  broad 
stream  of  bounty  which  should  be  flowing 
through,  and  refreshing  whole  districts ;  with 
the  penurious  current  of  the  subscription  break¬ 
fast  for  the  needy  musician,  in  which  the  price 
of  the  gift  is  taken  out  in  the  diversion,  and  in 
which  pleasure  dignifies  itself  with  the  name  of 
bounty  ?  How  shall  wo  compare  the  attention, 
and  time,  and  zeal,  which  would  otherwise,  per¬ 
haps,  be  devoted  to  the  village  school,  spent  in 
hawking  about  benefit  tickets  for  a  broken  play¬ 
er,  while  the  kindness  of  the  benefactress,  per¬ 
haps,  is  rewarded  by  scenes  in  which  her  cha¬ 
rity  is  not  always  repaid  by  the  purity  of  the 
exhibition. 

Far  be  it  from  the  author  to  wish  to  check 
the  full  tide  of  charity  wherever  it  is  disposed  to 
flow !  Would  she  could  multiply  the  already 
abundant  streams,  and  behold  every  source  pu¬ 
rified  !  But  in  the  public  resorts  there  are  many 
who  are  able  and  willing  to  give.  In  the  seques. 
tered,  though  populous  village,  there  is,  perhaps, 
only  one  affluent  family :  the  distress  which 
they  do  not  behold  will  probably  not  be  attended 
to:  the  distress  which  they  do  not  relieve  will 
probably  not  be  relieved  at  all :  the  wrongs 
which  they  do  not  redress  will  go  unredressed  : 
the  oppressed  whom  they  do  not  rescue  will  sink 
under  the  tyranny  of  the  oppressor. — Through 
their  own  rural  domains  too,  charity  runs  in  a 
clearer  current,  and  is  under  less  suspicion  of 
being  polluted  by  that  muddy  tincture  which  it 
is  sometimes  apt  to  contract  in  passing  through 
the  impure  soil  of  the  world. 

But  to  return  from  this  too  long  digression. 
The  old  standing  objection  formerly  brought 
forward  by  the  prejudices  of  the  other  sex,  and 
too  eagerly  laid  hold  on  as  a  shelter  for  indo¬ 
lence  and  ignorance  by  ours,  was,  that  intellec¬ 
tual  accomplishments  too  much  absorbed  the 
thoughts  and  affections,  took  women  off  from 
the  necessary  attention  to  domestic  duties,  and 
superinduced  a  contempt  or  neglect  of  whatever 
was  useful.  It  is  peculiarly  the  character  of  the 
present  day  to  detect  absurd  opinions,  and  ex- 

never  to  bo  separated,  but  which  they  are  not  very  for- 
wa'd  to  unite-tliat  the  great  wish  is  to  make  them  tuippy 
as  A'ell  asgood.  Occasional  approximations  of  the  rich 
and  poor,  for  the  purposes  of  relief  and  instruction,  and 
annual  meetings  for  the  purpose  of  innocent  pleasure, 
would  do  much  towards  wearing  away  discontent,  and 
the  conviction  that  the  rich  really  take  an  interest  in 
their  com.'brt,  would  contribute  to  reconcile  the  lower 
class  to  that  state  in  which  it  has  pleased  God  to  place 
item. 


HANNAH  MORE. 

pose  plausible  theories  by  the  simple  and  deci¬ 
sive  answer  of  experiment ;  and  it  is  presumed 
that  this  popular  error,  as  well  as  others,  is  daily 
reeeiving  the  refutation  of  actual  experience. 
For  it  cannot  surely  be  maintained  on  ground 
that  is  any  longer  tenable,  that  acquirements 
truly  rational  are  celculated  to  draw  off  the 
mind  from  real  duties.  Whatever  removes  pre¬ 
judices,  whatever  stimulates  industry,  whatever 
rectifies  the  judgment,  whatever  corrects  selfi 
conceit,  whatever  purifies  the  taste,  and  raises 
the  understanding,  will  be  likely  to  contribute 
to  moral  excellence  :  to  woman  moral  excellence 
is  the  grand  object  of  education :  and  of  moral 
excellence,  domestic  life  is  to  woman  the  proper 
sphere. 

Count  over  the  list  of  females  who  have  made 
shipwreck  of  their  fame  and  virtue,  and  haV/C 
furnished  the  most  lamentable  e.xamples  of  the 
dereliction  of  family  duties  ;  and  the  number 
will  not  be  found  considerable  who  have  been 
led  astray  by  the  pursuit  of  knowledge.  And 
if  a  few  deplorable  instances  of  this  kind  be  pro¬ 
duced,  it  will  commonly  be  found  that  there  was 
little  infusion  in  the  minds  of  such  women  of 
that  correcting  principle  without  which  all  other 
knowledge  only  ‘  puffeth  up.’ 

The  time  nightly  expended  in  late  female  vi¬ 
gils  is  expended  by  the  light  of  far  other  lamps 
than  those  which  are  fed  by  the  student’s  oil  • 
and  if  families  are  to  be  found  who  are  neglect¬ 
ed  through  too  much  study  in  the  mistress,  it 
will  probably  be  proved  to  be  Hoyle  and  not 
Homer,  who  has  robbed  her  children  of  her 
time  and  affections.  For  one  family  which  has 
been  neglected  by  the  mother’s  passion  for 
books,  an  hundred  have  been  deserted  through 
her  passion  for  play.  The  husbanef  of  a  fashion¬ 
able  woman  will  not  often  find  that  the  library 
is  the  apartment  the  expenses  of  which  involve 
him  in  debt  or  disgrace.  And  for  one  literary 
slattern,  w’ho  now  manifests  her  indifference  to 
her  husband  by  the  neglect  of  her  person,  there 
are  scores  of  elegant  spendthrifts  who  ruin  theirs 
by  excess  of  decoration. 

May  I  digress  a  little  while  I  remark,  that  I 
am  far  from  asserting  that  literature  has  never 
filled  women  with  vanity  and  self-conceit :  the 
contrary  is  too  obvious  :  and  it  happens  in  this 
as  in  other  cases,  that  a  few  characters  conspi¬ 
cuously  absurd,  have  served  to  bring  a  whole 
order  into  ridicitrle.  But  I  will  assert,  that  in 
general  those  whom  books  are  supposed  tp  have 
spoiled,  would  have  been  spoiled  in  another  way 
without  them.  She  who  is  a  vain  pedant  be¬ 
cause  she  has  read  much,  has  probably  that  de¬ 
fect  in  her  mind  which  would  have  made  her  a 
vain  fool  if  she  had  read  nothing.  It  is  not  her 
having  more  knowledge,  but  less  sense,  which 
makes  her  insufferable :  and  ignorance  would 
have  added  little  to  her  value,  for  it  is  not  what 
she  has,  but  what  she  wants,  which  makes  her 
unpleasant.  The  truth,  however,  probably  lies 
here,  that  while  her  understanding  was  improv¬ 
ed,  the  tempers  of  her  heart  were  neglected,  and 
that  in  cultivating  the  fame  of  a  savante,  she 
lost  the  humility  of  a  Christian.  But  these  in¬ 
stances  too  furnish  only  a  fresh  argument  for 
the  general  cultivation  of  the  female  mind.  The 
wider  diflusion  of  sound  knowledge,  would  re 


388 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH-  MORE. 


move  that  temptation  to  be  vain  which  may  be 
excited  by  its  rarity. 

From  the  union  of  an  unfurnished  mind  and 
a  cold  heart  there  results  a  kind  of  necessity  for 
dissipation.  The  very  term  gives  an  idea  of 
mental  imbecility.  That  which  a  working  and 
fatigued  mind  requires  is  relaxation ;  it  requires 
something  to  unbend  itself ;  to  slacken  its  efforts, 
to  relieve  it  from  its  exertions;  while  amusement 
is  the  business  of  feeble  minds,  and  is  carried  on 
with  a  length  and  seriousness  incompatible  with 
the  refreshing  idea  of  relaxation.  There  is 
scarcely  any  one  thing  which  comes  under  the 
description  of  public  amusement,  which  does  not 
fill  the  space  of  three  or  four  hours  nightly.  Is 
not  that  a  large  proportion  of  refreshment  for  a 
mind,  which,  generally  speaking,  has  been  kept 
so  many  hours  together  on  the  stretch  in  the 
morning,  by  business,  by  study,  by  devotion  ? 

But  while  we  would  assert  that  a  woman  of  a 
cultivated  intellect  is  not  driven  by  the  same  ne¬ 
cessity  as  others  into  the  giddy  whirl  of  public 
resort ;  who  but  regrets  that  real  cultivation  does 
not  inevitably  preserve  her  from  it  ?  No  wonder 
that  inanity  of  character,  that  vacuity  of  mind, 
that  torpid  ignorance,  should  plunge  into  dissi¬ 
pation  as  their  natural  refuge ;  should  seek  to 
bury  their  insignificance  in  the  crowd  of  pressing 
multitudes,  and  hope  to  escape  analysis  and  de¬ 
tection  in  the  undistinguished  mass  of  tnixed  as¬ 
semblies  !  There  attrition  rubs  all  bodies  smooth, 
and  makes  all  surfaces  alike  !  thither  superficial 
and  external  accomplishments  naturally  fly  as 
to  their  proper  scene  of  action  ;  as  to  a  field 
where  competition  in  such  perfections  is  in  per¬ 
petual  exercise  ;  where  the  laurels  of  admiration 
are  to  be  won ;  whence  the  trophies  of  vanity 
may  be  carried  off  triumphantly. 

It  would  indeed  be  matter  of  little  comparative 
regret,  if  this  corrupt  air  were  breathed  only  by 
those  whose  natural  element  it  seems  to  be  ;  but 
who  can  forbear  lamenting  that  the  power  of 
fashion  attracts  into  this  impure  and  unwhole¬ 
some  atmosphere,  minds  also  of  a  better  make, 
of  higher  aims  arid  ends,  of  more  ethereal  tem¬ 
per  ?  that  it  attracts  even  those  who,  renouncing 
enjoyments  for  which  they  have  a  genuine  taste, 
and  which  would  make  them  really  happy,  ne¬ 
glect  society  they  love  and  pursuits  they  admire, 
in  order  that  they  may  seem  happy  and  be  fa¬ 
shionable  in  the  chase  of  pleasures  they  despise, 
and  in  company  they  disapprove !  But  no  cor¬ 
rectness  of  taste,  no  depth  of  knowledge,  will  in¬ 
fallibly  preserve  a  woman  from  this  contagion, 
unless  her  heart  be  impressed  with  a  deep  Chris¬ 
tian  conviction  that  she  is  accountable  for  the 
application  of  time.  Perhaps  if  there  be  any  one 
principle  which  should  more  sedulously  than 
another  be  worked  into  the  youthful  mind,  it 
is  the  doctrine  of  particular  as  well  as  general 
responsibility. 

The  contagion  of  dissipated  manners  is  so  deep, 
BO  wide,  and  fatal,  that  if  I  wore  called  upon  to 
assign  the  predominant  cause  of  the  greater  part 
of  the  misfortunes  and  corruptions  of  the  great 
and  gay  in  our  days,  I  should  not  look  for  it 
principally  in  any  obviously  great  or  striking 
circumstance  :  not  in  the  practice  of  notorious 
vices,  not  originally  in  the  dereliction  of  Chris¬ 
tian  principle  ;  but  I  should  without  hesitation 


ascribe  it  to  a  growing,  regular,  systematic  series 
of  amusements  !  to  an  incessant,  boundless,  ant 
not  very  disreputable  dissipation.  Other  cor 
ruptions,  though  more  formidable  in  appearance, 
are  yet  less  fatal  in  some  respects,  because  they 
leave  us  intervals  to  reflect  on  their  turpitude 
and  spirit  to  lament  their  excesses  :  but  dissipa. 
tion  is  the  more  hopeless,  as  by  engrossing  al 
most  the  entire  life,  and  enervating  the  whole 
moral  and  intellectual  system,  it  leaves  neither 
time  for  reflection,  nor  space  for  self-examina 
tion,  nor  temper  for  the  cherishing  of  right  affec¬ 
tions,  nor  leisure  for  the  operation  on  sound 
principles,  nor  interval  for  regret,  nor  vigour  to 
resist  temptation,  nor  energy  to  struggle  for 
amendment. 

The  great  master  of  the  science  of  pleasure 
among  the  ancients,  who  reduced  it  into  a  sys¬ 
tem  which  he  called  the  chief  good  of  man,  di¬ 
rected  that  there  should  be  interval  enough  be¬ 
tween  the  succession  of  delights  to  sharpen  in¬ 
clination  ;  and  accordingly  instituted  periodical 
days  of  abstinence  ;  well  knowing  that  gratifica¬ 
tion  was  best  promoted  by  previous  self-denial. 
But  so  little  do  our  votaries  of  fashion  understand 
the  true  nature  of  pleasure,  that  one  amusement 
is  allowed  to  overtake  another  without  any  in¬ 
terval,  either  for  recollection  of  the  past  or  pre¬ 
paration  for  the  fiiture.  Even  on  their  own  selfish 
principle,  therefore,  nothing  can  be  worse  under¬ 
stood  than  this  continuity  of  enjoyment :  for  to 
such  a  degree  of  labour  is  the  pursuit  carried, 
that  the  pleasures  exhaust  instead  of  exhilara¬ 
ting,  and  the  recreations  require  to  bo  rested 
from. 

For,  not  to  argue  the  question  on  the  ground 
of  religion,. but  merely  on  that  of  present  enjoy¬ 
ment  look  abroad  and  see  who  are  the  people  that 
complain  of  weariness,  listlessness  and  dejection. 
You  will  not  find  them  among  the  class  of  such 
as  are  overdone  with  work,  but  with  pleasure. 
The  natural  and  healthful  fatigues  of  business 
may  be  recruited  by  simple  and  cheap  gratifica¬ 
tions  :  but  a  spirit  worn  down  with  the  toils  of 
amusement,  requires  pleasures,  of  poignancy, 
varied,  multiplied,  stimulating. 

It  has  been  observed  by  medical  writers,  that 
that  sober  excess  in  which  many  indulge,  by 
eating  and  drinking  a  little  too  much  at  every 
day’s  dinner  and  every  night’s  supper,  more  ef¬ 
fectually  undermines  the  health,  than  those  more 
rare  excesses  by  which  others  now  and  then 
break  in  upon  a  life  of  general  sobriety.  This 
illustration  is  not  introduced  with  a  design  to  re¬ 
commend  occasional  deviations  into  gross  vice, 
by  way  of  a  pious  receipt  for  mending  the  mo¬ 
rals  ;  but  merely  to  suggest  that  there  is  a  pro¬ 
bability  that  those  who  are  sometimes  driven  by 
unresisted  passion  into  irregularities  which  shock 
their  cooler  reason,  are  more  liable  to  be  roused 
to  a  sense  of  their  danger,  than  persons  whose 
perceptions  of  evil  are  blunted  through  a  round 
of  systematical  unceasing  and  yet  not  scandalous 
dissipation.  And  when  I  affirm  that  this  system 
of  regular  indulgence  relaxes  the  soul,  enslaves 
the  heart,  bewitches  the  senses,  and  thus  dis¬ 
qualifies  for  pious  thought  or  useful  action,  with¬ 
out  having  any  thing  in  it  so  gross  as  to  shock 
the  conscience  ;  and  when  I  hazard  an  opinion 
that  this  state  is  more  formidable,  because  less 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


389 


alarming,  than  that  which  bears  upon  it  a  more 
determined  character  of  evil,  I  no  more  mean  to 
speak  of  the  latter  in  slight  and  palliating  terms, 
than  I  would  intimate,  because  the  sick  some¬ 
times  recover  from  a  fever,  but  seldom  from  a 
palsy,  that  a  fever  is  therefore  a  safe  or  a  healthy 
state. 

But  there  seems  to  be  an  error  in  the  first  con¬ 
coction,  out  of  which  the  subsequent  errors  suc¬ 
cessively  grow.  First  then,  as  has  been  obser¬ 
ved  before,  the  showy  education  of  women  tends 
chiefly  to  qualify  them  for  the  glare  of  public 
assemblies  :  secondly,  they  seem  in  many  in¬ 
stances  to  be  so  educated,  with  a  view  to  the 
greater  probability  of  their  being  splendidly  mar¬ 
ried  ;  thirdly,  it  is  alleged  in  vindication  of  those 
dissipated  practices,  that  daughters  can  only^  be 
seen,  and  admirers,  procured  at  balls,  operas, 
and  assemblies  :  and  that  therefore  by  a  natural 
and  necessary  consequence,  balls,  operas,  and 
assenfblies  must  be  followed  up  without  inter¬ 
mission  till  the  object  be  effected.  For  the  ac¬ 
complishment  of  this  object  it  is  that  all  this  com¬ 
plicated  machinery  had  been  previously  set  a 
going,  and  kept  in  motion  with  an  activity  not 
at  all  slackened  by  the  disordered  state  of  the 
system  ;  for  some  machines,  instead  of  being 
stopped,  go  faster  because  the  main  spring  is  out 
of  order  ;  the  only  difference  being  that  they  go 
wrong,  and  so  the  increased  rapidity  adds  only 
to  the  quantity  of  error. 

It  is  also,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  an 
error  to  fancy  that  the  love  of  pleasure  exhausts 
itself  by  indulgence,  and  that  the  very  young 
are  chiefly  addicted  to  it.  The  contrary  appears 
to  be  true.  The  desire  often  grows  with  the 
pursuit  in  the  same  degree  as  motion  is  quick¬ 
ened  by  the  continuance  of  the  gravitating  force. 

First  then  it  cannot  be  thought  unfair  to  trace 
back  the  excessive  fondness  for  amusement  to 
that  mode  of  education  we  have  elsewhere  repro¬ 
bated.  Few  of  the  accomplishments,  falsely  so 
called,  assist  the  developement  of  the  faculties  : 
they  do  not  exercise  the  judgment,  nor  bring  in- 
to  action  those  powers  which  fit  the  heart  and 
mind  for  the  occupations  of  life ;  they  do  not  pre¬ 
pare  women  to  love  home,  to  understand  its  oc- 
cupations,  to  enliven  its  uniformity,  to  fulfil  its 
duties,  to  multiply  its  comforts :  they  do  not 
lead  to  that  sort  of  experimental  logic,  if  I  may 
so  speak,  compounded  of  observation  and  reflec¬ 
tion,  which  makes  up  the  moral  science  of  life 
and  manners.  Talents  which  have  display  for 
their  object  despise  the  narrow  stage  of  home  ! 
they  demand  mankind  for  their  spectators,  and 
the  world  for  their  theatre. 

While  we  cannot  help  shrinking  a  little  from 
the  idea  of  a  delicate  young  creature,  lovely  in 
person,  and  engaging  in  mind  and  manners,  sa¬ 
crificing  nightly  at  the  public  shrine  of  Fashion, 
at  once  the  votary  and  the  victim ;  we  cannot 
help  figuring  to  ourselves  how  much  more  in¬ 
teresting  she  would  appear  in  the  eyes  of  a  man 
of  sense  and  feeling,  did  he  behold  her  in  the 
more  endearing  situation  of  domestic  life.  And 
who  can  forbear  wishing,  that  the  good  sense, 
good  taste,  and  delicacy  of  the  men  had  rather 
led  them  to  prefer  seeking  companions  for  life 
in  the  almost  sacred  quiet  of  a  virtuous  home  ? 
There  they  might  have  had  the  means  of  seeing 


and  admiring  those  amiable  beings  in  the  best 
point  of  view  ;  there  they  might  have  been  ena¬ 
bled  to  form  a  juster  estimate  of  female  worth, 
than  is  likely  to  be  obtained  in  the  scenes  where 
such  qualities  and  talents  as  might  be  expected 
to  add  to  the  stock  of  domestic  comfort  must  ne¬ 
cessarily  be  kept  in  the  back  ground,  and  where 
such  only  can  be  brought  into  view  as  are  not 
-particularly  calculated  to  insure  the  certainty  of 
home  delights. 

O!  did  they  keep  their  persons  fresh  and  new, 

How  would  they  pluck  allegiance  from  men’s  heaits, 

And  win  by  rareness ! 

But  by  what  unaccountable  infatuation  is  it 
that  men  too,  even  men  of  understanding,  join 
in  the  confederacy  against  their  own  happiness, 
by  looking  for  their  home  companions  in  the  re¬ 
sorts  of  vanity  ?  Why  do  not  such  men  rise  su¬ 
perior  to  the  illusions  of  fashion  ?  Why  do  they 
not  uniformly  seek  her  who  is  to  preside  in  their 
families  in  the  bosom  of  her  own  ?  in  the  prac¬ 
tice  of  every  domestic  duty,  in  the  exercise  of 
every  amiable  virtue,  in  the  exertion  of  every 
elegant  accomplishment?  those  accomplishments 
of  which  we  have  been  reprobating,  not  the  pos¬ 
session,  but  the  application  ?  there  they  would 
find  her  exerting  them  to  their  true  end ;  to  en 
liven  business,  to  animate  retirement,  to  embel¬ 
lish  the  charming  scene  of  family  delights,  to 
heighten  the  interesting  pleasures  of  social  in¬ 
tercourse,  and  rising  in  just  gradation  to  their 
noblest  object,  to  adorn  the  doctrine  of  God  her 
Saviour. 

If,  indeed,  women  were  mere  outside,  form 
and  face  only,  and  if  mind  made  up  no  part  of 
her  composition,  it  would  follow  that  a  ball-room 
was  quite  as  appropriate  a  place  for  choosing  a 
wife,  as  an  exhibition  room  for  choosing  a  pic¬ 
ture.  But,  inasmuch  as  women  are  not  mere 
portraits,  their  value  not  being  determinable  by  a 
glance  of  the  eye,  it  follows  that  a  different  mode 
of  appreciating  their  value,  and  a  different  place 
for  viewing  them  antecedent  to  their  being  in¬ 
dividually  selected,  is  desirable.  The  two  cases 
differ  also  in  this,  that  if  a  man  select  a  picture 
for  himself  from  among  all  its  exhibited  compe¬ 
titors,  and  bring  it  to  his  own  house,  the  picture 
being  passive,  he  is  able  to  Jix  it  there  :  while 
the  wife,  picked  up  at  a  public  place,  and  accus- 
tomed  to  incessant  display,  will  not,  it  is  proba¬ 
ble,  when  brought  home,  stick  so  quietly  to  the 
spot  where  he  fixes  her,  but  will  escape  to  the 
exhibition-room  again,  and  continue  to  be  dis¬ 
played  at  every  subsequent  exhibition,  just  as  if 
she  were  not  beconje  private  property,  and  had 
never  been  definitely  disposed  of 

It  is  the  novelty  of  a  thing  which  astonishes 
us,  and  not  its  absurdity  ;  objects  may  be  so  long 
kept  before  the  eye  that  it  begins  no  longer  to 
observe  them ;  or  may  bo  brought  into  such 
close  contact  with  it,  that  it  does  not  discern 
them.  Long  habit  so  reconciles  us  to  almost  afly 
thing,  that  the  grossest  improprieties  cease  to 
strike  us  when  they  once  make  a  part  of  tho 
common  course  of  action.  This,  by  the  way,  is 
a  strong  reason  for  carefully  sifting  every  opi¬ 
nion  and  every  practice  before  we  let  them  in¬ 
corporate  into  the  mass  of  our  habits,  for  after 
that  time  they  will  be  no  more  examined. — Would 
it  not  be  accounted  preposterous  for  a  young 


390 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


man  to  say  he  had  fancied  such  a  lady  would 
dance  a  better  minuet  because  he  had  seen  her 
behave  devoutly  at  church,  and  therefore  had 
chosen  her  for  his  partner  ?  and  yet  he  is  not 
thought  at  all  absurd  when  he  intimates  that  he 
chose  a  partner  for  life  because  he  was  pleased 
with  her  at  a  ball.  Surely  the  place  of  choosing 
and  the  motives  of  choice,  would  be  just  as  ap¬ 
propriate  in  one  case  as  in  the  other,  and  the  mis¬ 
take,  if  the  judgment  failed,  not  quite  so  serious. 

There  is  among  the  more  elevated  classes  of 
society,  a  certain  set  of  persons  who  are  pleased 
exclusively  to  call  themselves,  and  whom  others 
by  a  sort  of  compelled  courtesy  are  pleased  to 
call,  the  fine  world.  This  small  detachment 
consider  their  situation  with  respect  to  the  rest 
of  mankind,  just  as  the  ancient  Grecians  did 
theirs,  that  is  as  the  Grecians  thought  there 
were  but  two  sorts  of  beings,  and  that  all  who 
were  not  Grecians  were  barbarians ;  so  this 
certain  set  conceives  of  society  as  resolving  it¬ 
self  into  two  distinct  classes,  the  fine  world  and 
the  people  ;  to  which  last  class  they  turn  over 
all  who  dp  not  belong  to  their  little  cotenV,  how¬ 
ever  high  their  rank,  or  fortune,  or  merit. 
Celebrity,  in  their  estimation,  is  not  bestowed  by 
birth  or  talents,  but  by  being  connected  with 
them.  They  have  laws,  immunities,  privileges, 
and  almost  a  language  of  their  own  ;  they  form 
a  kind  of  distinct  cast,  and  with  a  sort  of  esprit 
du  corps  detach  themselves  from  others,  even  in 
general  society,  by  an  affectation  of  distance 
and  coldness  ;  and  only  whisper  and  smile  in 
their  own  little  groups  of  the  initiated :  their 
confines  are  jealously  guarded,  and  their  privi¬ 
leges  are  incommunicable. 

In  this  society  a  young  man  loses  his  natural 
character,  which,  whatever,  it  might  have  been 
originally,  is  melted  down  and  cast  into  the  one 
prevailing  mould  of  fashion  :  all  the  strong,  na¬ 
tive,  discriminating  qualities  of  his  mind  being 
made  to  take  one  shape,  one  stamp,  one  super¬ 
scription  !  However  varied  and  distinct  might 
have  been  the  materials  which  nature  threw  into 
the  crucible,  plastic  fashion  takes  care  that  they 
shall  all  be  the  same,  or  at  least  appear  the  same, 
when  they  come  out  of  the  mould.  A  young 
man  in  such  an  artificial  state  of  society,  accus¬ 
tomed  to  the  voluptuous  ease,  refined  luxuries, 
soft  accommodations,  obsequious  attendance,- 
and  all  the  unrestrained  indulgencies  of  a  fash- 
abie  club,  is  not  to  be  expected  after  marriage 
to  take  very  cordially  to  a  home,  unless  very 
extraordinary  exertions  are  made  to  amuse, 
to  attach,  and  to  interest  him :  and  he  is  not 
likely  to  lend  a  very  helping  hand  to  the 
union,  whose  most  laborious  exertions  have 
hitherto  been  little  more  than  a  selfish  stratagem 
to  reconcile  health  with  pleasure.  Excess  of 
gratification  has  only  served  to  make  him  irrita¬ 
ble  and  exacting  ;  it  will  of  course  be  no  part  of 
^lis  project  to  make  sacrifices,  he  wilt  expect  to 
receive  them :  and  what  would  appear  incredi¬ 
ble  to  the  Paladins  of  gallant  times,  and  the 
Chevaliers  Preux  of  more  heroic  days,  even  in 
the  necessary  business  of  establishing  himself 
for  life,  he  sometimes  is  more  disposed  to  expect 
attentions  than  to  make  advances. 

Thus  the  indolent  son  of  fashion,  with  a  thou¬ 
sand  fine,  but  dormant  qualities,  which  a  bad 


tone  of  manners  forbids  him  to  bring  into  exer 
cise  :  with  real  energies  which  that  tone  does 
not  allow  him  to  discover,  and  an  unreal  apathy 
which  it  commands  him  to  feign ;  with  the  heart 
of  a  hero,  perhaps,  if  called  into  the  field,  affects 
at  home  the  manners  of  a  Sybarite  ;  and  he  who, 
with  a  Roman,  or  what  is  more,  with  a  British 
valour,  would  leap  into  the  gulf  at  the  call  of 
public  duty. 

Yet  in  the  soft  and  piping  time  of  peace, 

when  fashion  has  resumed  her  rights,  would 
murmur  if  a  rose  leaf  lay  double  under  him. 

The  clubs  above  alluded  to,  as  has  been  said, 
generate .  and  cherish  luxurious  habits,  from 
their  perfect  ease,  undress,  liberty,  and  inatten¬ 
tion  to  the  distinctions  of  rank ;  they  promote  a 
love  of  play,  and  in  short,  every  temper  and  spirit 
which  tends  to  undomesticate  ;  and  what  adds 
to  the  mischief  is,  all  this  is  attained  at  a  cheap 
rate  compared  with  what  may  be  procured  at 
home  in  the  same  style. 

■  These  indulgences,  and  this  habit  of  mind, 
gratify  so  many  passions,  that  a  woman  can 
never  hope  successfully  to  counteract  the  evil  by 
supplying  at  home  gratifications  which  are  of 
the  same  kind,  or  which  gratify  the  sa7ne  habits. 
Now  a  passion  fbr  gratifying  vanity,  and  a  spirit 
of  dissipation  is  a  passion  of  the  same  kind ;  and 
therefore,  though  for  a  few  weeks,  a  man  who 
has  chosen  his  wife  in  the  public  haunts,  and 
this  wife  a  woman  made  up  of  accomplishments, 
may,  from  the  novelty  of  the  connexion  and 
of  the  scene,  continue  domestic  ;  yet  in  a  little 
time  she  will  find  that  those  passions,  to  which 
she  has  trusted  for  making  pleasant  the  married 
life  of  her  husband,  will  crave  the  still  higher 
pleasures  of  the  club  ;  and  while  these  are  pur- 
sued,  she  will  be  consigned  over  to  solitary 
evenings  at  home,  or  driven  back  to  the  old 
dissipations. 

To  conquer  the  passions  for  club  gratifica¬ 
tions,  a  woman  must  not  strive  to  feed  it  with 
sufficient  aliment  of  the  same  kind  in  her  so¬ 
ciety,  either  at  home  or  abroad  ;  she  must  sup¬ 
plant  and  overcome  it  by  a  passion  of  a  different 
nature,  which  Providence  has  kindly  planted 
within  us ;  I  mean  by  inspiring  him  with  the 
love  of  fire-side  enjoyments.  But  to  qualify 
herself  for  administering  these  she  must  cul¬ 
tivate  her  understanding,  and  her  heart,  and  her 
temper,  acquiring  at  the  same  time  that  modicum 
of  accomplishments  suited  to  his  taste,  which 
may  qualify  her  for  possessing,  both  for  him  and 
for  herself,  greater  varieties  of  safe  recreation. 

One  great  cause  of  the  want  of  attachment  in 
these  modish  couples  is,  that  by  living  in  the 
world  at  large,  they  are  not  driven  to  depend  on 
each  other  as  the  chief  source  of  comfort.  Now 
it  is  pretty  clear,  in  spite  of  modern  theories, 
that  the  very  frame  and  being  of  societies, 
whether  great  or  small,  public  or  private,  is 
jointed  and  glued  together  by  dependence. 
Those  attachments,  which  arise  from,  and  are 
compacted  by,  a  sense  of  mutual  wants,  mutual 
affection,  mutual  benefit,  and  mutual  obligation, 
are  the  cement,  which  secure  the  union  of  the 
family  as  well  as  of  the  state. 

Unfortunately,  when  two  young  persons  of 
the  above  description  marry,  the  union  is  somo 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


3£)1 


times  considered  rather  as  the  end  than  the 
beginning  of  an  engagement ;  the  attachment  of 
each  to  the  other  is  rather  viewed  as  an  object 
already  completed,  than  as  one  which  marriage 
is  to  confirm  more  closel}’’.  But  the  companion 
for  life  is  not  always  chosen  from  the  purest 
motive  ;  she  is  selected,  perhaps,  because  she  is 
admired  by  other  men,  rather  than  because  she 
possesses  in  an  emiment  degree  those  peculiar 
qualties  which  are  likely  to  constitute  the  indi¬ 
vidual  happiness  of  the  man  who  chooses  her. 
Vanity  usurps  the  place  of  affection ;  and  indo¬ 
lence  swallows  up  the  judgment.  Not  happi¬ 
ness,  but  some  easy  substitute  for  happiness  is 
pursued  ;  and  a  choice  which  may  excite  envy, 
rather  than  produce  satisfaction,  is  adopted  as 
the  means  of  effecting  it. 

The  pair,  not  matched  hut  joined,  set  out  sepa¬ 
rately  with  their  independent  and  individual 
pursuits.  Whether  it  made  a  part  of  their  origi¬ 
nal  plan  or  not,  that  they  should  be  indispensa¬ 
bly  necessary  to  each  other’s  comfort,  the  sense 
of  this  necessity,  probably  not  very  strong  at 
first,  rather  diminishes  than  increases  by  time  ; 
they  live  so  much  in  the  world,  and  so  little 
together,  that  to  stand  well  with  their  own  set 
continues  the  favourite  project  of  each ;  while 
to  stand  well  with  each  other  is  considered  as 
an  under  part  of  the  plot  in  the  drama  of  life. 
Whereas,  did  they  start  in  the  conjugal  race 
with  the  fixed  idea  that  they  were  to  look  to 
each  other  for  their  chief  worldly  happiness,  not 
only  principle,  but  prudence,  and  even  selfish¬ 
ness,  would  convince  them  of  the  necessity  of 
sedulously  cultivating  each  other’s  esteem  and 
affection  as  the  grand  means  of  promoting  that 
happiness.  But  vanity,  and  the  desire  of  flattery 
and  applause,  still  continue  to  operate.  Even 
after  the  husband  is  brought  to  feel  a  perfect  in¬ 
difference  for  his  wife,  he  still  likes  to  see  her 
decorated  in  a  style  which  may  serve  to  justify 
his  choice.  He  encourages  her  to  set  off  her 
person,  not  so  much  for  his  own  gratification,  as 
that  his  self-love  may  be  flattered,  by  her  con¬ 
tinuing  to  attract  the  admiration  of  those  whose 
opinion  is  the  standard  by  which  he  measures 
his  fame,  and  which  fame  is  to  stand  him  in  the 
stead  of  happiness.  Thus  is  she  necessarily 
exposed  to  the  two-fold  temptation  of  being  at 
once  neglected  by  her  husband,  and  exhibited  as 
an  object  of  attraction  to  other  men.  If  she 
escape  this  complicated  danger,  she  will  be  in¬ 
debted  for  her  preservation  not  to  his  prudence, 
but  to  her  own  principles. 

In  some  of  these  modish  marriages,  instead 
of  the  decorous  neatness,  the  pleasant  inter¬ 
course,  and  the  mutual  warmth  of  communica¬ 
tion  of  the  once  social  dinner  ;  the  late  and  un¬ 
interesting  meal  is  commonly  hurried  over  by 
the  languid  and  slovenly  pair,  that  the  one  may 
have  time  to  dross  for  his  club,  and  the  other 
for  her  party.  And  in  these  cold  abstracted 
tetes-a-tetes,  they  often  take  as  little  pains  to 
entertain  each  other,  as  if  the  one  was  precisely 
the  only  human  being  in  the  world  in  whose 
eyes  the  other  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  appear 
agreeable. 

Now  if  these  young,  and  perhaps  really 
amiable  persons  could  struggle  against  the  im¬ 
perious  tyranny  of  fashion,  and  contrive  to  pass 


a  little  time  together,  so  as  to  get  acquainted 
with  each  other;  and  if  each  would  live  in  the 
lively  and  conscientious  exercise  of  those  talents 
and  attractions  which  they  sometimes  know  how 
to  produce  on  occasions  not  quite  so  justifiable ; 
they  would,  I  am  persuaded,  often  find  out  each 
other  to  be  very  agreeable  people.  And  both 
of  them,  delighted  and  delighting,  receiving  and 
bestowing  happiness,  would  no  longer  be  driven 
to  the  necessity  of  perpetually  escaping  from 
home  as  from  the  only  scene  which  offers  no 
possible  materials  for  pleasure.  The  steady 
and  growing  attachment,  improved  by  unbound¬ 
ed  confidence  and  mutual  interchange  of  senti¬ 
ments  ;  judgment  ripening,  and  experience 
strengthening  that  esteem  which  taste  and  in¬ 
clination  first  inspired  ;  each  party  studying  to 
promote  the  eternal  as  well  as  temporal  happi¬ 
ness  of  the  other;  each  correcting  the  errors, 
improving  the  principles  and  confirming  the 
faith  of  the  beloved  object ;  this  would  enrich  the 
feeling  heart  with  gratifications  which  the  in¬ 
solvent  world  has  not  to  bestow  :  such  an  heart 
would  compare  its  interesting  domestic  scenes 
with  the  vapid  pleasures  of  public  resort,  till  it 
would  fly  to  its  own  home,  not  from  necessity 
hut  from  taste ;  not  from  custom,  but  choice  ; 
not  from  duty,  but  delight. 

It  may  seem  a  contradiction  to  have  asserted, 
that  beings  of  all  ages,  tempers  and  talents, 
should  with  such  unremitting  industry  follow 
up  any  way  of  life,  if  they  did  not  find  some 
enjoyment  in  it :  yet  I  appeal  to  the  bosoms  of 
these  incessant  hunters  in  the  chase  of  pleasure, 
whether  they  are  really  happy.  No: — in  the 
full  tide  and  torrent  of  diversion,  in  the  full 
blaze  of  gayety  and  splendor. 

The  heart,  distrusting,  asks  if  this  be  joy  ? 

But  there  is  an  anxious  restlessness  excited  by 
the  pursuit,  which,  if  not  interesting,  is  bust¬ 
ling.  There  is  the  dread,  and  partly  the  dis¬ 
credit,  of  being  suspected  of  having  one  hour 
unmortgaged,  not  only  to  successive,  but  con¬ 
tending  engagements;  this  it  is,  and  not  the 
pleasure  of  the  engagement  itself,  which  is  the 
object — There  is  an  agitation  in  the  arrange¬ 
ments  which  imposes  itself  on  the  vacant  heart 
for  happiness.  There  is  a  tumult  kept  up  in 
the  spirits  which  is  a  busy  though  treacherous 
substitute  for  comfort. — The  multiplicity  of 
solicitations  sooths  vanity.  The  very  regret 
that  they  cannot  be  all  accepted  has  its  charms ; 
for  dignity  is  flattered  because  refusal  implies 
importance,  and  pre-engagement  intimates  cele¬ 
brity.  Then  there  is  the  joy  of  being  invited 
when  others  are  neglected  ;  the  triumph  of  show¬ 
ing  our  less  modish  friend  that  we  are  going 
where  she  cannot  come ;  and  the  feigned  regret 
at  being  obliged  to  go,  assumed  before  her  who  is 
half  wild  at  being  obliged  to  stay  away. — There 
is  the  secret  art  of  exciting  envy  in  the  very  act 
of  bespeaking  compassion ;  and  of  challenging 
respect  by  representing  their  engagement!  as 
duties,  oppressive  indeed  but  indispensable. — 
These  are  some  of  the  supplemental  shifts  for 
happiness  with  which  Vanity  contrives  to  feed 
licr  hungry  followers,  too  eager  to  be  nice.* 

•  The  precaution  which  is  taken  against  the  possibi 
lity  of  being  unengaged  by  tlie  long  interval  between 


392 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


In  the  succession  of  open  houses,  in  which 
pleasure  is  to  be  started  and  pursued  on  any 
given  night,  the  actual  place  is  never  taken  into 
the  aceount  of  enjoyment :  the  scene  of  which 
is  always  supposed  to  lie  in  any  place  where 
her  votaries  happen  not  to  be.  Pleasure  has  no 
present  tense :  but  in  the  house  which  her  pur¬ 
suers  have  just  quitted,  and  in  tlie  house  to 
which  they  are  just  hastening,  a  stranger  might 
conclude  the  slippery  goddess  had  really  fixed 
her  throne,  and  that  her  worshippers  considered 
the  existing  scene,  which  they  seem  compelled 
to  suffer,  but  from  which  they  are  eager  to  es- 
cape,  as  really  detaining  them  from  some  posi¬ 
tive  joy  to  which  they  are  flying  in  the  next 
crowd  ;  till,  if  he  met  them  there,  he  would  find 
the  component  parts  of  each  precisely  the  same. 
He  would  hear  the  same  stated  phrases  inter¬ 
rupted,  not  answered,  by  the  same  stated  replies, 
the  unfinished  sentence  ‘  driven  adverse  to  the 
winds,’  by  pressing  multitudes  ;  the  same  warm 
regret  mutually  exchanged  by  two  friends  (who 
had  expressly  denied  to  each  other  all  the  win¬ 
ter)  that  they  had  not  met  before  ;  the  same  soft 
and  smiling  sorrow  at  being  torn  away  from 
each  other  now ;  the  same  avowed  anxiety  to 
renew  the  meeting,  with  perhaps  the  same  se¬ 
cret  resolution  to  avoid  it.  He  would  hear  de¬ 
scribed  with  the  same  pathetic  earnestness  the 
difficulties  of  getting  into  this  house,  and  the 
dangers  of  getting  out  of  the  last !  the  perilous 
retreat  of  former  nights,  effected  amidst  the 
shock  of  chariots,  and  the  clang  of  contending 
coachmen  !  a  retreat  indeed  effected  with  a  skill 
and  peril  little  inferior  to  that  of  the  ten  thousand, 
and  detailed  with  far  juster  triumph :  for  that 
which  happened  only  once  in  a  life  to  the  Gre¬ 
cian  hero,  occurs  to  these  British  heroines  every 
night.  There  is  one  point  of  resemblance,  in¬ 
deed,  between  them,  in  which  the  comparison 
fails;  for  the  commander  with  a  mauvaise  honte 
at  which  a  true  female  veteran  would  blush,  is 
remarkable  for  never  naming  himself. 

With  ‘  mysterious  reverence’  I  forbear  to  des¬ 
cant  on  those  serious  and  interesting  rites,  for 
the  more  august  and  solemn  celebration  of 
which.  Fashion  nightly  convenes  these  splendid 
myriads  to  her  more  sumptuous  temples.  Rites ! 
which,  when  engaged  in  with  due  devotion,  ab¬ 
sorb  the  whole  soul,  and  call  every  passion  into 
exorcise,  except  indeed  those  of  love,  and  peace, 
and  kindness,  and  gentleness.  Inspiring  rites  ! 
which  stimulate  fear,  rouse  hope,  kindle  zeal, 
quicken  dulness,  sharpen  discernment,  exercise 
memory,  inflame  curiosity  !  Rites  !  in  short,  in 
the  due  performance  of  which  all  the  energies 
and  attentions,  all  the  powers  and  abilities,  all 
the  abstraction  and  exertion,  all  the  diligence 
and  devotedness,  all  the  sacrifice  of  time,  all  the 
contempt  of  ease,  all  the  neglect  of  sleep,  all  the 
oblivion  of  care,  all  the  risks  of  fortune  (half  of 
which,  if  directed  to  their  true  objects,  would 
cl^ange  the  very  face  of  the  world)  all  these  are 
concentrated  to  one  point ;  a  {joint  in  which  the 
wise  and  the  weak,  the  learned  and  the  igno- 

tlio  invitation  and  the  period  of  its  accomplishment,  re¬ 
minds  us  of  what  historians  remark  of  the  citizens  of 
ancient  Crotona,  who  used  to  send  their  invitations 
a  year  before  the  time,  that  the  guests  might  prepare 
both  their  dress  and  tlieir  appetite  for  the  visit. 


rant,  the  fair  and  the  frightful,  the  sprightly  and 
the  dull,  the  rich  and  the  poor,  the  patrician  and 
the  plebian,  meet  in  one  common  and  uniforirt 
equality;  an  equality  as  religiously  respected 
in  these  solemnities,  in  which  all  distinctions 
are  levelled  at  a  blow  (and  of  which  the  very 
spirit  therefore  is  dernocratical)  as  it  is  combat¬ 
ted  in  all  other  instances. 

Behold  four  kings,  in  majesty  rever’d, 

With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forked  beard 

And  four  fair  queens,  whose  hands  sustain  a  flow’r,. 

The  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  pow’r ; 

Four  knaves  in  garbs  succint,  a  trusty  band. 

Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberts  in  their  band; 

And  party-colour’d  troops,  a  shining  train. 

Drawn  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain.* 


CHAP.  XVIII. 

On  public  amusements. 

It  is  not  proposed  to  enter  the  long  contested 
field  of  controversy  as  to  the  individual  amuse¬ 
ments  which  may  be  considered  as  safe  and 
lawful  for  those  women  of  the  higher  class  who 
make  a  strict  profession  of  Christianity.  The 
judgment  they  will  be  likely  to  form  for  them¬ 
selves  on  the  subject,  and  the  plan  they  will 
consequently  adopt,  will  depend  much  on  the 
clearness  or  obscurity  of  their  religious  views, 
and  on  the  greater  or  less  progress  they  have 
made  in  their  Christian  course.  It  is  in  their 
choice  of  amusements  that  you  are  able,  in  some 
measure  to  get  acquainted  with  the  real  disposi¬ 
tions  of  mankind.  In  their  business,  in  the 
leading  employments  of  life,  their  path  is  in  a 
good  degree  chalked  out  for  them  :  there  is  in 
this  respect  a  sort  of  general  character  ;  wherein 
the  greater  part,  more  or  less,  must  coincide.. 
But  in  their  pleasures  the  choice  is  voluntary, 
the  taste  is  self-directed,  the  propensity  is  inde¬ 
pendent  ;  and  of  course  the  habitual  state,  the 
genuine  bent  and  bias  of  the  tem{)er,  are  most 
likely  to  be  seen  in  those  pursuits  which  every 
person  is  at  liberty  to  choose  for  himself. 

When  a  truly  religious  principle  shall  have 
acquired  such  a  degree  of  force  as  to  produce 
that  conscientious  and  habitual  improvement  of 
time  before  recommended,  it  will  discover  itself 
by  an  increasing  indifference  and  even  deadness 
to  those  pleasures  which  are  interesting  to  the 
world  at  large.  A  woman  under  the  {wedomi- 
nating  influence  of  such  a  principle,  will  begin 
to  discover  that  the  same  thing  which  in  itself 
is  innocent  may  yet  be  comparatively  wrong. 
She  will  begin  to  feel  that  there  are  many 
amusements  and  employments  which,  though 
they  have  nothing  censurable  in  themselves,  yet 
if  they  be  allowed  to  intrench  on  hours  which 
ought  to  be  dedicated  to  still  better  purposes ; 
or  if  they  are  protracted  to  an  undue  length  ;  or 
above  all,  if  by  softening  and  relaxing  her  mind 
and  dissipating  her  spirits,  they  so  indispose  her 
for  better  pursuits  as  to  render  subsequent  duties 
a  burden,  they  become  in  that  case  clearly  wrong 
for  her,  whatever  they  may  be  for  others.  Now 
as  temptations  of  this  sort  are  the  peculiar  dan¬ 
gers  of  better  kind  of  characters,  the  sacrifice  of 
such  little  gratifications  as  may  have  no  great 
*  Rape  of  tbe  Ixick 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


3&3 


harm  in  them,  come  in  among  the  daily  calls  to 
self-denial  in  a  Christian. 

The  fine  arts,  for  instanee,  polite  literature, 
elegant  society,  these  are  among  the  lawftil,  and 
liberal,  and  becoming  recreations  of  higher  life ; 
yet  if  even  these  be  cultivated  to  the  neglect  or 
exclusion  of  severer  duties ;  if  they  interfere 
with  serious  studies,  or  disqualify  the  mind  for 
religious  exercises,  it  is  an  intimation  that  they 
have  been  too  much  indulged,  and  under  such 
circumstances,  it  might  be  the  part  of  Christian 
circumspection  to  inquire  if  the  time  devoted  to 
them  ought  not  to  be  abridged.  Above  all,  a 
tender  conscience  will  never  lose  sight  of  one 
safe  rule  of  determining  in  all  doubtful  cases  : 
if  the  point  be  so  nice  that  though  we  hope  upon 
the  whole  there  may  be  no  harm  in  engaging  in 
it,  we  may  at  least  be  always  quite  sure  that 
there  can  be  no  harm  in  letting  it  alone.  The 
adoption  of  this  simple  rule  would  put  a  period 
to  much  unprofitable  casuistry. 

The  principle  of  being  responsible  for  the  use 
of  time  once  fixed  in  the  mind,  the  conscientious 
Christian  will  be  making  a  continual  progress 
in  the  great  art  of  turning  time  to  account.  In 
the  first  stages  of  her  religion  she  will  have  ab¬ 
stained  from  pleasures  which  began  a  little  to 
wound  the  conscience,  or  which  assumed  a  ques¬ 
tionable  shape  ;  but  she  will  probably  have  ab¬ 
stained  with  regret,  and  with  a  secret  wish  that 
conscience  coidd  have  permitted  her  to  keep 
well  with  pleasure  and  religion  too.  But  you 
may  discern  in  her  subsequent  course  that  she 
has  reached  a  more  advanced  stage,  by  her  be¬ 
ginning  to  neglect  even  such  pleasures  or  em¬ 
ployments  as  have  no  moral  turpitude  in  them, 
but  are_  merely  what  are  called  innocent.  This 
relinquishment  arises,  not  so  much  from  her 
feeling  still  more  the  restraints  of  religion,  as 
from  the  improvement  in  her  religious  taste. 
Pleasures  cannot  now  attach  her  merely  from 
being  innocent,  unless  they  are  likewise  inte¬ 
resting,  and  to  be  interesting  they  must  be  con¬ 
sonant  to  her  superinduced  views.  She  is  not 
contented  to  spend  a  large  portion  of  her  time 
harmlessly,  it  must  be  spent  profitably  also. 
Nay,  if  she  be  indeed  earnestly  ‘  pressing  to¬ 
wards  the  mark,’  it  will  not  be  even  enough  for 
her  that  her  present  pursuit  be  good  if  she  be 
convinced  that  it  might  be  still  better.  Her 
contempt  of  ordinary  enjoyments  will  increase 
in  a  direct  proportion  to  her  increased  relish  for 
those  pleasures  which  religion  enjoms  and  be¬ 
stows.  So  that  at  length  if  it  were  possible  to 
suppose  that  an  angel  could  come  down  to  take 
off  as  it  were  the  interdict,  and  to  invite  her  to 
resume  all  the  pleasures  she  had  renounced,  and 
to  resume  them  with  complete  impunity  ;  she 
would  reject  the  invitation,  because,  from  an 
improvement  in  her  spiritual  taste,  she  would 
despise  those  delights  from  which  she  had  at 
first  abstained  through  fear.  Till  her  will  and 
affections  come  heartily  to  be  engaged  in  the 
service  of  God,  the  progress  will  not  be  com¬ 
fortable  ;  but  when  once  they  are  so  engaged, 
the  attachment  to  this  service  will  be  eordial, 
and  her  heart  will  not  desire  to  go  baek  and  toil 
again  in  Hhe  drudgery  of  the  world.  For  her 
religion  has  not  so  much  given  her  a  new  creed, 
as  a  new  heart,  and  a  new  life. 

VoL.  I. 


As  her  views  are  become  new,  so  her  tempers, 
dispositions,  tastes,  actions,  pursuits,  choice  of 
company,  choice  of  amusements,  are  new  also ; 
her  employment  of  time  is  changed,  her  turn  of 
conversation  is  altered ;  ‘  old  things  are  passed 
away,  all  things  are  become  new.’  In  dissipated 
and  worldly  society,  she  will  seldom  fail  to  feel 
a  sort  of  uneasiness,  which  will  produce  one  of 
these  two  effects  ;  she  will  either,  as  proper  sea>. 
sons  present  themselves,  struggle  hard  to  intro 
duce  such  subjects  as  may  be  useful  to  others, 
or,  supposing  that  she  finds  herself  unable  to 
effect  this,  she  will  as  far  as  she  prudently  can, 
absent  herself  from  all  unprofitable  kind  of  so¬ 
ciety.  Indeed  her  manner  of  conducting  her¬ 
self  under  these  circumstances  may  serve  to 
furnish  her  with  a  test  of  her  own  sincerity 
For  while  people  are  contending  for  a  little  more 
of  this  amusement,  and  pleading  for  a  little  ex¬ 
tension  of  that  gratification,  and  fighting  in  or¬ 
der  that  they  may  hedge  in  a  little  more  terri¬ 
tory  to  their  pleasure  ground,  they  are  exhibit*, 
ing  a  kind  of  evidence  against  themselves,  that 
they  are  not  yet  ‘  renewed  in  the  spirit  of  their 
mind.’ 

It  has  been  warmly  urged  as  an  objection  to 
certain  religious  books,  and  particularly  against 
a  recent  work  of  high  worth  and  celebrity,  by  a 
distinguished  layman,*  that  they  have  set  the 
standard  of  self-denial  highef  than  reason  or 
even  than  Christianity  requires.  The  works  do 
indeed  elevate  the  general  tone  of  religion  to  a 
higher  pitch  than  is  quite  eonvenient  to  those 
who  are  at  infinite  pains  to^construct  a  comfort¬ 
able  and  comprehensive  plan  which  shall  unite 
the  questionable  pleasures  of  this  world  with  the 
promised  happiness  of  the  next.  I  say  it  has 
been  sometimes  objected,  even  by  those  readers 
who,  on  the  whole,  greatly  admire  the  particular 
work  alluded  to,  that  it  is  unreasonably  strict  in 
the  preceptive  and  prohibitory  parts ;  and  espe¬ 
cially  that  it  individually  and  specifically  for¬ 
bids  certain  fashionable  amusements,  with  a  se. 
verity  not  to  be  found  in  the  Scriptures  ;  and  is 
scrupulously  rigid  in  condemning  diversions 
against  which  nothing  is  said  in  the  New  Tes- 
tament.  Each  objector,  however,  is  so  far  rea¬ 
sonable,  as  only  to  beg  quarter  for  her  own  fa¬ 
vourite  diversion,  and  generously  abandons  the 
defence  of  those  in  which  she  herself  has  no 
particular  pleasure. 

But  these  objectors  do  not  seem  to  understand 
the  true  genius  of  Christianity.  They  do  not 
consider  that  it  is  the  character  of  the  gospel  to 
exhibit  a  scheme  of  principles,  of  which  it  is 
the  tendency  to  infuse  such  a  spirit  of  holiness 
as  must  be  utterly  incompatible,  not  only  with 
customs  decidedly  vicious,  but  with  the  very 
spirit  of  worldly  pleasure.  They  do  not  consider 
that  Christianity  is  neither  a  table  of  ethics,  nor 
a  system  of  opinions,  nor  a  bundle  of  rods  to 
punish,  nor  an  exhibition  of  rewards  to  allure, 
nor  a  scheme  of  restraints  to  terrify,  nor  merely 
a  code  of  laws  to  restrict ;  but  it  is  a  new  prin- 
ciple  infused  into  the  heart  by  the  word  and  the 
Spirit  of  God ;  out  of  which  principle  will  in¬ 
evitably  grow  right  opinions,  renewed  affections, 
correct  morals,  pure  desires,  heavenly  tempers, 
and  holy  habits,  with  an  invariable  desire  of 
*  Practical  View,  &c.  by  Mr  Wilbcrlbrce. 


394 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


pleasing  God,  and  a  constant  fear  of  offending 
him.  A  real  Christian  whose  heart  is  thorough¬ 
ly  imbued  with  this  principle,  can  no  more  re¬ 
turn  to  the  amusements  of  the  world,  than  a 
philosopher  can  be  refreshed  with  the  diversions 
of  the  vulgar,  or  a  man  be  amused  with  the  re¬ 
creations  of  a  child.  The  New  Testament  is 
not  a  mere  statute  book :  it  is  not  a  table  where 
every  offence  is  detailed,  and  its  corresponding 
penalty  annexed  :  it  is  not  so  much  a  compila¬ 
tion,  as  a  spirit  of  laws :  it  does  not  so  much 
prohibit  every  individual  wrong  practice,  as 
suggest  a  temper  and  implant  a  general  princi¬ 
ple  with  which  every  wrong  practice  is  incom¬ 
patible.  It  did  not,  for  instance,  so  much  attack 
the  then  reigning  and  corrupt  fashions,  which 
were  probably  like  the  fashions  of  other  coun¬ 
tries,  temporary  and  local,  as  it  struck  at  the 
worldliness,  which  is  the  root  and  stock  from 
which  all  corrupt  fashions  proceed. 

The  prophet  Isaiah,  who  addressed  himself 
more  particularly  to  the  Israelitish  women,  in¬ 
veighed  not  only  against  vanity,  luxury,  and 
immodesty,  in  general;  but  with  great  propriety 
censured  even  those  precise  instances  of  each, 
to  which  the  women  of  rank,  in  the  particular 
country  he  was  addressing,  were  especially  ad¬ 
dicted  ;  nay,  he  enters  into  the  minute  detail* 
of  their  very  personal  decorations,  and  brings 
specific  charges  against  several  instances  of 
their  levity  and  extravagance  of  apparel ;  mean¬ 
ing,  however,  chiefly  to  censure  the  turn  of  cha¬ 
racter  which  these  indicated.  But  the  gospel 
of  Christ,  which  was  to  be  addressed  to  all  ages, 
stations,  and  countries,  seldom  contains  any  such 
detailed  animadversions ;  for  though  many  of 
the  censurable  modes  which  the  prophet  so  se¬ 
verely  reprobated,  continued  probably  to  be  still 
prevalent  in  Jerusalem  in  the  days  of  our  Sa¬ 
viour,  yet  how  little  would  it  have  suited  the 
universality  of  his  mission,  to  have  confined  his 
preaching  to  such  local,  limited  and  fluctuating 
customs!  not  but  there  are  many  texts  which 
actually  do  define  the  Christian  conduct  as  well 
as  temper,  with  sufficient  particularity  to  serve 
as  a  condemnation  of  many  practices  which  are 
pleaded  for,  and  often  to  point  pretty  directly  at 
them. 

It  would  be  well  for  those  modish  Christians 
who  vindicate  excessive  vanity  in  dress,  expense, 
and  decoration,  on  the  principle  of  their  being 
mere  matters  of  indifference,  and  no  where  pro¬ 
hibited  in  the  gospel,  to  consider  that  such  prac¬ 
tices  strongly  mark  the  temper  and  spirit  with 
which  they  are  connected,  and  in  that  view  are 
so  little  creditable  to  the  Christian  profession, 
as  to  furnish  a  just  subject  of  suspicion  against 
the  piety  of  those  who  indulge  in  them. 

Had  Peter,  on  that  memorable  day  when  he 
added  three  thousand  converts  to  the  church  by 
a  single  sermon,  narrowed  his  subject  to  a  re¬ 
monstrance  against  this  diversion,  or  that  pub¬ 
lic  place,  or  the  other  vain  amusement,  it  might 
indeed  have  suited  the  case  of  some  of  the  fe¬ 
male  Jewish  converts  who  were  present,  but 
fluch  restrictions  as  might  have  been  appropri¬ 
ate  to  them,  would  probably  not  have  applied  to 
the  cases  of  the  Parthians  and  the  Medes,  of 
which  his  audience  was  partly  composed’  or  such 
*  Isaiah,  chap.  iii. 


as  might  have  belonged  to  tliom,  would  have 
been  totally  inapplicable  to  the  Cretes  and  Ara¬ 
bians  ;  or  again,  those  which  suited  these  would 
not  have  applied  to  the  Elamites  and  Mesapota- 
mians.  By  such  partial  and  circumscribed  ad¬ 
dresses,  his  multifarious  audience,’Com  posed  of 
all  nations  and  countries,  would  not  have  been, 
as  we  are  told  they  were,  ‘  pricked  to  the  heart.' 
But  when  he  preached  on  the  broad  ground  of 
general  ‘  repentance  and  remission  of  sins  in 
the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,’  it  was  no  wonder 
that  they  all  cried  out,  ‘  What  shall  we  do  ?’ 
These  collected  foreigners,  at  their  return  home, 
must  have  found  very  different  usages  to  be  cor¬ 
rected  in  their  different  countries ;  of  course  a 
detailed  restriction  of  the  popular  abusbs  at  Je¬ 
rusalem,  would  have  been  of  little  use  to  stran¬ 
gers  returning  to  their  respective  nations.  The 
ardent  apostle,  therefore,  acted  more  consistent¬ 
ly  in  communicating  to  them  the  large  and 
comprehensive  spirit  of  the  gospel  which  should 
at  once  involve  all  their  scattered  and  separate 
duties,  as  well  as  reprove  all  their  scattered  and 
separate  corruptions,  for  the  whole  always  in¬ 
cludes  a  part,  and  the  greater  involves  the  less. 
Christ  and  his  disciples,  instead  of  limiting  their 
condemnation  to  the  peculiar  vanities  reprehend¬ 
ed  by  Isaiah,  embraced  the  very  soul  and  prin¬ 
ciple  of  them  all,  in  such  exhortations  as  the 
following :  ‘  Be  ye  not  conformed  to  the  world 
— ‘  If  a  man  love  the  world,  the  love  of  the 
Father  is  not  in  him  — ‘  The  fashion  of  this 
world  passeth  away.’  Our  Lord  and  his  apos¬ 
tles,  whose  future  unselected  audience  was 
to  be  made  up  out  of  the  various  inhabitants  of 
the  whole  world,  attacked  the  evil  heart,  out  of 
which  all  those  incidental,  local,  peculiar,  and 
popular  corruptions  proceeded. 

In  the  time  of  Christ  and  his  immediate  fol¬ 
lowers,  the  luxury  and  intemperance  of  the  Ro¬ 
mans  had  arisen  to  a  pitch  before  unknown  in 
the  world ;  but  as  the  same  gospel,  which  its 
Divine  Author  and  his  disciples  were  then 
preaching  to  the  hungry  and  necessitous,  was 
afterwards  to  be  preached  to  high  and  low,  not 
excepting  the  Roman  emperors  themselves ;  the 
large  precept,  ‘  Whether  ye  eat  or  drink,  or 
whatever  you  do,  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God,’ 
was  likely  to  be  of  more  general  use,  than  any 
separate  exhortation  to  temperance,  to  thank¬ 
fulness,  to  moderation,  as  to  quantity  or  expense; 
which  last  indeed  must  always  be  left  in  some 
degree  to  the  judgment  and  eircumstances  of 
the  individual. 

When  the  apostle  of  the  Gentiles  visited  the 
‘  Saints  of  Cmsar’s  household,’  he  could  hardly 
fail  to  have  heard,  nor  could  he  have  heard 
without  abhorrence,  of  some  of  the  fashionable 
amusements  in  the  court  of  Nero.  He  must 
have  reflected  with  peculiar  indignation  on 
many  things  which  were  practised  in  the  Cir- 
censian  games ;  yet,  instead  of  pruning  this  cor¬ 
rupt  tree,  and  singling  out  even  the  inhuman 
gladiatorial  sports  for  the  object  of  his  condem¬ 
nation,  he  laid  his  axe  to  the  root  of  all  corrup¬ 
tion,  by  preaching  to  them  that  Gospel  of  Christ 
of  which  ‘  he  was  not  ashamed,’  and  showing  to 
them  that  believed,  that  ‘  it  was  the  power  of 
God  and  the  wisdom  of  God.’  Of  this  gospel 
the  great  object  was,  to  attack  not  one  popular 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


395 


wil,  but  the  wliole  body  of  sin.  Now  the  doc¬ 
trine  of  Christ  crucified,  was  the  most  appropri¬ 
ate  means  for  destroying  this ;  for  by  what 
other  means  could  the  fervid  imagination  of  the 
apostle  have  so  powerfully  enforced  the  heinous¬ 
ness  of  sin,  as  by  insisting  on  the  costliness  of 
the  sacrifice  which  was  offered  Tor  its  expiation? 
It  is  somewhat  remarkable,  that  about  the  very 
time  of  his  preaching  to  the  Romans,  the  public 
taste  had  sunk  to  such  an  excess  of  depravity, 
that  the  very  women  engaged  in  those  shocking 
encounters  with  the  gladiators. 

But  in  the  first  place,  it  was  better  that  the 
right  practice  of  his  hearers  should  grow  out  of 
the  right  principle ;  and  next,  his  specifically 
reprobating  these  diversions  might  have  had  this 
ill-effect,  that  succeeding  ages,  seeing  that  they 
in  their  amusements  came  somewhat  short  of 
those  dreadful  excesses  of  the  polished  Romans, 
would  only  have  plumed  themselves  on  their 
own  comparative  superiority ;  and  on  this  prin¬ 
ciple,  even  the  bull  fights  of  Madrid  might  in 
time  have  had  their  panegyrists.  The  truth  is, 
the  apostle  knew  that  such  abominable  corrup¬ 
tions  could  never  subsist  together  with  Chris¬ 
tianity,  and  in  fact  the  honour  of  abolishing 
these  barbarous  diversions,  was  reserved  for 
Constantine,  the  first  Christian  emperor. 

Besides,  the  apostles,  by  inveighing  against 
some  particular  diversions  might  have  seemed 
to  sanction  all  which  they  did  not  actually  cen¬ 
sure  :  and  as,  in  the  lapse  of  time,  and  the  revo¬ 
lution  of  governments,  customs  change  and  man¬ 
ners  fluctuate,  had  a  minute  reprehension  of  the 
fashions  of  the  then  existing  age  been  published 
in  the  New  Testament,  that  portion  of  scrip¬ 
ture  must  in  time  have  become  obsolete,  even  in 
that  very  same  country,  when  the  fashions 
themselves  should  have  changed.  Paul  and  his 
brother  apostles  knew  that  their  epistles  would 
be  the  oracles  of  the  Christian  world,  when  these 
temporary  diversions  would  be  forgotten.  In 
consequence  of  this  knowledge,  by  the  universal 
precept  to  avoid  ‘  the  lust  of  the  flesh,  the  lust 
of  the  eye,  and  the  pride  of  life  they  have  pre¬ 
pared  a  lasting  antidote  against  the  principle  of 
all  corrupt  pleasures,  which  will  ever  remain 
equally  applicable  to  the  loose  fashions  of  all 
ages,  and  of  every  country,  to  the  end  of  the 
world. 

Therefore,  to  vindicate  diversions  which  are 
in  themselves  unchristian,  on  the  pretended 
ground  that  they  are  not  specifically  condemned 
in  the  gospel,  would  be  little  less  absurd  than  if 
the  heroes  of  Newmarket  should  bring  it  as  a 
proof  that  their  periodical  meetings  are  not  con¬ 
demned  in  scripture,  because  St.  Paul,  when 
writing  to  the  Corinthians,  did  not  speak  against 
these  diversions ;  and  that  in  availing  himself 
of  the  Isthmian  games,  as  a  happy  illustration 
of  the  Christian  race,  he  did  not  drop  any  cen¬ 
sure  on  the  practice  itself :  a  practice  which 
was  indeed  as  much  more  pure  than  the  races 
of  Christian  Britain,  as  the  moderation  of  being 
contented  with  the  triumph  of  a  crown  of  leaves, 
is  superior  to  that  criminal  spirit  of  gambling 
which  iniquitously  enriches  the  victor  by  beg¬ 
garing  the  competitor. 

Local  abuses,  as  we  have  said,  were  not  the 
-object  of  a  book  whose  instructions  wore  to  be 


of  universal  and  lasting  application.  As  a  proof 
of  this,  little  is  said  in  the  gospel  of  the  then 
prevailing  corruption  of  polygamy ;  nothing 
against  the  savage  custom  of  exposing  children, 
or  even  against  slavery ;  nothing  expressly 
against  suicide  or  duelling  ;  the  last  Gothic  cus 
tom,  indeed,  did  not  exist  among  the  crimes  of 
Paganism.  But  is  there  not  implied  a  prohibi¬ 
tion  against  polygamy,  in  the  general  denunci¬ 
ation  against  adultery?  Is  not  exposing  of  chil¬ 
dren  condemned  in  that  charge  against  the  Ro 
mans,  that  ‘  they  were  without  natural  affection?’ 
Is  there  not  a  strong  censure  against  slavery 
conveyed  in  the  command,  to  ‘  do  unto  others 
as  you  would  have  them  do  unto  you  V  and 
against  suicide  and  duelling,  in  the  general  pro¬ 
hibition  against  murder,  which  is  strongly  en¬ 
forced  and  affectingly  amplified  by  the  solemn 
manner  in  which  murder  is  traced  back  to  its 
first  seed  of  anger  in  the  sermon  on  the  mount  ? 

Thus  it  is  clear,  that  when  Christ  sent  the 
gospel  to  all  nations,  he  meant  that  that  gospel 
should  proclaim  those  prime  truths,  general 
laws,  and  fundamental  doctrines,  which  must 
necessarily  involve  the  prohibition  of  all  indi¬ 
vidual,  local,  and  inferior  errors  ;  errors  which 
could  not  have  been  specifically  guarded  against, 
without  having  a  distinct  gospel  for  every  coun¬ 
try,  or  without  swelling  the  divine  volume  into 
such  inconvenient  length  as  would  have  defeat¬ 
ed  one  great  end  of  its  promulgation,*  And 
while  its  leading  principles  are  of  universal  ap¬ 
plication,  it  must  always,  in  some  measure,  be 
left  to  the  discretion  of  the  preacher,  and  to  the 
conscience  of  the  hearer,  to  examine  whether 
the  life  and  habits  of  those  who  profess  it,  are 
conformable  to  its  main  spirit  and  design. 

The  same  Divine  Spirit  which  indited  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  is  promised  to  purify  the  hearts 
and  renew  the  natures  of  repenting  and  believ¬ 
ing  Christians ;  and  the  compositions  it  inspired, 
are  in  some  degree  analogous  to  the  workman¬ 
ship  it  effects.  It  prohibited  the  vicious  prac¬ 
tices  of  the  apostolical  days,  by  prohibiting  the 
passions  and  principles  which  render  them  gra¬ 
tifying  ;  and  still  working  in  like  manner  on  the 
hearts  of  real  Christians,  it  corrects  the  taste 
which  was  accustomed  to  find  its  proper  grati¬ 
fication  in  the  resorts  of  vanity ;  and  thus  effec¬ 
tually  provides  for  the  reformation  of  the  habits, 
and  infuses  a  relish  for  rational  and  domestic 
enjoyments,  and  for  whatever  can  administer 
pleasure  to  that  spirit  of  peace,  and  love,  and 
hope,  and  joy,  which  animates  and  rules  the  re¬ 
newed  heart  of  the  true  Christian. 

But  there  is  a  portion  of  scripture  which, 
though  to  a  superficial  reader  it  may  seem  but 
very  lemotely  connected  with  the  present  sub¬ 
ject,  yet  to  readers  of  another  cast,  seems  to  set¬ 
tle  the  matter  beyond  controversy.  In  the  pa- 
rable  of  the  grfet  supper,  this  important  truth  is 
held  out  to  us,  that  even  things  good  in  themselves, 
may  be  the  means  of  our  eternal  ruin;  by  drawing 
our  hearts  from  God,  and  causing  us  to  make 
light  of  the  offers  of  the  gospel.  One  invited  guest 
had  bought  an  estate,  another  had  made  a  pur- 
chase,equally  blameless,  of  oxen;  a  tliird  had  mar¬ 
ried  a  wife,  an  act  not  illaudable  in  itself.  They 

•  ‘  To  the  poor  tlie  gospel  is  preached,’ — Luke  vii.  22. 


396 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


had  all  different  reasons,  none  of  which  appeared 
to  have  aniy  moral  turpitude;  but  they  alt  agree  in 
this,  to  decline  the  invitation  to  the  supper.  The 
worldly  possessions  of  one,  the  worldly  business 
of  another,  and  what  should  be  particularly  at¬ 
tended  to,  the  love  to  his  dearest  relative,  of  a 
third,  (a  love  by  the  way,  not  only  allowed,  but 
commanded  in  Scripture)  were  brought  forward 
as  excuses  for  not  attending  to  the  important 
business  of  religion.  The  consequence,  how¬ 
ever,  was  the  same  to  all.  ‘  None  of  those  which 
were  bidden  shall  taste  of  my  supper.’  If  then 
things  innocent,  things  necessary,  things  lauda- 
lle,  things  commanded,  become  sinful,  when  by 
unseasonable  or  excessive  indulgence,  they  de¬ 
tain  the  heart  and  affections  from  God,  how  vain 
will  all  those  arguments  necessarily  be  render¬ 
ed,  which  are  urged  by  the  advocates  for  certain 
amusements,  on  the  ground  of  their  harmless¬ 
ness  ;  if  those  amusements  serve  (not  to  men¬ 
tion  any  positive  evil  which  may  belong  to  them) 
in  like  manner  to  draw  away  the  thoughts  and 
affections  from  all  spiritual  objects  ! 

To  conclude  ;  when  this  topic  happens  to  be¬ 
come  the  subject  of  conversation,  instead  of  ad¬ 
dressing  severe  and  pointed  attacks  to  young 
ladies  on  the  sin  of  attending  places  of  diversion, 
would  it  not  be  better  first  to  endeavour  to  ex¬ 
cite  in  them  that  principle  of  Christianity,  with 
which  such  diversions  seem  not  quite  compati¬ 
ble  ;  as  the  physician,  who  visits  a  patient  in  an 
eruptive  fever,  pays  little  attention  to  those  spots 
which  to  the  ignorant  appear  to  be  the  disease, 
except  indeed  so  far  as  they  serve  as  indications 
to  let  him  into  its  nature,  but  goes  straight  to 
the  root  of  the  malady  ?  He  attacks  the  fever,  he 
lowers  the  pulse,  lie  changes  the  system,  he  cor¬ 
rects  the  general  habit ;  well  knowing  that  if 
he  can  but  restore  the  vital  principle  of  health, 
the  spots,  which  were  nothing  but  symptoms, 
will  die  away  of  themselves. 

In  instructing  others,  we  should  imitate  our 
Lord  and  his  apostles,  and  not  always  aim  our 
blow  at  each  particular  corruption  ;  but  making 
it  our  business  to  convince  our  pupil  that  what 
brings  forth  the  evil  fruit  she  exhibits,  cannot 
be  a  branch  of  the  true  vine  ;  we  should  thus 
avail  ourselves  of  individual  corruptions,  for  im¬ 
pressing  her  with  a  sense  of  the  necessity  of 
purifying  the  common  source  from  whence  they 
flow — a  corrupt  nature.  Thus  making  it  our 
grand  business  to  rectify  the  heart,  we  pursue 
the  true,  the  compendious,  the  only  method  of 
producing  universal  holiness. 

I  would,  however,  take  leave  of  those  amiable 
and  not  ill-disposed  young  persons,  who  com¬ 
plain  of  the  rigour  of  human  prohibitions,  and 
declare,  ‘  they  meet  with  no  such  strictness  in 
the  Gospel,’  by  asking  them  with  the  most 
affectionate  earnestness,  if  they  can  conscien¬ 
tiously  reconcile  their  nightly*^attendance,  at 
every  public  place  which  they  frequent,  with 
such  precepts  as  the  following :  ‘  Redeeming  the 
time;’ — ‘Watch  and  pray:’ — ‘Watch,  for  ye 
know  not  at  what  time  your  Lord  cometh  :’ — 
‘Abstain  from  all  appearance  of  evil;’ — ‘Set 
your  affections  on  things  above  :’ — ‘  Be  ye 
spiritually  minded  :’ — ‘  Crucify  the  flesh  with 
its  affections  and  lusts  !’  And  I  would  venture 
to  offer  one  criterion,  by  which  the  persons  in 


question  may  be  enabled  to  decide  on  the  posi¬ 
tive  innocence  and  safety  of  such  diversions ;  I 
mean,  provided  they  are  sincere  in  their  scru¬ 
tiny  and  honest  in  their  avowal.  If,  on  their 
return  at  night  from  those  places,  they  find  they 
can  retire,  and  ‘  commune  with  their  own 
hearts  ;’  if  they  find  the  love  of  God  operating 
with  undiminishod  force  on  their  minds;  if  they 
can  ‘  bring  every  thought  into  subjection,’  and 
concentrate  every  wandering  imagination ;  if 
they  can  soberly  examine  into  their  own  state 
of  mind — : — I  do  not  say  if  they  can  do  all 
this  perfectly  and  without  distraction :  (for  who 
almost  can  do  this  at  any  time  7)  but  if  they  can 
do  it  with  the  same  degree  of  seriousness,  pray 
with  the  same  degree  of  fervour,  and  renounce 
the  world  in  as  great  a  measure  as  at  other 
times  ;  and  if  they  can  lie  down  with  a  peaceful 
consciousness  of  having  avoided  in  the  evening, 
‘  that  temptation’  which  they  had  prayed  not  to 
be  ‘  led  into’  in  the  morning,  they  may  then 
more  reasonably  hope  that  all  is  well,  and  that 
they  are  not  speaking  false  peace  to  their  hearts. 
— Again,  if  we  cannot  beg  the  blessing  of  our 
Maker  on  whatever  we  are  going  to  do  or  to 
enjoy,  is  it  not  an  unequivocal  proof  that  the 
thing  ought  not  to  he  done  or  enjoyed  ?  On  all 
the  rational  enjoyments  of  society,  on  all  health¬ 
ful  and  temperate  exercise,  on  the  delights  of 
friendship,  arts,  and  polished  letters,  on  the 
exquisite  pleasures  resulting  from  the  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  rural  scenery ;  and  the  beauties  of  na¬ 
ture  ;  on  the  innocent  participation  of  these  we 
may  ask  the  divine  favour — for  the  sober  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  these  we  may  thank  the  divine  benefi¬ 
cence  :  but  do  we  feel  equally  disposed  to  invoke 
blessings  or  return  praises  for  gratifications 
found  (to  say  no  worse)  in  levity,  in  vanity,  and 
waste  of  time  ? — If  these  tests  were  fairly  used ; 
if  these  experiments  were  honestly  tried ;  if 
these  examinations  were  conscientiously  made, 
may  we  not,  without  offence,  presume  to  ask 
— Could  our  numerous  places  of  public  resort, 
could  our  ever-multiplying  scenes  of  more  select 
but  not  less  dangerous  diversion,  nightly  over¬ 
flow  with  an  excess  hitherto  unparalleled  in  the 
annals  of  pleasure  ?* 

*  If  I  might  presume  to  recommend  a  book  which  of 
all  others  exposes  the  insignificance,  vanity,  littleness 
and  emptiness  of  the  world,  I  should  not  hesitate  to 
name  Mr.  Law’s  Serious  call  to  a  devout  and  holy  life.’ 
Few  writers  e.xcept  Pascal,  have  directed  so  much  acute¬ 
ness  of  reasoning  and  so  much  pointed  wit  to  this  object, 
lie  not  only  makes  the  reader  afraid  of  a  worldly  life 
on  account  of  its  sinfulness,  but  ashamed  of  it  on  ac¬ 
count  of  its  folly.  Few  men  perhaps  have  had  a  deeper 
insight  into  the  hunjan  heart,  or  have  more  skilfully 
probed  its  corruptions :  yet  on  points  of  doctrine  his 
views  do  not  seem  to  be  just ;  and  his  disquisitions  are 
often  unsound  and  fanciful,  so  that  a.  general  perusal  of 
his  works  would  neither  be  profitable  nor  intelligible.  To 
a  fashionable  woman  immersed  in  the  vanities  of  life, 
or  to  a  busy  man  overwhelmed  with  its  cares,  1  know 
no  book  so  applicable,  or  likely  to  e.xhibit  with  equal 
force  the  vanity  of  the  shadows  they  are  pursuing.  But 
even  in  this  work.  Law  is  not  a  safe  guide  to  evangeli¬ 
cal  light;  and  in  many  of  his  others  he  is  highly  vision¬ 
ary  and  whimsical :  and  I  have  known  some  exwllent 
persons  who  were  first  led  by  this  admirable  genius  to 
see  the  wants  of  their  own  hearts,  and  the  utter  in¬ 
sufficiency  of  the  world  to  fill  up  the  craving  void,  who, 
though  they  became  eminent  for  piety  and  self-denial, 
have  had  their  usefulness  abridged  ;  and  whoM  minds 
have  contracted  something  of  a  monastic  Mverity  by  an 
unqualified  perusal  of  Mr.  Law.  True  Christianity  does 
not  call  on  us  to  starve  our  bodies,  but  our  corruptions 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


397 


CHAP.  XIX. 

A  worldly  spirit  incompatible  with  the  spirit  of 
Christianity. 

Is  it  not  whimsical  to  hear  such  complaints 
against  the  strictness  of  religion  as  we  are  fre¬ 
quently  hearing,  from  the  beings  who  are  volun¬ 
tarily  pursuing,  as  has  been  shown  in  the  pre¬ 
ceding  chapters,  a  course  of  life  which  fashion 
makes  infinitely  more  severe.  How  really 
burdensome  would  Christianity  be  if  she  enjoin¬ 
ed  such  sedulous  application,  such  unremitting 
labours,  such  a  succession  of  fatigues !  If  re¬ 
ligion  commanded  such  hardships  and  self- 
denial,  such  days  of  hurry,  such  evenings  of 
exertion,  such  nights  of  broken  rest,  such  per- 
jietual  sacrifices  of  quiet,  such  exile  from  family 
delights,  as  fashion  imposes,  then  indeed  the 
service  of  Christianity  would  no  longer  merit  its 
present  appellation  of  being  a  ‘  reasonable  ser¬ 
vice  then  the  name  of  perfect  slavery  might 
be  justly  applied  to  that  which  we  are  told 
in  the  beautiful  language  of  our  church,  is 
‘  a  service  of  perfect  freedom a  service  the 
great  object  of  which  is  ‘  to  deliver  us  from  the 
bondage  of  corruption  into  the  glorious  liberty 
of  the  children  of  God-’ 

A  worldly  temper,  by  which  I  mean  a  dispo¬ 
sition  to  prefer  worldly  pleasures,  worldly  satis¬ 
factions,  and  worldly  advantages,  to  the  immor¬ 
tal  interests  of  the  soul;  and  to  let  worldly  con¬ 
siderations  actuate  us  instead  of  the  dictates  of 
religion  in  the  concerns  of  ordinary  life ;  a 
worldly  temper,  I  say,  is  not,  like  almost  any 
other  fault,  the  effect  of  passion  or  the  conse¬ 
quence  of  surprise,  when  the  heart  is  off  its 
guard.  It  is  not  excited  incidentally  by  the 
operation  of  external  circumstances  on  the  in¬ 
firmity  of  nature  :  but  it  is  the  vital  spirit,  the 
essential  soul,  the  living  principle  of  evil.  It  is 
not  so  much  an  act,  as  a  state  of  being  ;  not  so 
much  an  occasional  complaint,  as  a  tainted  con¬ 
stitution  of  mind.  It  does  not  always  show 
itself  in  extraordinary  excesses,  it  has  no  perfect 
intermission.  Even  when  it  is  not  immediately 
tempted  to  break  out  into  overt  and  specific 
acts,  it  is  at  work  within,  stirring  up  the  heart 
to  disaffection  against  holiness,  and  infusing  a 
kind  of  moral  disability  to  whatever  is  intrinsi¬ 
cally  right.  It  infects  and  depraves  all  the 
powers  and  faculties  of  the  soul ;  for  it  operates 
on  the  understanding,  by  blinding  it  to  what¬ 
ever  is  spiritually  good  ;  on  the  will,  by  making 
it  averse  from  God ;  on  the  affections,  by  dis¬ 
ordering  and  sensualizing  them ;  so  that  one 
may  almost  say  to  those  who  are  under  the  su¬ 
preme  dominion  of  this  spirit,  what  was  said  to 
the  hosts  of  Joshua,  ‘  Ye  cannot  serve  the  Lord.’ 

The  worldliness  of  mind  is  not  at  all  common¬ 
ly  understood,  and  for  the  following  reason  : — 
People  suppose  that  in  this  world,  our  chief 
business  is  with  the  things  of  this  world,  and  that 
to  conduct  the  business  of  this  world  well,  that  is 
conformably  to  moral  principles,  is  the  chief 
substance  of  moral  and  true  goodness.  Religion, 

As  the  mortifled  apostle  of  the  holy  and  self-denying 
Baptist,  preaching  repentance  hecause  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven  is  at  liand,  Mr.  Law  lias  no  superior.  As  a 
preacher  of  salvation  on  spiritual  grounds  I  would  fol¬ 
low  other  guides. 


if  introduced  at  all  into  the  system,  only  makes 
it  occasional,  and  if  I  may  so  speak  its  holyday 
appearance.  To  bring  religion  into  every  thing, 
is  thought  incompatible  with  the  due  attention 
to  the  things  of  this  life.  And  so  it  would  be, 
if  by  religion  were  meant  talking  about  reli- 
gion.  The  phrase,  therefore,  is:  ‘We  cannot 
always  be  praying  ;  we  must  mind  our  business 
and  our  social  duties  as  well  as  our  devotion.* 
Worldly  business  being  thus  subjected  to  world 
ly,  though  in  some  degree  moral,  maxims,  the 
mind  during  the  conduct  of  business  grows 
worldly ;  and  a  continually  increasing  worldly 
spirit  dims  the  sight  and  relaxes  the  moral  prin¬ 
ciple  on  which  the  affairs  of  the  world  are  con¬ 
ducted,  as  well  as  indisposes  the  mind  for  all  the 
exercises  of  devotion. 

But  this  temper  as  far  as  relates  to  business, 
so  much  assumes  the  semblance  of  goodness, 
that  those  who  have  not  the  right  views  are  apt 
to  mistake  the  carrying  on  the  affairs  of  life  on 
a  tolerable  moral  principle,  for  religion.  They 
do  not  see  that  the  evil  lies  not  in  their  so  carry 
ing  on  business,  but  in  their  not  carrying  on 
the  things  of  this  life  in  subserviency  to  the 
things  of  eternity ;  in  their  not  carrying  them 
on  with  the  unintermitting  idea  of  responsibi¬ 
lity.  The  evil  does  not  lie  in  their  not  being 
always  on  their  knees,  but  in  their  not  bringing 
their  religion  from  the  closet  into  the  world  :  in 
their  not  bringing  the  spirit  of  Sunday’s  devo¬ 
tions  into  the  transactions  of  the  week :  in  not 
transforming  their  religion  from  a  dry,  and 
speculative,  and  imperative  system,  into  a  lively, 
and  influential,  and  unceasing  principle  of  ac¬ 
tion. 

Though  there  are,  blessed  be  God  !  in  the 
most  exalted  stations,  women  who  adorn  their 
Christian  profession  by  a  consistent  conduct ; 
yet  are  there  not  others  who  are  labouring  hard 
to  unite  the  irreconcileable  interests  of  earth  and 
heaven  ?  who,  while  they  will  not  relinquish  one 
jot  of  what  this  world  has  to  bestow,  yet  by  no 
means  renounce  their  hopes  of  a  better  ?  who  do 
not  .think  it  unreasonable  that  their  indulging  in 
the  fullest  possession  of  present  pleasure  should 
interfere  with  the  most  certain  reversion  of  fu¬ 
ture  glory  ?  who,  after  living  in  the  most  un¬ 
bounded  gratification  of  ease,  vanity,  and  luxury, 
fancy  that  heaven  must  be  attached  of  course  to 
a  life  of  which  Christianity  is  the  outward  pro¬ 
fession  and  which  has  not  been  stained  by  any 
flagrant  or  dishonourable  act  of  guilt. 

Are  there  not  many  who,  while  they  enter¬ 
tain  a  respect  for  Religion  (for  I  address  not  the 
unbelieving  or  the  licentious)  while  they  believe 
its  truths,  observe  its  forms,  and  would  be 
shocked  not  to  be  thought  religious  are  yet  im¬ 
mersed  in  this  life  of  disqualifying  worldliness  ? 
who,  though  they  make  a  conscience  of  going 
to  the  public  worship  once  on  a  Sunday ;  and 
are  scrupulously  observant  of  the  other  rites 
of  the  church,  yet  hesitate  not  to  give  up  all 
the  rest  of  their  time  to  the  very  same  pur¬ 
suits  and  pleasures  which  occupy  the  hearts 
and  engross  the  lives  of  those  looser  charac¬ 
ters  whose  enjoyment  is  not  obstructed  by 
any  dread  of  a  future  account  ?  and  who  are 
acting  on  the  wise  principle  of  the  ‘children  of 
the  world,’  in  making  the  most  of  the  present 


398 


THE  WORKS  OF 


HANNAH  MORE. 


state  of  being  from  the  conviction  that  there  is 
no  other  to  be  expected. 

It  must  be  owned,  indeed,  that  faith  in  unseen 
things  is  at  times  lamentably  weak  and  defec¬ 
tive  even  in  the  truly  pious ;  and  that  it  is  so,  is 
the  subject  of  their  grief  and  humiliation.  O ! 
how  does  the  real  Christian  take  shame  in  the 
coldness  of  his  belief,  in  the  lowness  of  his  at¬ 
tainments  !  How  deeply  does  he  lament  that 
‘  when  he  would  do  good,  evil  is  present  with 
him  !’ — ‘  that  the  life  he  now  lives  in  the  flesh, 
is’  not,  in  the  degree  it  ought  to  be,  ‘  by  faith  in 
the  Son  of  God  !’  Yet  one  thing  is  clear ;  how¬ 
ever  weak  his  belief  may  seem  to  be,  it  is  evi¬ 
dent  that  his  actions  are  principally  governed 
by  it ;  he  evinces  his  sincerity  to  others  by  a  life 
in  some  good  degree  analogous  to  the  doctrines 
he  professes  ;  while  to  himself  he  has  at  least 
this  conviction,  that  faint  as  his  confidence  may 
be  at  times,  low  as  may  be  his  hope,  and  feeble 
as  his  faith  may  Beem,'yet  at  the  worst  of  times 
he  would  not  exchange  that  faint  measure  of 
trust  and  hope  for  all  the  actual  pleasures  and 
possessions  of  his  most  splendid  acquaintance  ; 
and  what  is  a  proof  of  liis  sincerity  he  never 
seeks  the  cure  of  his  dejection,  where  they  seek 
theirs,  in  this  world,  but  in  God. 

But  as  to  the  faith  of  worldly  persons,  how¬ 
ever  strong  it  may  be  in  speculation,  however 
orthodox  their  creed,  however  stout  their  pro¬ 
fession,  we  cannot  help  fearing  that  it  is  a  little 
defective  in  sincerity  :  for  if  there  were  in  their 
minds  a  full  persuasion  of  the  truth  of  Revela¬ 
tion,  and  of  the  eternal  bliss  it  promises,  would 
it  not  be  obvious  to  them  that  there  must  be 
more  diligence  for  its  attainment  ?  We  disco¬ 
ver  great  ardour  in  carrying  on  worldly  pro¬ 
jects,  because  we  believe  the  good  which  we  are 
pursuing  is  real,  and  will  reward  the  trouble  of 
the  pursuit ;  we  believe  iAat  good  is  to  be  at¬ 
tained  by  diligence,  and  we  prudently  proportion 
our  earnestness  to  this  conviction  ;  when  there¬ 
fore  we  see  persons  professing  a  lively  faith  in 
a  better  world,  yet  labouring  little  to  obtain  an 
interest  in  it,  can  we  forbear  suspecting  that 
their  belief,  not  only  of  their  own  title  to  eternal 
happiness  but  of  eternal  happiness  itself,  is  not 
well  grounded ;  and  that,  if  they  were  to  ‘  exa¬ 
mine  themselves  truly,’  and  to  produce  the 
principle  of  such  a  relaxed  morality,  the  faith 
would  be  found  to  be  much  of  a  piece  with  the 
practice  ? 

The  objections  which  disincline  the  world  to 
make  present  sacrifices  of  pleasure,  with  a  view 
to  obtaining  eternal  happiness,  are  such  as  ap¬ 
ply  to  all  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life.  ■  That 
is,  men  object  chiefly  to  a  religious  course  as 
tending  to  rob  them  of  that  actual  pleasure 
which  is  within  their  reach,  for  the  sake  of  a 
remote  enjoyment.  They  object  to  giving  up 
the  seen  good  for  the  unseen.  But  do  not  almost 
all  the  transactions  of  life  come  under  the  same 
description  ? — Do  we  not  give  up  present  ease 
and  renounce  much  indulgence  in  order  to  ac¬ 
quire  a  future  ?  Do  we  not  part  with  our  cur¬ 
rent  money  for  the  reversion  of  an  estate,  which 
we  know  it  will  be  a  long  time  before  we  can 
possess  >  Nay,  do  not  the  moat  worldly  often 
submit  to  an  immediate  inconvenience,  by  re- 
ucing  tueir  present  income,  in  order  to  insure 


to  themselves  a  larger  capital  for  their  future 
subsistence  ? 

Now,  ‘  Faith,  which  is  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for,’  is  meant  to  furnish  the  soul  with 
present  support,  while  it  satisfies  it  as  to  the 
security  on  which  it  has  lent  itself;  just  as  a 
man’s  bonds  and  mortgages  assure  him  that  he 
is  really  rich,  though  h-e  has  not  all  the  money 
in  hand  ready  to  spend  at  the  moment.  Those 
who  truly  believe  the  Bible,  must  in  the  same 
manner  be  content  to  live  on  its  promises,  by 
which  God  has  as  it  were  pledged  himself  for 
their  future  blessedness. 

Even  that  very  spirit  of  enjoyment  which 
leads  the  persons  in  question  so  studiously  to 
possess  themselves  of  the  qualifications  necessa¬ 
ry  for  the  pleasures  of  the  present  scene,  that 
understanding  and  good  sense,  which  leads  them 
to  acquire  such  talents  as  may  enable  them  to 
relish  the  resorts  of  gayety  here ;  that  very  spi¬ 
rit  should  induce  those  who  are  really  looking 
for  a  future  state  of  happiness,  to  wish  to  acquire 
something  of  the  taste,  and  temper,  and  talents, 
which  may  be  considered  as  qualifications  fbr 
the  enjoyment  of  that  happiness.  The  neglect 
of  doing  this  must  proceed  from  one  of  these 
two  causes ;  either  they  must  think  their  pre¬ 
sent  course  a  safe  and  proper  course ;  or  thev 
must  think  that  death  is  to  produce  some  sudden 
and  surprising  alteration  in  the  human  charac¬ 
ter.  But  the  office  of  death  is  to  transport  us  k 
a  new  state,  not  to  transform  us  to  a  new  na¬ 
ture  ;  the  stroke  of  death  is  intended  to  effect 
our  deliverance  out  of  this  world,  and  our  intro¬ 
duction  into  another  ;  but  it  is  not  likely  to  effect 
any  sudden  and  wonderful,  much  less  a  total 
change  in  our  hearts  or  our  tastes  ;  so  far  from 
this  that  we  are  assured  in  Scripture,  ‘  that  he 
'that  is  filthy  will  be  filthy  still,  and  he  that  is 
holy  will  be  holy  still.’  Though  we  believe  that 
death  will  completely  cleanse  the  holy  soul  from 
its  remaining  pollutions,  that  it  will  exchange 
defective  sanctification  into  perfect  purity,  en¬ 
tangling  temptation  into  complete  freedom ;  sufi 
fering  and  affliction  into  health  and  joy  ;  doubts 
and  fears  into  perfect  security,  and  oppressive 
weariness  into  everlasting  rest ;  yet  there  is  no 
magic  in  the  wand  of  death  which  will  convert 
an  unholy  soul  into  a  holy  one.  And  it  is  aw¬ 
ful  to  reflect,  that  such  tempers  as  have  the  al¬ 
lowed  predominance  here  will  maintain  it  for¬ 
ever  ;  that  such  as  the  will  is  when  we  close  our 
eyes  upon  the  things  of  time,  such  it  will  bo 
when  we  open  them  on  those  of  eternity.  The 
mere  act  of  death  no  more  fits  us  for  heaven, 
than  the  mere  act  of  the  mason  who  pulls  dowu 
our  old  house  fits  us  for  a  new  one.  If  we  die 
with  our  hearts  running  over  with  the  love  of 
the  world,  there  is  no  promise  to  lead  us  to  ex¬ 
pect  that  we  shall  rise  with  them  full  of  the  love 
of  God.  Death  indeed  will  show  us  to  ourselves 
such  as  we  are,  but  will  not  make  us  such  as  we 
are  not :  and  it  will  be  too  late  to  be  acquiring 
self-knowledge  when  we  can  no  longer  turn  it 
to  any  account,  but  that  of  tormenting  ourselves. 
To  illustrate  this  truth  still  farther  by  an  allu¬ 
sion  familiar  to  the  persons  I  address  :  the  draw¬ 
ing  up  the  curtain  at  the  theatre,  though  it  serve 
to  introduce  us  to  the  entertainments  behind  itf 
does  not  create  in  us  any  new  faculties  to  ur 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


399 


derstand  or  to  relish  those  entertainments :  these 
must  have  been  already  acquired ;  they  must 
have  been  provided  beforehand,  and  brought  with 
us  to  the  place,  if  we  would  relish  the  pleasure 
of  the  place ;  for  the  entertainment  can  only 
operate  on  that  taste  we  carry  to  it.  It  is  too 
late  to  be  acquiring  when  we  ought  to  be  en- 

joying-  .  .  . 

That  spirit  of  prayer  and  praise,  those  dispo¬ 
sitions  of  love,  meekness,  ‘  peace,  quietness,  and 
assurance that  indifference  to  the  fashion  of  a 
world  which  is  passing  away  ;  that  longing  after 
deliverance  from  sin ;  that  desire  of  holiness, 
together  with  all  ‘  the  fruits  of  the  Spirit’  here, 
must  surely  make  some  part  of  our  qualification 
for  the  enjoyment  of  a  world,  the  pleasures  of 
which  are  all  spiritual.  And  who  can  conceive 
any  thing  comparable  to  the  awful  surprise  of  a 
soul  long  immersed  in  the  indulgences  of  vanity 
and  pleasure,  yet  all  the  while  lulled  by  the  self 
complacency  of  a  religion  of  mere  forms ;  who, 
while  it  counted  upon  heaven  as  a  thing  of 
course  ;  had  made  no  preparation  for  it !  Who 
can  conceive  any  surprise  comparable  to  that  of 
such  a  soul  on  shutting  its  eyes  on  a  world  of 
sense,  of  which  all  the  objects  and  delights  were 
so  congenial  to  its  nature,  and  opening  them  on 
a  world  of  spirits  of  which  all  the  characters  of 
enjoyment  are  of  a  nature  new,  unknown,  sur¬ 
prising,  and  specifically  different  ?  pleasures 
more  inconceivable  to  its  apprehension  and  more 
unsuitable  to  its  taste,  than  the  gratifications  of 
one  sense  are  to  the  organs  of  another,  or  than 
the  most  exquisite  works  of  art  and  genius  to 
absolute  imbecility  of  mind, 

While  we  would  with  deep  humility  confess 
that  we  cannot  purchase  heaven  by  any  works 
or  right  dispositions  of  our  own  ;  while  we  grate, 
fully  acknowledge  that  it  must  be  purchased  for 
us  by  ‘  Him  who  loved  us  and  washed  us  from 
our  sins  in  his  blood yet  let  us  remember  that 
we  have  no  reason  to  expect  wo  could  be  capable 
of  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  a  heaven  so  pur¬ 
chased  without  heavenly  mindedness. 

When  those  persons  who  are  apt  to  expect 
as  much  comfort  from  religion  as  if  their  hearts 
were  not  full  of  the  world,  now  and  then  in  a  fit 
of  honesty  or  low  spirits,  complain  that  Chris¬ 
tianity  does  not  make  them  as  good  and  happy 
as  they  were  led  to  expect  from  that  assurance, 
that  ‘  great' peace  have  they  who  love  the  law  of 
God,’  and  that  ‘  they  who  wait  on  him  shall  want 
no  manner  of  thing  that  is  good ;’  when  they 
lament  that  the  paths  of  religion  are  not  those 
‘paths  of  pleasantness’  which  they  were  led  to 
expect ;  their  case  reminds  one  of  a  celebrated 
physician,  who  used  to  say  that  the  reason  why 
his  prescriptions,  which  commonly  cured  the 
poor  and  the  temperate,  did  so  little  good  among 
his  rich  and  luxurious  patients,  was,  that  while 
he  was  labouring  to  remove  the  disease  by  me¬ 
dicines,  of  which  they  only  took  drama,  grains, 
and  scruples,  they  were  inflaming  it  by  a  mul- 
tiplicity  of  injurious  aliments,  which  they  swal¬ 
lowed  by  ounces,  pounds,  and  pints. 

These  fashionable  Christians  should  be  re¬ 
minded,  that  there  was  no  half  engagement 
made  for  them  at  their  baptism  ;  that  they  are 
net  partly  their  own,  and  partly  their  Redeem¬ 
er’s.  ‘  He  that  is  bought  with  a  price,’  is  the 


sole  property  of  the  purchaser.  Faith  does  nofc 
consist  merely  in  submitting  the  opinions  of  the 
understanding,  but  the  dispositions  of  the  heart 
religion  is  not  a  sacrifice  of  sentiments,  but  of 
affections  ;  it  is  not  the  tribute  of  fear  extorted 
from  a  slave,  but  the  voluntary  homage  of  love 
paid  by  a  child. 

Neither  does  a  Christian’s  piety  consist  in 
living  in  retreat,  and  railing  at  the  practices  of 
the  world,  while  perhaps  her  heart  is  full  of  the 
spirit  of  that  world  at  which  she  is  railing  :  but 
it  consists  in  subduing  the  spirit  of  the  world 
resisting  its  temptations,  and  opposing  its  prac¬ 
tices,  even  while  her  duty  obliges  her  to  live 
in  it. 

Nor  is  the  spirit  or  the  love  of  the  world  con 
fined  to  those  only  who  are  making  a  figure  in 
it ;  nor  are  its  operations  bounded  by  the  pre¬ 
cincts  of  the  metropolis  nor  by  the  limited  re¬ 
gions  of  first-rate  rank  and  splendour.  She  who 
inveighs  against  the  luxury  and  excesses  of 
London,  and  solaces  herself  in  her  own  compa¬ 
rative  sobriety,  because  her  more  circumscribed 
fortune  compels  her  to  take  up  with  the  second¬ 
hand  pleasures  of  successive  watering-places,  if 
she  pursue  these  pleasures  with  avidity,  is  go¬ 
verned  by  the  same  spirit :  and  she  whose  still 
narrower  opportunities  stint  her  to  the  petty  di¬ 
versions  of  her  provincial  town,  if  she  be  busied 
in  swelling  and  enlarging  her  smaller  sphere  of 
vanity  and  idleness,  however  she  may  comfort 
herself  with  her  own  comparative  goodness,  by 
railing  at  the  unattainable  pleasures  of  the  wa¬ 
tering  place,  or’ the  still  more  unapproachable 
joys  of  the  capital,  is  governed  by  the  same  spi¬ 
rit  ;  for  she  who  is  as  vain  as  dissipated,  and  as 
extravagant  as  actual  circumstances  admit, 
would  be  as  vain,  as  dissipated,  and  as  extrava¬ 
gant  as  the  gayest  objects  of  her  invective  ac¬ 
tually  are,  if  she  could  change  places  with  them. 
It  is  not  merely  by  what  we  do  that  we  can  be 
sure  the  spirit  of  the  world  has  no  dominion 
over  us,  but  by  fairly  considering  what  we  should 
probably  do  if  more  were  in  our  power. 

The  worldly  Christian,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
such  a  palpable  contradiction  in  terms,  must  not 
imagine  that  she  acquits  herself  of  her  religious 
obligations  by  paying  in  her  mere  weekly  obla¬ 
tion  of  prayer.  There  is  no  covenant  by  which 
communion  with  God  is  restricted  to  an  hour  or 
two  on  the  Sunday :  she  must  not  imagine  sho 
acquits  herself  by  setting  apart  a  few  particular 
days  in  the  year  for  the  exercise  of  a  periodical 
devotion,  and  then  flying  back  to  the  world  as 
eagerly  as  if  she  were  resolved  to  repay  herself 
with  a  large  interest  for  her  short  fit  of  self-de¬ 
nial  ;  the  stream  of  pleasure  running  with  a 
more  rapid  current,  from  having  been  interrupt¬ 
ed  by  this  forced  obstruction.  And  the  avidity 
with  which  we  have  seen  certain  persons  of  a 
still  less  correct  character  than  the  class  wo  have 
been  considering,  return  to  a  whole  year's  car¬ 
nival,  after  the  self  imposed  penance  of  a  passion 
week,  gives  a  shrewd  intimation  that  they  con¬ 
sidered  the  temporary  abstraction  less  as  an  act 
of  penitence  for  tlie  past,  than  as  a  purchase  of 
indemnity  for  the  future.  Such  bareweight 
Protestants  prudently  condition  for  retaining  the 
Popish  doctrine  of  indulgences,  which  they  buy 
not  indeed  of  the  late  spiritual  court  of  Romo 


400 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


)l)ut  of  that  secret  self-acquitting  judge,  which 
ignorance  of  its  own  turpitude,  and  of  the  strict 
requirements  of  the  divine  law,  has  established 
supreme  in  the  tribunal  of  every  unrenewed 
heart. 

But  the  practice  of  self-examination  is  im¬ 
peded  by  one  clog,  which  renders  it  peculiarly 
inconvenient  to  the  gay  and  worldly  :  for  the 
royal  prophet  (who  was,  however,  himself  as 
likely  as  any  one  to  be  acquainted  with  the  diffi¬ 
culties  peculiar  to  greatness)  has  annexed  as  a 
concomitant  to  ‘  communing  with  our  own 
heart,’  that  we  should  ‘  be  still.'  Now  this  clause 
ef  the  injunction  annihilates  the  other,  by  ren¬ 
dering  it  incompatible  with  the  present  habits 
of  fashionable  life,  of  which  stillness  is  clearly 
not  one  of  the  constituents.  It  would,  however, 
greatly  assist  those  who  do  not  altogether  de¬ 
cline  the  practice,  if  they  were  to  establish  into 
a  rule  the  habit  of  detecting  certain  suspicious 
practices,  by  realizing  them,  as  it  were,  to  their 
own  minds,  through  the  means  of  drawing  them 
out  in  detail,  and  of  placing  them  before  their 
eyes  clothed  in  language ;  for  there  is  nothing 
that  so  effectually  exposes  an  absurdity  which 
has  hitherto  passed  muster  for  want  of  such  an 
inquisition,  as  giving  it  shape,  and  form,  and 
body.  How  many  things  which  now  silently 
work  themselves  into  the  habit,  and  pass  current 
without  inquiry,  would  then  shock  us  by  their 
palpable  inconsistency  !  Who,  for  instance,  could 
stand  the  sight  of  such  a  debtor  and  creditor  ac¬ 
count  as  this: — Item;  so  many  card-parties, 
balls,  and  operas  due  to  me  in  the  following 
year,  for  so  many  manuals,  prayers,  and  medi¬ 
tations  paid  beforehand  during  the  last  six  days 
in  lent?  With  how  much  indignauon  soever 
this  suggestion  may  be  treated ;  whatever  of¬ 
fence  may  be  taken  at  such  a  combination  of  the 
serious  and  the  ludicrous  ;  however  we  may  re¬ 
volt  at  the  idea  of  such  a  composition  with  our 
Maker,  when  put  into  so  many  words  ;  does  not 
the  habitual  course  of  some  go  near  to  realize 
such  a  statement  ? 

But  ‘  a  Christian’s  race'  as  a  venerable  pre¬ 
late*  observes,  ‘  is  not  to  run  at  so  many  heats' 
but  is  a  constant  course,  a  regular  progress  by 
which  we  are  continually  gaining  ground  upon 
sin,  and  approaching  nearer  to  the  kingdom  of 
God. 

Am  I  then  ridiculing  this  pious  seclusion  of 
contrite  sinners  ?  Am  I  then  jesting  at  that 
‘  troubled  spirit’  which  God  has  declared  is  liis 
‘  acceptable  sacrifice  ?’  God  forbid  !  Such  rea¬ 
sonable  retirements  have  been  the  practice,  and 
continue  to  be  the  comfort  of  some  of  the  sin- 
cerest  Christians ;  and  will  continue  to  be  re¬ 
sorted  to  as  long  as  Christianity,  that  is,  as  long 
as  the  world  shall  last.  It  is  well  to  call  off  the 
thoughts,  even  for  a  short  time,  not  only  from 
sin  and  vanity,  but  even  from  the  lawful  pursuits 
of  business  and  the  laudable  concerns  of  life  ; 
and  at  times,  to  annihilate,  as  it  were,  the  space 
which  divides  us  from  eternity  : 

’Tis  gp:‘atly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours, 

And  ask  them  what  report  they  bore  to  heaven, 

And  liow  they  miglit  have  borne  more  welcome  news. 

Yet  to  those  who  seek  a  short  annual  retreat 
♦  Bishop  Hopkins. 


as  a  mere  form  ;  who  dignify  with  the  idea  a 
religious  retirement,  a  week  in  which  it  is  ra¬ 
ther  unfashionable  to  be  seen  in  town  ;  who  re¬ 
tire  with  unabated  resolution  to  return  to  the 
maxims,  the  pleasures,  and  the  spirit  of  that 
world  which  they  do  but  mechanically  renounce; 
is  it  not  to  be  feared  that  this  short  secession, 
which  does  not  even  pretend  to  subdue  the  prin¬ 
ciple,  but  merely  suspends  the  act,  may  only 
serve  to  set  a  keener  edge  on  the  appetite  for 
the  pleasures  they  are  quitting  ?  Is  it  not  to  be 
feared  that  the  bow  may  fly  back  with  redoubled 
violence  from  having  been  unnaturally  bent? 
that  by  varnishing  over  a  life  of  vanity  with  the 
transient  externals  of  a  formal  and  temporary 
piety  they  may  the  more  dangerously  skin  over 
the  troublesome  soreness  of  a  tender  conscience, 
by  laying 

This  flattering  unction  to  the  soul  ? 

And  is  it  not  awfully  to  be  apprehended  that 
such  devotions  come  in  among  those  vain  obla¬ 
tions  which  the  Almighty  has  declared  he  will 
not  accept  ?  For,  is  it  not  among  the  delusions 
of  a  worldly  piety,  to  consider  Christianity  as  a 
thing  which  cannot,  indeed,  safely  be  omitted, 
but  which  is  to  be  got  over  ;  a  certain  quantity 
of  which  is,  as  it  were,  to  be  taken  in  the  lump, 
with  long  intervals  between  the  repetitions  ?  Is 
it  not  among  its  delusions  to  consider  religion 
as  imposing  a  set  of  hardships,  which  must  be 
occasionally  encountered,  in  order  to  procure  a 
peaceable  enjoyment  of  the  long  respite? — a 
short  penalty  for  a  long  pleasure  ?  that  these  se¬ 
verer  conditions  thus  fulfilled,  the  acquitted 
Christian  having  paid  the  annual  demand  of  a 
rigorous  requisition,  she  may  now  lawfully  re¬ 
turn  to  her  natural  state  ;  the  old  reckoning  be¬ 
ing  adjusted,  she  may  begin  a  new  score,  and 
receive  the  reward  of  her  punctual  obedience, 
in  the  resumed  indulgence  of  those  gratifications 
which  she  had  for  a  short  time  laid  aside  as  a 
hard  task  to  please  a  hard  master ;  but  this  task 
performed  and  the  master  appeased,  the  mind 
may  discover  its  natural  bent,  in  joyfully  return¬ 
ing  to  the  objects  of  its  real  choice  ?  Whereas, 
it  is  not  clear  on  the  other  hand,  that  if  the  re¬ 
ligious  exercises  had  produced  the  effect  which 
it  is  the  nature  of  true  religion  to  produce,  the 
penitent  could  not  return  with  her  own  genuine 
alacrity  to  those  habits  of  the  world,  from  which 
the  pious  weekly  manuals  through  which  she 
has  been  labouring  with  the  punctuality  of  an 
almanac  as  to  the  day,  and  the  accuracy  of  a 
bead-roll  as  to  the  number,  were  intended  by  the 
devout  authors  to  rescue  their  reader  ? 

I  am  far  from  insinuating,  that  this  literal  se¬ 
questration  ought  to  be  prolonged  throughout 
the  year,  or  that  all  the  days  of  business  are  to 
be  made  equally  days  of  solemnity  and  conti¬ 
nued  meditation.  This  earth  is  a  place  in  which 
a  much  larger  portion  of  a  common  Christian’s 
time  must  be  assigned  to  action  than  to  contem¬ 
plation.  Women  of  the  higher  class  were  not 
sent  into  the  world  to  shun  society,  but  to  im¬ 
prove  it.  They  were  not  designed  for  the  cold 
and  visionary  virtues  of  solitudes  and  monaste¬ 
ries,  but  for  the  amiable,  and  endearing,  and  use¬ 
ful  offices  of  social  life:  they  are  of  a  religion 
which  does  not  impose  idle  austerities,  but  en- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


401 


joins  active  duties ;  a  religion  which  demands 
tile  most  benevolent  actions,  and  which  requires 
them  to  be  sanctified  by  the  purest  motives  ;  a 
religion  which  does  not  condemn  its  followers 
to  the  comparatively  easy  task  of  seclusion/rom 
the  world,  but  assigns  them  the  more  difficult 
province  of  living  uncorrupted  in  it ;  a  religion 
■which,  while  it  forbids  them  ‘  to  follow  a  multi¬ 
tude  to  do  evil,'  includes  in  that  prohibition  the 
sin  of  doing  nothing,  and  which  moreover  en¬ 
joins  them  to  be  followers  of  Him  ‘  who  went 
about  doing  good.' 

But  may  we  not  reasonably  contend,  that 
though  the  same  sequestration  is  not  required, 
jet  that  the  same  spirit  and  temper  which  we 
■would  hope  is  thought  necessary  even  by  those 
on  whom  we  are  animadverting,  during  the  oc¬ 
casional  humiliation,  must  by  every  real  Chris¬ 
tian  be  extended  throughout  all  the  periods  of 
the  year  ?  And  when  that  is  really  the  case, 
■when  once  the  spirit  of  religion  shall  indeed 
govern  the  heart,  it  will  not  only  animate  her 
religious  actions  and  employments,  but  will 
gradually  extend  itself  to  the  chastising  her 
conversation,  will  discipline  her  thoughts,  influ¬ 
ence  her  common  business,  restrain  her  indul¬ 
gences,  and  sanctify  her  very  pleasures. 

But  it  seems  that  many,  who  entertain  a  ge¬ 
neral  notion  of  Christian  duty,  do  not  consider 
it  as  of  universal  and  unremitting  obligation, 
hut  rather  as  a  duty  binding  at  times  on  all,  and 
at  all  times  on  some.  To  the  attention  of  such 
■we  would  recommend  that  very  explicit  address 
of  our  Lord  on  the  subject  of  self-denial,  the 
temper  directly  opposed  to  a  worldly  spirit: 

*  And  he  said  unto  them  all,  if  any  man  will 
come  after  me,  let  him  deny  himself,  and  take 
lip  his  cross  daily.’  Those  who  think  self-de¬ 
nial  not  oi'  universal  obligation  will  observe  the 
■word  all ;  and  those  who  think  the  obligation  not 
constant,  will  attend  to  the  term  daily.  These 
two  little  words  cut  up  b}'  the  root  all  the  occa¬ 
sional  religious  observances  grafted  on  a  worldly 
life ;  all  transient,  periodical,  and  temporary 
acts  of  piety,  which  some  seem  willing  to  com¬ 
mute  for  a  life  of  habitual  thoughtlessness  and 
"Vanity. 

There  is,  indeed,  scarcely  a  more  pitiable  be- 
"ing  than  one  who,  instead  of  making  her  religion 
the  informing  principle  of  all  she  does  has  only 
just  enough  to  keep  her  in  continual  fear;  who 
drudges  through  her  stinted  exercises  with  a 
superstitious  kind  of  terror,  while  her  general 
.life  si  tows  that  the  love  of  holiness  is  not  the 
governing  principle  in  her  heart;  who  seems  to 
sutler  all  the  pains  and  penalties  of  Christianity, 
but  is  a  stranger  to  ‘  that  liberty  wherewith 
Christ  has  made  us  free.’  Let  it  not  be  thought 
a  ludicrous  invention,  if  the  author  hazard  the 
producing  a  real  illustration  of  these  remarks, 
m  the  instance  of  a  lady  of  this  stamp,  who  re¬ 
turning  from  church  on  a  very  cold  day,  and  re¬ 
marking  with  a  good  deal  of  self-complaceney 
iiow  much  she  had  suffered  in  the  performance 
of  her  duty,  comforted  herself  with  emphatically 
adding,  ‘  that  she  hoped  it  would  answer.' 

There  is  this  striking  difference  between  the 
real  and  the  worldly  Christian,  the  latter  does 
not  complain  of  the  strictness  of  the  divine  law, 
but  of  the  deficiencies  of  his  own  performance  ; 
VoL.  1.  C  2 


while  the  worldly  Christian  is  little  troubled  at 
his  own  failures,  but  deplores  the  strictness  of 
the  divine  requisitions.  The  one  wishes  that 
God  would  expect  less,  the  other  prays  for 
strength  to  do  more.  When  the  worldly  person 
hears  real  Christians  speak  of  their  own  low 
state,  and  acknowledge  their  extreme  unworthi¬ 
ness,  he  really  believes  them  to  be  worse  than 
those  who  make  no  such  nufhiliating  confes¬ 
sions.  He  does  not  know  that  a  mind  which  is 
at  once  deeply  convinced  of  its  own  corruptions, 
and  of  the  purity  of  the  divine  law,  is  so  keenly 
alive  to  the  perception  of  all  sin,  as  to  be  hum 
bled  by  the  commission  of  such  as  is  compara¬ 
tively  small,  and  which  those  who  have  less  cor 
rect  views  of  gospel  truth,  hardly  allow  to  be 
sin  at  all.  Such  an  one,  with  Job,  says,  ‘  Now 
mine  eye  seeth  Thee.’ 

But  there  is  no  permanent  comfort  in  any  re¬ 
ligion,  short  of  that  by  which  the  diligent  Chris¬ 
tian  strives  that  all  his  actions  shall  have  the 
love  of  God  for  their  motive,  and  the  glory  of 
God,  as  well  as  his  own  salvation,  for  their  end; 
while  we  go  about  to  balance  our  good  and  bad 
actions,  one  against  the  other,  and  to  take  com- 
fort  in  the  occasional  predominance  of  the  for¬ 
mer  while  the  cultivation  of  the  principle  from 
which  they  should  spring  is  neglected,  is  not 
the  road  to  all  those  peaceful  fruits  of  the  Spirit 
to  which  true  Christianity  conducts  the  humble 
and  penitent  believer.  For,  after  all  we  can  do, 
Christian  tempers  and  a  Christian  spirit  are  the 
true  criterion  of  a  Christian  character,  and  serve 
to  furnish  the  most  unequivocal  test  of  our  at¬ 
tainments  in  religion.  Our  doctrines  may  be 
sound,  but  they  may  not  be  influential ;  our  ac¬ 
tions  may  be  correct,  buf  they  may  want  the 
sanctifying  principle  ;  our  frames  and  feelings 
may  seem,  nay  they  may  be  devout,  but  they 
may  be  heightened  by  mere  animal  fervour 
even  if  genuine,  they  are  seldom  lasting ;  and 
to  many  pious  persons  they  are  not  given :  it  is 
therefore  the  Christian  tempers  which  most  ir 
fallibly  indicate  the  sincere  Christian,  and  best 
prepare  him  for  the  heavenly  state. 

I  am  aware  that  a  better  cast  of  characters 
than  those  we  have  been  contemplating ;  that 
even  the  amiable  and  the  well-disposed,  who 
while  they  want  courage  to  resist  what  they 
have  too  much  principle  to  think  right,  and  to«i 
much  sense  to  justify,  will  yet  plead  for  the  pal 
Hating  system,  and  accuse  these  remarks  of  un 
necessary  rigour.  They  will  declare  ‘That 
really  they  are  as  religious  as  they  can  be  ;  they 
wish  they  were  better  :  they  have  little  satisfac¬ 
tion  in  the  life  they  are  leading,  yet  they  cannot 
break  with  the  world ;  they  cannot  fly  in  the 
face  of  custom  ;  it  does  not  become  individuals 
like  them  to  oppose  the  torrent  of  fashion.’  Bq 
ings  so  interesting,  abounding  with  engaging 
qualities;  who  not  only  feel  the  beauty  of  good¬ 
ness,  but  reverence  the  truths  of  Christianity, 
and  are  awfully  looking  for  a  general  judgment, 
we  are  grieved  to  hear  lament  ‘  that  they  only 
do  as  others  do,’  when  they  are  perhaps  them, 
selves  of  such  rank  and  importance  that  if  they 
would  begin  to  do  right,  others  would  be  brought 
to  do  as  they  did.  VVe  are  grieved  to  hoar  them 
indolently  assert,  that,  ‘  they  wish  it  were  other¬ 
wise,’  when  they  possess  the  power  to  make  it 


402 


TE£  WORKS  OP’  HANNAH  MORE. 


otherwise,  by  setting  an  example  which  they 
know  would  be  followed.  We  are  sorry  to  hear 
them  content  themselves  with  declaring,  ‘  that 
they  have  not  the  courage  to  be  singular,’  when 
they  must  feel,  by  seeing  the  influence  of  their 
example  in  worse  things,  that  there  would  be 
no  such  great  singularity  in  piety  itself,  if  once 
tke^  become  sincerely  pious.  Besides,  this  diffi- 
dence  does  not  ffreak  out  on  other  occasions. 
They  do  not  blush  to  be  quoted  as  the  opposers 
of  an  old  mode,  or  the  inventors  of  a  new  one  : 
nor  are  they  equally  backward  in  being  the 
first  to  appear  in  a  strange  fashion,  such  an  one 
as  often  excites  wonder,  and  sometimes  even 
offends  against  delicacy.  Let  not  then  diffidence 
be  pleaded  as  an  excuse  only  on  occasions  where¬ 
in  courage  would  be  virtue. 

Will  it  be  thought  too  harsh  a  question  if  we 
venture  to  ask  these  gentle  characters  who  are 
thus  entrenching  themselves  in  the  imaginary 
safety  of  surrounding  multitudes,  and  who  say, 

*  We  only  do  as  others  do,’  whether  they  are 
willing  to  run  the  tremendous  risk  of  conse¬ 
quences,  and  to  fare  as  others  fare  ? 

But  while  these  plead  the  authority  of  fashion 
as  a  sufficient  reason  for  their  conformity  to  the 
world,  one  who  has  spoken  with  a  paramount 
authority  has  positively  said,  ‘  Be  ye  not  con¬ 
formed  to  the  world.’  Nay,  it  is  ui^ed  as  the 
very  badge  and  distinction  by  which  the  cha¬ 
racter  opposite  to  the  Christian  is  to  be  marked, 

*  that  the  friendship  of  the  world  is  enmity  with 
God.’ 

Temptation  to  conform  to  the  world  was 
never  perhaps  more  irresistible  than  in  the  days 
which  immediately  preceded  the  Deluge ;  and 
no  man  could  ever  have  pleaded  the  fashion  in 
order  tojustify  a  criminal  assimilation  with  the 
reigning  manners,  with  more  propriety  than  the 
patriarch  Noah.  He  had  the  two  grand  and 
contending  objects  of  terror  to  encounter  which 
we  have ;  the  fear  of  ridicule,  and  the  fear  of  de¬ 
struction  ;  the  dread  of  sin,  and  the  dread  of 
singularity.  Our  cause  of  alarm  is  at  least 
equally  pressing  with  his  ;  for  it  does  not  appear, 
even  while  he  was  actually  obeying  the  Divine 
command  in  providing  the  means  of  his  future 
safety,  that  he  saw  any  actual  symptoms  of  the 
impending  ruin.  So  that  in  one  sense  /m  might 
have  truly  pleaded  as  an  excuse  for  ‘  slackness 
of  preparation,  ‘  that  all  things  continued  as  they 
were  from  the  beginning ;’  while  many  of  us, 
though  the  storm  is  actually  begun,  never 
think  of  providing  the  refuge :  it  is  true  he  was 
‘  warned  of  God,’  and  he  provided  ‘  by  faith.’ 
But  are  not  we  also  warned  of  God?  have  we 
not  had  a  fuller  revelation  '>  have  we  not  seen 
Scripture  illustrated,  prophecy  fulfilling,  with 
every  awful  circumstance  that  can  either 
quicken  the  most  sluggish  remissness,  or  con¬ 
firm  the  feeblest  faith  ? 

Besides,  the  patriarch’s  plea  for  following  the 
fashion  was  stronger  than  you  can  produce. 
While  you  must  see  that  many  are  going  wrong, 
he  saw  that  none  were  going  right.  ‘  All  flesh 
had  corrupted  his  way  before  God ;’  whilst, 
blessed  be  God  !  you  have  still  instances  enough 
of  piety  to  keep  you  in  countenance.  While  you 
lament  that  the  world  seduces  you  (for  every  one 
has  a  little  world  of  his  ownj  your  world  per- . 


haps  is  only  a  petty  neighbourhood,  a  few 
streets  and  squares  ;  but  the  patriarch  had  really 
the  contagion  of  a  whole  united  world  to  resist  ; 
he  had  literally  the  example  of.  the  whole  face  of 
the  earth  to  oppose.  The  ‘  fear  of  man  also 
would  have  been  a  more  pardonable  fault,  whea 
the  lives  of  the  same  individuals  who  were 
likely  to  excite  respect  or  fear  was  prolonged 
many  ages,  than  it  can  be  in  the  short  period 
now  assigned  to  human  life.  How  lamentable 
then  that  human  opinion  should  operate  so  pow.- 
erfully,  when  it  is  but  the  breath  of  a  being  so 
frail  and  so  short-lived, 

That  he  doth  cease  to  be, 

Ere  one  can  say  he  is  ? 

You  who  find  it  so  difficult  to  withstand  the  in¬ 
dividual  allurement  of  modish  acquaintance, 
would,  if  you  had  been  in  the  patriach’s  case 
have  concluded  the  struggle  to  be  quite  ineffec¬ 
tual,  and  sunk  under  the  supposed  fruitlessness 
of  resistance.  ‘  Myself,’  would  you  not  have 
said  ?  ‘  or  at  most  my  little  family  of  eight  per¬ 
sons  can  never  hope  to  stop  this  torrent  of  cor¬ 
ruption  ;  I  lament  the  fruitlessness  of  opposi¬ 
tion;  I  deplore  the  necessity  of  conformity  with 
the  prevailing  system :  but  it  would  be  a  foolish 
presumption  to  hope  that  one  family  can  effect 
a  change  in  the  state  of  the  world.’  In  your 
own  case,  however,  is  it  not  certain  to  how  wide 
an  extent  the  hearty  union  of  even  fewer  per¬ 
sons  in  such  a  cause  might  reach  :  at  least  is  it 
nothing  to  what  the  patriarch  did  ?  was  it  no¬ 
thing  to  preserve  himself  from  the  general  de¬ 
struction  ;  was  it  nothing  to  deliver  his  own 
soul  ?  was  it  nothing  to  rescue  the  souls  of  hiS 
whole  family  ? 

A  wise  man  will  never  differ  from  the  world 
in  trifles.  It  is  certainly  a  mark  of  a  sound 
judgment  to  comply  with  custom  whenever  we 
safely  can ;  such  compliance  strengthens  our 
influence  by  reserving  to  ourselves  the  greater 
weight  of  authority  on  those  occasions,  when 
our  conscience  obliges  us  to  differ.  Those  who 
are  prudent  will  cheerfully  conform  to  all  the 
innocent  usages  of  the  world  ;  but  those  who  are 
Christians  will  be  scrupulous  in  defining  which 
are  really  innocent  previous  to  their  conformity 
to  them.  Not  what  the  world,  but  what  the 
Gospel  calls  innocent  will  be  found  at  the  grand 
scrutiny  to  have  been  really  so.  A  discreet 
Christian  will  take  due  pains  to  be  convinced 
he  is  right  before  he  will  presume  to  be  singulart 
but  from  the  instant  he  is  persuaded  the  Gospel 
is  true,  and  the  world  of  course  wrong,  ho  will 
no  longer  risk  his  safety  by  following  multitudes, 
or  hazard  his  soul  by  staking  it  on  human 
opinion.  All  our  most  dangerous  mistakes 
arise  from  our  not  constantly  referring  our  prac¬ 
tice  to  the  standard  of  Scripture,  instead  of  tho 
mutable  standard  of  human  estimation  by  which 
it  is  impossible  to  fix  the  real  value  of  characters. 
For  this  latter  standard  in  some  cases  deter¬ 
mines  those  to  be  good  who  do  not  run  all  tho 
lengths  in  which  the  notoriously  bad  allow 
themselves.  The  Gospel  has  an  universal,  the 
world  has  a  local  standard  of  goodness ;  in  cer¬ 
tain  societies  certain  vices  alone  are  dishonour 
able,  such  as  covetousness  and  cowardice  ;  while 
those  sins  of  which  our  Saviour  has  said,  that 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


403 


they  which  commit  them  ‘shall  not  inherit  the 
kingdom  of  God,’  detract  nothing  from  the  re¬ 
spect  some  persons  receive.  Nay,  those  very 
characters  \yhom  the  Almighty  has  expressly 
and  awfully  declared  ‘  He  will  judge,’*  are  re¬ 
ceived,  are  admired,  are  caressed,  in  that  which 
calls  itself  the  best  company. 

But  to  weigh  our  actions  by  one  standard 
now,  when  we  know  they  will  be  judged  by  an¬ 
other  hereafter,  would  be  reckoned  the  height 
of  absurdity  in  any  transctions  but  those  which 
involve  the  interests  of  eternity.  ‘  How  readest 
thou  ?’  is  a  more  specific  direction  than  any  com¬ 
parative  view  of  our  own  habits  with  the  habits 
of  others :  and  at  the  final  bar  it  will  be  of  little 
avail  that  our  actions  have  risen  above  those  of 
bad  men,  if  our  views  and  principles  shall  be 
found  to  have  been  in  opposition  the  Gospel  of 
Christ. 

Nor  is  their  practice  more  commendable,  who 
are  ever  on  the  watch  to  pick  out  the  worst  ac¬ 
tions  of  good  men,  by  way  of  justifying  their 
own  conduct  on  the  comparison.  The  faults  of 
the  best  men,  ‘  for  there  is  not  a  just  man  upon 
earth  who  sinneth  r.jt,’  can  in  no  wise  justify 
the  errors  of  the  worst :  and  it  is  not  invariably 
the  example  of  even  good  men  that  we  must  take 
for  our  unerring  rule  of  conduct :  nor  is  it  by  a 
single  action  that  either  they  or  we  shall  be 
judged  ;  for  in  that  case  who  tjould  be  saved  ? 
but  it  is  by  the  general  prevalence  of  right  prin¬ 
ciples  and  good  habits  and  Christian  tempers ; 
by  the  predominance  of  holiness  and  righteous¬ 
ness,  and  temperance  in  the  life,  and  by  the 
power  of  humility,  faith  and  love  in  the  heart. 


CHAP.  XX. 

On  the  leading  doctrines  of  Christianity. — The 
corruption  of  human  nature.  The  doctrine  of 
redemption.  The  necessity  of  a  change  of 
heart  and  of  the  divine  influences  to  produce 
that  change.  With  a  sketch  of  the  Christian 
character. 

The  author  having  in  this  little  work  taken  a 
view  of  the  false  notions  often  imbibed  in  early 
life  from  a  bad  education,  and  of  their  pernicious 
effects  ;  and  having  attempted  to  point  out  the 
respective  remedies  to  these;  she  would  now 
draw  all  that  has  been  said  to  a  point,  and  de¬ 
clare  plainly  what  she  humbly  conceives  to  be 
the  source  whence  all  these  false  notions  and 
this  wrong  conduct  really  proceed :  the  prophet 
Jeremiah  shall  answer :  ‘  It  is  because  they 
have  forsaken  the  fountain  of  living  waters, 
and  have  hewn  out  to  themselves  cisterns, 
broken  cisterns  that  can  hold  no  water.’  It  is 
an  ignorance  past  belief  of  what  true  Christi¬ 
anity  really  is  ;  the  remedy,  therefore,  and  the 
only  remedy  that  can  be  applied  with  any  pros¬ 
pect  of  success,  is  religion,  and  by  Religion  she 
would  be  understood  to  mean  the  Gospel  of 
Jesus  Christ. 

It  has  been  before  hinted,  that  religion  should 
be  taught  at  an  early  period  of  life  ;  that  children 
should  be  brought  up  ‘  in  the  nurture  and  admo- 

♦  Hebrew,  liii.  4. 


nition  of  the  Lord.’  The  manner  in  which  they 
should  be  taught  has  likewise  with  great  plain¬ 
ness  been  suggested;  that  it  should  be  done  in 
so  lively  and  familiar  a  manner  as  to  make  re¬ 
ligion  amiable,  and  her  ways  to  appear,  what 
they  really  are,  ‘  ways  of  pleasantness.’  And  a 
slight  sketch  has  been  given  of  the  genius  of 
Christianity,  by  which  her  amiableness  would 
more  clearly  appear.  But  this,  being  a  subject 
of  such  vast  importance  compared  with  which 
every  other  subject  sinks  into  nothing  ;  it  seems 
not  sufficient  to  speak  on  the  doctrines  and 
duties  of  Christianity  in  detached  parts,  but  it 
is  of  importance  to  point  out,  though  in  a  brief 
and  imperfect  manner,  the  mutual  dependence 
of  one  doctrine  upon  another,  and  the  influence 
which  these  doctrines  have  upon  the  heart  and 
life,  so  that  the  duties  of  Christianity  may  be 
seen  to  grow  out  of  its  doctrines :  by  which  it 
will  appear  that  Christian  virtue  differs  essert 
tially  from  pagan  :  it  is  of  a  quite  different  kind, 
the  plant  itself  is  different,  it  comes  from  a  dift 
ferent  root,  and  grows  in  a  different  soil. 

It  will  be  seen  how  the  humbling  doctrine  of 
the  corruption  of  human  nature,  which  was  fol¬ 
lowed  from  the  corruption  of  our  first  parents, 
makes  way  for  the  bright  display  of  redeeming 
love.  How  from  the  abasing  thought  that  ‘  we 
are  all  as  sheep  going  astray,  every  one  in  his 
own  way ;’  that  none  can  return  to  the  Shep 
herd  of  our  souls,  ‘except  the  Farther  draw 
him  :’  that  ‘  the  natural  man  cannot  receive  the 
things  of  the  Spirit,  because  they  are  spiritually 
discerned  :’  how  from  this  humiliating  view  of 
the  helplessness,  as  well  as  the  corruption  of  hu¬ 
man  nature,  we  are  to  turn  to  that  animating 
doctrine,  the  offer  of  divine  assistance.  So  that, 
though  human  nature  will  appear  from  this  view 
in  a  deeply  degraded  state,  and  consequently 
all  have  cause  for  humility,  yet  not  one  has 
cause  for  despair  :  the  disease  indeed  is  dread¬ 
ful,  but  a  physician  is  at  hand,  both  able  and 
willing  to  save  us :  though  we  are  naturally 
without  ‘  strength,  our  help  is  laid  upon  one 
that  is  mighty.’  If  the  gospel  discover  to  us 
our  lapsed  state,  it  discovers  also  the  means  of 
our  restoration  to  the  divine  image  and  favour. 
It  not  only  discovers  but  impresses  this  image; 
it  not  only  gives  us  the  description,  but  the  at- 
tainment  of  this  favour  ;  and  while  the  word  of 
God  suggests  the  remedy,  his  Spirit  applies  it. 

We  should  observe  then,  that  the  doctrines 
of  our  Saviour  are,  if  I  may  so  speak,  with  a 
beautiful  consistency,  all  woven  into  one  piece. 
We  should  get  such  a  view  of  their  reciprocal 
dependence  as  to  be  persuaded  that  without  a 
deep  sense  of  our  own  corruptions  wo  can  never 
seriously  believe  in  a  Saviour,  because  the  sub- 
sta«tial  and  acceptable  belief  in  Him  must 
always  arise  from  the  conviction  of  our  want  of 
Him ;  that  without  a  firm  persuasion  that  the 
Holy  Spirit  can  alone  restore  our  fallen  nature, 
repair  the  ruins  of  sin,  and  renew  the  imago  of 
God  upon  the  heart,  we  never  shall  bo  brought 
to  serious  humble  prayer  for  repentance  and 
restoration;  and  that,  without  this  repentance, 
there  is  no  salvation :  for  though  Christ  has  died 
for  us,  and  consequently  to  him  alone  we  must 
look  as  a  Saviour,  yet  ho  has  himself  declared 
that  ho  will  save  none  but  true  penitents. 


404 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


On  the  doctrine  of  human  corruption. 

To  come  now  to  a  more  particular  statement 
of  these  doctrines.  When  an  important  edifice 
is  about  to  be  erected,  a  wise  builder  will  dig^ 
deep,  and  look  well  to  the  foundations :  know¬ 
ing  that  without  this  the  fabric  will  not  be  likely 
to  stand.  The  foundation  of  the  Christian  reli¬ 
gion,  out  of  which  the  whole  structure  may  be 
said  to  arise,  appears  to  be  the  doctrine  of  the 
^11  of  man  from  his  original  state  of  righteous¬ 
ness;  and  the  corruption  and  helplessness  of 
human  nature,  which  are  the  consequences  of 
this  fall,  and  which  is  the  natural  state  of  every 
one  born  into  the  world.  To  this  doctrine  it  is 
important  to  conciliate  the  minds,  more  especi¬ 
ally  of  young  persons,  who  are  peculiarly  dis¬ 
posed  to  turn  away  from  it  as  a  morose,  unami- 
able  and  gloomy  idea.  They  are  apt  to  accuse 
those  who  are  more  strict,  and  serious  of  unne¬ 
cessary  severity,  and  to  suspect  them  of  think¬ 
ing  unjustly  ill  of  mankind.  Some  of  the  reasons 
which  prejudice  the  inexperienced  against  the 
doctrine  in  question  appear  to  be  the  fbl  lowing  : 

Young  persons  themselves  have  seen  little  of 
the  world.  In  pleasurable  society  the  world 
puts  on  its  most  amiable  appearance  ;  and  that 
softness  and  urbanity  which  prevail,  particularly 
amongst  persons  of  fashion,  are  liable  to  be  mis¬ 
taken  for  more  than  they  are  really  worth.  The 
op(X)sition  to  this  doctrine  in  the  young,  arises 
partly  from  ingenuousness  of  heart,  partly  from 
a  habit  of  indulging  themselves  in  favourable 
suppositions  respecting  the  world,  rather  than 
of  pursuing  truth,  which  is  always  the  grand 
thing  to  be  pursued  ;  and  partly  from  the  popu¬ 
larity  of  the  tenet,  that  every  body  is  so  wonder¬ 
fully  good! 

This  error  in  youth  has  however  a  still  deeper 
foundation,  which  is  their  not  having  a  right 
standard  of  moral  good  and  evil  themselves,  in 
consequence  of  their  already  partaking  of  the 
very  corruption  which  is  spoken  of,  and  which, 
in  perverting  the  will,  darkens  the  understand¬ 
ing  also  ;  they  are  therefore  apt  to  have  no  very 
strict  sense  of  duty,  or  of  the  necessity  of  a  right 
and  religious  motive  to  every  act. 

Moreover,  young  people  usually  do  not  know 
themselves.  Not  having  yet  been  much  exposed 
to  temptation,  owing  to  the  prudent  restraints 
in  which  they  have  been  kept,  they  little  sus¬ 
pect  to  what  lengths  in  vice  they  are  liable  to  be 
transported,  nor  how  far  others  are  actually  car¬ 
ried  who  are  set  free  from  those  restraints. 

Having  laid  down  these  as  some  of  the  causes 
of  error  on  this  point,  I  proceed  to  observe  on 
what  strong  grounds  the  doctrine  itself  stands. 

Profane  history  abundantly  confirms  this  truth: 
the  history  of  the  world  being  in  fact  but  little 
else  than  the  history  of  the  crimes  of  the  human 
race.  Even  though  the  annals  of  remote  ages 
lie  so  involved  in  obscurity,  that  some  degree  of 
uncertainty  attaches  itself  to  many  of  the  events 
ecorded,  yet  this  one  melancholy  truth  is  always 
clear,  that  most  of  the  miseries  which  have  been 
brought  upon  mankind,  have  proceeded  from 
this  general  depravity. 

Tlie  world  we  now  live  in  furnishes  abundant 
proof  of  this  truth.  In  a  world  formed  on  the 
deceifft'l  theory  of  those  who  assert  the  inno¬ 


cence  and  dignity  of  man,  almost  all  the  profes. 
sions,  since  they  would  have  been  rendered  use¬ 
less  by  such  a  state  of  innocence,  would  not 
have  existed.  Without  sin  we  mqy  fairly  pre¬ 
sume  there  would  have  been  no  sickness ;  so 
that  every  medical  professor  is  a  standing  evi¬ 
dence  of  this  sad  truth.  Sin  not  only  brought 
sickness  but  death  into  the  world  ;  consequently 
every  funeral  presents  a  more  irrefragable  ar¬ 
gument  than  a  thousand  sermons.'  Had  man 
persevered  in  his  original  integrity,  there  could 
have  been  no  litigation,  for  there  would  be  no 
contests  about  property  in  a  world  where  none 
would  be  inclined  to  attack  it.  Professors  of 
law,  therefore,  from  the  attorney  who  prosecutes 
for  a  trespass,  to  the  pleader  who  defends  a  cri¬ 
minal,  or  the  judge  who  condemns  him,  loudly 
confirm  the  doctrine.  Every  victory  by  sea  or 
land  should  teach  us  to  rejoice  with  humilia¬ 
tion,  for  conquest  itself  brings  a  terrible,  though 
splendid  attestation  to  the  truth  of  the  fall  of  . 
man.  . 

Even  those  who  deny  the  doctrine,  act  univer¬ 
sally  more  or  less  on  the  principle.  Why  do  we 
all  secure  our  houses  with  bolts,  and  bars,  and 
locks  ?  Do  we  take  those  steps  to  defend  our 
lives  or  property  from  any  particular  fear  ;  from 
any  suspicion  of  this  neighbour,  or  that  servant, 
or  the  other  invader  ?  No — It  is  from  a  practical 
conviction  of  the  common  depravity  ;  from  a 
constant,  pervading,  but  undefined  dread  of  im¬ 
pending  evil  arising  from  the  sense  of  general 
corruption.  Are  not  prisons  built,  and  laws  en¬ 
acted  on  the  same  practical  principle  ? 

But  not  to  descend  to  the  more  degraded  part 
of  our  species.  Why  in  the  fairest  transaction 
of  business  is  nothing  executed  without  bonds, 
receipts,  and  notes  of  hand  ?  why  does  not  a 
perfect  confidence  in  the  dignity  of  human  na¬ 
ture  abolish  all  these  securities ;  if  not  between 
enemies,  or  people  indifferent  to  each  other,  yet 
at  least  between  friends  and  kindred,  and  the 
most  honourable  connexions  ?  why,  but  because 
of  that  universal  suspicion  between  man  and 
man,  which,  by  all  we  see,  and  hear,  and  feel, 
is  become  interwoven  with  our  very  make? 
Though  we  do  not  entertain  any  individual  sus 
picion,  nay,  though  we  have  the  strongest  per 
sonal  confidence,  yet  the  acknowledged  princi- 
pie  of  conduct  has  this  doctrine  for  its  basis.  ‘  I 
will  take  a  receipt,  though  it  were  from  my  bro 
ther,’  is  the  established  voice  of  mankind  ;  or  as 
I  have  heard  it  more  artfully  put,  by  a  fiillacy 
of  which  the  very  disguise  discovers  the  princi¬ 
ple,  ‘Think  every  man  honest,  hut  deal  with 
him  as  if  you  knew  him  to  be  otherwise.’  And 
as  in  a  state  of  innocence,  the  beasts,  it  is  pre¬ 
sumed,  would  not  have  bled  for  the  sustenance 
of  man,  so  their  parchments  would  not  have  been 
wanted  as  instruments  of  his  security  against 
his  fellow  man.* 

But  the  grand  arguments  for  this  doctrine 
must  be  drawn  from  the  Holy  Scriptures  ;  and 
these,  besides  implying  it  almost  continually 

*  Bishop  Butlerdistinctly  declares  this  truth  to  he  evi¬ 
dent  from  experience  a.s  well  us  Revelation,  ‘  that  this 
world  exhibil^an  idt^a  of  a  Ruin','  and  Ae  will  hazard 
much  who  ventures  to  assert  that  Butler  defended  Chri.s- 
tianity  upon  principles  unconsonant  xo  reason,  ijtiuast- 
■phy,  or  sound  experience. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MOkE. 


expressly  assert  it;  and  that  in  instances  too  nu- 
merous  to  be  all  of  them  brought  forward  here. 
Of  these  may  I  be  allowed  to  produce  a  few  ; 
‘  God  saw  that  the  wickedness  of  man  was  great, 
and  that  every  imagination  of  the  thoughts  of 
his  heart  was  only  evil  continually.-^*  God  look- 
ed  upon  the  earth,  and  behold,  it  was  corrupt ; 
for  all  Jlesh  had  corrupted  his  way  upon  the 
earth.  And  it  repented  the  Lord  that  he  had 
made  man  on  the  earth,  and-  it  grieved  him  at 
his  heart.'*  This  is  a  picture  of  mankind  before 
the  flood,  and  the  doctrine  receives  additional 
confirmation  in  Scripture,  when  it  speaks  of  the 
times  which  followed  after  that  tremendous 
iudgment  had  taken  place.  The  Psalms  abound 
in  lamentations  on  the  depravity  of  man.  ‘  They 
are  all  gone  aside ;  there  is  none  that  doeth 
good,  no  not  one.' — ‘  In  thy  sight,’  says  David, 
addressing  the  Most  High,  ‘  shall  no  man  living 
be  justified.’  Job,  in  his  usual  lofly  strain  of  in¬ 
terrogation,  asks,  ‘  What  is  man  that  he  should 
be  clean,  and  he  that  is  born  of  a  woman  that  he 
should  be  righteous  ?  Behold  the  heavens  are 
not  clean  in  His  sight,  how  much  more  abomi¬ 
nable  and  filthy  is  man,  who  drinketh  iniquity 
like  water.’t 

Nor  do  the  Scriptures  speak  of  this  corruption 
as  arising  only  from  occasional  temptation,  or 
from  mere  extrinsic  causes.  The  wise  man  tells 
us,  that  ‘  foolishness  is  bound  up  in  the  heart  of 
a  child ,'  the  prophet  Jeremiah  assures  us,  ‘  the 
heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things,  and  despe¬ 
rately  wicked  :’  and  David  plainly  states  the 
doctrine :  ‘  Behold,  I  was  shapen  in  iniquity, 
and  in  sin  did  my  mother  conceive  me.’  Can 
language  be  more  explicit  ? 

The  New  Testament  corroborates  the  Old. 
Our  Lord’s  reproof  of  Peter  seems  to  take  the 
doctrine  for  granted  :  ‘  Thou  savourest  not  the 
things  that  be  of  God,  but  those  that  be  of  man;' 
clearly  intimating,  that  the  ways  of  man  are 
opposite  to  the  ways  of  God.  And  our  Saviour, 
in  that  affecting  discourse  to  his  disciples,  ob¬ 
serves  to  them  that,  as  they  were  by  his  grace 
made  different  from  others,  therefore  they  must 
expect  to  be  hated  by  those  who  were  so  unlike 
them.  And  it  should  be  particularly  observed, 
as  another  proof  that  the  world  is  wicked,  that 
our  Lord  considered  ‘  the  world'  as  opposed  to 
him  and  to  his  disciples.  ‘  If  ye  were  of  the 
world,  the  world  would  love  its  own  ;  but  I  have 
chosen  you  out  of  the  world,  therefore  the  world 
hateth  you.’t  St.  John,  writing  to  his  Christian 
church,  states  the  same  truth  :  ‘  We  know  that 
we  are  of  God,  and  the  whole  world  lieth  in 
wickedness.’ 

Man  in  his  natural  and  unbelieving  state,  is 
likewise  represented  as  in  a  state  of  guilt,  and 
under  the  displeasure  of  Almighty  God.  ‘  He 
that  believeth  not  the  Son  shall  not  see  life  ;  but 
the  wrath  of  God  ahideth  on  him.’ 

Here,  however,  if  it  be  objected,  that  the  hea¬ 
then  who  never  heard  of  the  Gospel  will  not  as¬ 
suredly  be  judged  by  it,  the  Saviour’s  answer  to 

*  Genesis  vi. 

t  Perhaps  one  reeson  why  the  faults  of  the  ihost  emi¬ 
nent  saints  are  recorded  in  Scripture,  is  to  add  fresh 
confirmation  to  tliisdoctrine.  If  Abraham,  Moses,  Noah, 
Elijah,  David,  and  Peter  sinned,  who  shall  we  presume 
to  say  has  escaped  the  universal  taint  1 

I  John,  XV.  19. 


401) 

such  curious  inquirers  concerning  thestate''of 
others  is,  ‘  Strive  to  enter  in  at  the  strait  gate.' 

It  is  enough  for  us  to  believe  that  God,  who  will 
‘  judge  the  world  in  righteousness,’  will  judge 
all  men  according  to  their  opportunities.  The 
heathen  ta  whom  he  has  not  seat  the  light  of 
the  Gospel  will  probably  not  be  judged  by  the 
Gospel.  But  with  whatever  mercy  he  may 
judge  those  who,  living  in  a  land  of  darkness, 
are  without  knowledge  of  his  revealed  law,  our 
business  is  not  with  them,  but  with  ourselves. 

It  is  our  business  to  consider  what  mercy  he 
will  extend  to  those  who,  living  in  a  Christian 
country,  abounding  with  means  and  ordinances, 
where  the  Gospel  is  preached  in  its  purity ;  it  is 
our  business  to  inquire  how  he  will  deal  with 
those  who  shut  their  eyes  to  its  beams,  and  who 
close  their  ears  to  its  truths.  For  an  unbeliever 
who  has  passed  his  life  in  the  meredian  of  Scrip¬ 
ture  light,  or  for  an  outward  but  unfruitful  pro¬ 
fessor  of  Christianity,  I  know  not  what  hope  the 
Gospel  holds  out. 

The  natural  state  of  man  is  again  thus  de¬ 
scribed  : — ‘  The  carnal  mind  is  enmity  against 
God !  (awful  thought !)  for  it  is  not  subject  to 
the  law  of  God,  neither  indeed  can  be.  So  then 
they  that  are  in  the  ffesh  cannot  please  God.’ 
What  the  apostle  means  by  being  in  the  jlesh,  is 
evident  by  what  follows  ;  for  speaking  of  those 
whose  hearts  were  changed  by  divine  grace,  he 
says,  ‘  But  ye  are  not  in  the  flesh,  but  in  the  spi- 
rit,  if  so  be  that  the  Spirit  of  God  dwell  in  you ;’ 
that  is,  you  are  not  now  in  your  natural  state  : 
the  change  that  has  passed  on  your  minds  by 
the  influence  of  the  Spirit  of  God,  is  so  great 
that  your  state  may  properly  be  called,  ‘  being 
in  the  spirit.’  It  may  be  further  observed  that 
the  same  apostle,  writing  to  the  churches  of 
Galatia,  tells  them,  that  the  natural  corruption 
of  the  human  heart  is  continually  opposing  the 
Spirit  of  holiness  which  influences  the  regene¬ 
rate.  The  flesh  lusteth  against  the  Spirit,  and 
the  Spirit  against  the  flesh  ;  and  these  are  con¬ 
trary  to  each  other  :’  which  passage  by  the  way, 
at  the  same  time  that  it  proves  the  corruption  of 
the  heart,  proves  the  necessity  of  divine  influ¬ 
ences.  And  the  apostle,  with  respect  to  him¬ 
self,  freely  confesses  and  deeply  laments  the 
workings  of  this  corrupt  principle  :  ‘  O  wretch- 
ed  man  that  I  am,  who  shall  deliver  me  from 
the  body  of  this  death  V 

It  has  been  objected  by  some  who  have  oppo-  • 
sed  this  doctrine,  that  the  same  Scriptures  which 
speak  of  mankind  as  being  sinners,  speak  of 
some  as  being  righteous  ;  and  hence  they  would 
argue  that  though  this  depravity  of  human  na¬ 
ture  may  be  general,  yet  it  cannot  be  universal. 
This  objection,  when  examined,  serves  only  like 
all  other  objections  against  the  truth  tq  establish 
that  which  it  was  intended  to  destroy.  For 
what  do  the  Scriptures  assert  respecting  the 
righteous  ?  That  there  are  some  whose  princi¬ 
ples,  views  and  conduct,  are  so  different  from 
the  rest  of  the  world,  and  from  what  theirs  them¬ 
selves  once  were,  that  those  persons  are  honoured 
with  the  peculiar  title  of  the  ‘  sons  of  God.’  But 
no  where  do  the  Scriptures  assert,  that  even 
these  are  sinless ;  on  the  contrary  their  faults 
are  frequently  mentioned  ;  and  persons  of  this 
class  are  moreover  represented  as  those  on  whom 


t 


406  THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


a  great  change  has  passed  ;  as  having  been  for¬ 
merly  ‘  dead  in  trespasses  and  sins but  as 
‘  being  now  called  out  of  darkness  into  light 
as  ‘  translated  into  the  kingdom  of  God’s  dear 
Son as  ‘  having  passed  from  death  to  life.’ 
And  St.  Paul  put  this  matter  past  all  doubt,  by 
expressly  asserting,  that  ‘<Aey  were  all  by  nature 
the  children  of  wrath  even  as  others.’ 

It  might  be  well  to  ask  certain  persons,  who 
oppose  the  doctrine  in  question,  and  who  also 
seem  to  talk  as  if  they  thought  there  were  many 
sinless  people  in  the  world,  how  they  expect 
that  such  sinless  people  will  be  saved  ?  (though 
indeed  to  talk  of  an  innocent  person  being  sated 
involves  a  palpable  contradiction  in  terms,  of 
which  those  who  use  the  expression  do  not  seem 
to  be  aware ;  it  is  talking  of  curing  a  man  al¬ 
ready  in  health.)  ‘  Undoubtedly,’  such  will  say, 
‘  they  will  be  received  into  those  abodes  of  bliss 
prepared  fbr  the  righteous.’  But  be  it  remem¬ 
bered,  there  is  but  one  way  to  these  blis.sful 
abodes,  and  that  is,  through  Jesus  Christ :  ‘  For 
there  is  none  other  name  given  among  men 
whereby  we  must  be  saved.’  If  we  ask  whom 
did  Christ  come  to  save  ?  the  Scripture  directly 
answers,  ‘  He  came  into  the  world  to  save  sin¬ 
ners  : — ‘  His  name  was  called  Jesus,  because  he 
came  to  save  his  people /rom  their  sins.’  When 
St.  John  was  favoured  with  a  heavenly  vision, 
he  tells  us,  that  he  beheld  ‘a  great  multitude 
which  no  man  could  number,  of  all  nations,  and 
kindred,  and  people,  and  tongues,  standing  be¬ 
fore  the  throne,  and  before  the  Lamb,  clothed 
with  white  robes  :’  that  one  of  the  heavenly  in¬ 
habitants  informed  him  who  they  were  : — These 
are  they  who  came  out  of  great  tribulation,  and 
have  washed  their  robes,  and  made  them  white 
in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb ;  therefore  are  they 
before  the  throne  of  God,  and  serve  Him  day  and 
night  in  his  Temple;  and  He  that  sitteth  on  the 
throne  shall  dwell  among  them ;  they  shall  hun¬ 
ger  no  more,  neither  thirst  any  more,  neither 
shall  the  sun  light  on  them,  nor  any  heat ;  for 
the  Lamb  which  is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne 
shall  feed  them,  and  shall  lead  them  to  living 
fountains  of  waters,  and  God  shall  wipe  away 
all  tears  from  their  eyes.’ 

We  may  gather  from  this  description  what 
these  glorious  and  happy  beings  once  were  : 
they  were  sinful  creatures  :  their  robes  were 
not  spotless  ;  ‘  They  had  washed  them,  and  made 
•  them  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb.’  They 
are  likewise  generally  represented  as  having 
been  once  a  suffering  people  :  they  camo  out  of 
great  tribulation.  They  are  described  as  hav 
ing  overcome  the  great  tempter  of  mankind, 

*  by  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  as  they  who  ‘  fol¬ 
low  the  Lamb  whithersoever  he  goeth  :’  as  ‘re¬ 
deemed  from  among  men.’t  And  their  employ¬ 
ment  in  the  regions  of  bliss  is  a  farther  confirma¬ 
tion  of  the  doctrine  of  which  we  are  treating. 

. — ‘  The  great  multitude’  &.c.  &c.  we  are  told, 

stood  and  cried  with  a  loud  voice.  Solvation  to 
our  God,  who  sitteth  upon  the  throne,  and  to  the 
Lamb  !’  Htye  wo  see  they  ascribe  their  salva- 

•  on  to  Christ,  and  consequently  their  present 
happiness  to  his  atoning  blood.  And  in  another 
of  their  celestial  anthems,  they  say  in  like  man¬ 
ner  :  ‘  Thou  wast  slain,  and  hast  redeemed  us 

*  Rev  xii.  14.  t  Kev.  xiv.  4 


to  God  by  Thy  blood,  out  of  every  kindred,  and 
tongue,  and  people,  and  nation.’* 

By  all  this  it  is  evident  that  men  of  any  other 
description  than  redeemed  sinners  must  gain  ad¬ 
mittance  to  heaven  some  other  way  than  that 
which  the  Scriptures  point  out;  and  also  that 
when  they  shall  arrive  there,  so  different  will 
be  their  employment,  that  they  must  have  an 
anthem  peculiar  to  themselves. 

Nothing  is  more  adapted  to  ‘  the  casting  down 
of  high  imaginations,’  and  to  promote  humility, 
than  this  reflection,  that  heaven  is  always  in 
Scripture  pointed  out  not  as  the  reward  of  the 
innocent,  but  as  the  hope  of  the  penitent.  This, 
while  it  is  calculated  to  ‘  exclude  boasting,’  the 
temper  the  most  opposite  to  the  Gospel,  is  yet 
the  most  suited  to  afford  comfort ;  for  were  hea¬ 
ven  promised  as  the  reward  of  innocence,  who 
could  attain  to  it  ?  but  being  as  it  is  the  pro¬ 
mised  portion  of  faith  and  repentance,  purchased 
for  us  by  the  blood  of  Christ,  and  offered  to 
every  penitent  believer,  who  is  compelled  to 
miss  it  ? 

It  is  urged  that  the  belief  of  this  doctrine  of 
our  corruption  produces  many  ill  effects,  and 
therefore  it  should  be  discouraged. — That  it  does 
not  produce  those  ill  effects,  when  not  misun¬ 
derstood  or  partially  represented,  we  shall  at¬ 
tempt  to  show :  at  the  same  time  let  it  be  ob¬ 
served,  if  it  be  really  true  we  must  not  reject  it 
on  account  of  any  of  these  supposed  ill  conse¬ 
quences.  Truth  may  often  be  attended  with 
disagreeable  effects,  but  if  it  be  truth  it  must 
still  be  pursued.  If,  for  instance,  treason  should 
exist  in  a  country,  every  one  knows  the  disa¬ 
greeable  effects  which  will  follow  such  a  convic¬ 
tion  ;  but  our  not^elieving  such  treason  to  exist, 
will  not  prevent  such  effect  following  it :  on  the 
contrary,  our  believing  it  may  prevent  the  fatal 
consequences. 

It  is  objected,  that  this  doctrine  debases  and 
degrades  human  nature,  and  that  finding  fault 
with  the  building  is  only  another  way  of  finding 
fault  with  the  architect.  To  the  first  part  of 
this  objection  it  may  be  remarked,  that  if  man 
be  really  a  corrupt,  fallen  being,  it  is  proper  to 
represent  him  as  such  :  the  fault  then  lies  in  the 
man,  and  not  in  the  doctrine,  which  only  states 
the  truth.  As  to  the  inference  which  is  sup. 
posed  to  follow,  namely,  that  it  throws  the  fault 
upon  the  Creator,  it  proceeds  upon  the  false  sup¬ 
position  that  man’s  present  corrupt  state  is  the 
state  in  which  he  was  originally  created :  the 
contrary  of  which  is  the  truth.  ‘  God  made  man 
upright,  but  he  hath  sought  out  many  inven¬ 
tions.’ 

It  is  likewise  objected,  that  as  this  doctrine 
must  give  us  such  a  bad  opinion  of  mankind,  it 
must  consequently  produce  ill-will,  hatred,  and 
suspicion.  But  it  should  be  remembered,  that 
it  gives  us  no  worse  an  opinion  of  other  men 
than  it  gives  us  of  ourselves ;  and  such  views 
of  ourselves  have  a  very  salutary  effect,  inas¬ 
much  as  they  have  a  tendency  to  produce  humi¬ 
lity ;  and  humility  is  not  likely  to  produce  ill- 
will  to  others,  ‘  for  only  from  pride  cometh  con¬ 
tention  :’  and  as  to  the  views  it  gives  us  of  man¬ 
kind,  it  represents  us  as  fellow-sufferers  ;  and 
surely  the  consideration  that  we  ar«  companions 
*  Rev.  v.  9. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


407 


■  in  misery  is  not  calculated  to  produce  hatred. 
The  truth  is,  these  effects,  whei'e  they  have  ac¬ 
tually  followed,  have  followed  from  a  false  and 
partial  view  of  the  subject. 

Old  persons  who  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  who  have  little^religion,  are  apt  to  be  strong 
in  their  belief  of  man’s  actual  corruption ;  but 
not  taking  it  up  on  Christian  grounds,  this  be- 
lief  in  them  shows  itself  in  a  narrow  and  ma¬ 
lignant  temper;  in  uncharitable  judgment  and 
harsh  opinions,  in  individual  suspicion,  and  in 
too  general  a  disposition  to  hatred. 

Suspicion  and  hatred  also  are  the  uses  to 
"which  Rochefaucault  and  the  other  French  phi¬ 
losophers  have  converted  this  doctrine :  their 
acute  minds  intuitively  found  the  corruption  of 
man,  and  they  saw  it  without  its  concomitant 
and  correcting  doctrine ;  they  allowed  man  to 
be  a  depraved  creature,  but  disallowed  his  high 
original :  they  found  him  in  a  low  state,  but  did 
not  conceive  of  him  as  having  fallen  from  a  bet¬ 
ter.  They  represent  him  rather  as  a  brute  than 
as  an  apostate ;  not  taking  into  the  aecount  that 
his  present  degraded  nature  and  depraved  fa¬ 
culties  are  not  his  original  state :  that  he  is  not 
such  as  he  came  out  of  the  hands  of  his  Creator, 
but  such  as  he  has  been  made  by  sin.  Nor  do 
they  know  that  he  has  not  even  now  lost  all  re¬ 
mains  of  his  primitive  dignity,  all  traces  of  his 
divine  original,  but  is  still  capable  of  a  restora¬ 
tion  more  glorious 

Than  is  dreamt  of  in  their  philosophy. 

Perhaps,  too,  they  know  from  what  they  feel  all 
the  evil  to  which  man  is  inclined ;  but  they  do 
not  know,  for  they  have  not  felt,  all  the  good  of 
which  he  is  capable  by  the  superinduction  of  the 
divine  principle :  thus  they  asperse  human  na¬ 
ture  instead  of  representing  it  fairly,  and  in  so 
doing  it  is  they  who  calumniate  the  great  Cre¬ 
ator. 

The  doctrine  of  corruption,  is  likewise  ac¬ 
cused  of  being  a  gloomy,  discouraging  doctrine, 
and  an  enemy  to  joy  and  comfort. — Now  sup. 
pose  this  objection  true  in  its  fullest  extent,  is 
it  any  way  unreasonable  that  a  being  fallen  into 
a  state  of  sin,  under  the  displeasure  of  Almighty 
God,  should  feel  seriously  alarmed  at  being  in 
such  a  state  ?  Is  the  condemned  criminal  blamed 
because  he  is  not  merry  ?  And  would  it  be  es¬ 
teemed  a  kind  action  to  persuade  him  that  he  is 
not  condemned  in  order  to  make  him  so  ? 

But  this  charge  is  not  true  in  tlie  sense  in¬ 
tended  by  those  who  bring  it  forward. — Those 
who  believe  this  doctrine  are  not  the  most 
gloomy  people.  When,  indeed,  any  one  by  the 
influence  of  the  Holy  Spirit  is  brought  to  view 
his  state  a^it  really  is,  a  state  of  guilt  and  dan¬ 
ger,  it  is  natural  lliat  fear  should  be  excited  in 
his  mind,  but  it  is  such  a  fear  as  impels  him  to 
*  flee  from  the  wrath  to  come it  is  such  a  fear 
as  moved  Noah  to  ‘  prepare  an  ark  to  the  saving 
of  his  house.’  Such  an  one  will  likewise  feel 
torrow ;  not  however  ‘  tlie  sorrow  of  the  world 
which  worketh  death,’  but  that  godly  sorrow 
which  worketh  repentance.  Such  an  one  is  said 
to  be  driven  to  despair  by  this  doctrine ;  but  it 
18  the  despair  of  his  own  ability  to  save  himself ; 
it  is  that  wholesome  despair  of  his  own  merits 
produced  by  conviction  and  humility  which 


drives  him  to  seek  a  better  refuge ;  and  such  an 
one  is  in  a  proper  state  to  receive  the  glorious 
doctrine  we  are  next  about  to  contemplate, 
namely. 

That  god  so  loved  the  "world,  that  ins  gave 

HIS  ONLY  BEGOTTEN  SON,  THAT  WHOSOEVER  BE¬ 
LIEVED  ON  HIM  SHOULD  NOT  PERISH,  BUT  HAVE 
EVERLASTING  LIFE. 

Of  this  doctrine  it  is  of  the  last  importance 
to  form  just  views,  for  as  it  is  the  only  doctrine 
which  can  keep  the  humble  penitent  from  de¬ 
spair,  so,  on  the  other  hand,  great  care  must  be 
taken  that  false  views  of  it  do  not  lead  us  to  pre¬ 
sumption.  In  order  to  understand  it  rightly, 
we  must  not  fill  our  minds  with  our  own  rea¬ 
sonings  upon  it,  which  is  the  way  in  which 
some  good  people  have  been  misled,  but  we  must 
betake  ourselves  to  the  Scriptures,  wherein  we 
shall  find  the  doctrine  stated  so  plainly  as  to 
show  that  the  mistakes  have  not  arisen  from  a 
want  of  clearness  in  the  Scriptures,  but  from  a 
desire  to  make  it  bend  to  some  favourite  notions. 
While  it  has  been  totally  rejected  by  some,  it 
has  been  so  mutilated  by  qj^ers,  as  hardly  to 
retain  any  resemblance  to  the  Scripture  doctrine 
of  redemjition.  We  are  told  in  the  beautiful 
passage  last  quoted  the  source — the  love  of  God 
to  a  lost  world  ; — who  the  Redeemer  was — the 
Son  of  God  ;^the  end  for  which  this  plan  was 
formed  and  executed — ‘  that  whosoever  believed 
in  him  should  not  perish,  but  have  everlasting 
life.’-As  I  live,  saith  the  Lord,  I  have  no  pleasure 
in  the  death  of  the  wicked.’ — ‘  He  would  have 
all  men  to  be  saved  and  come  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  truth.’ — ‘  He  would  not  have  any  perish, 
but  that  all  should  come  to  repentance.’  There 
is  nothing  surely  in  all  this  to  promote  gloomi¬ 
ness.  On  the  contrary,  if  kindness  and  mercy 
have  a  tendency  to  win  and  warm  the  heart, 
here  is  every  incentive  to  joy  and  cheerfulness. 
Cliristianity  looks  kindly  towards  all,  and  with 
peculiar  tenderness  on  such  as,  from  humbling 
views  of  their  own  unworthiness,  might  be  led 
to  fancy  themselves  excluded: — we  are  expressly 
told,  that  ‘  Christ  died  for  all ;’ — that  ‘  he  tasted 
death  for  every  man  ;’ — that  ‘  he  died  for  the  sins 
of  the  whole  world'  Accordingly  he  has  com 
manded  that  his  gospel  should  be  ‘  preached  to 
every  creature ;’  which  is  in  effect  declaring, 
that  not  a  single  human  being  is  excluded  :  for 
to  preach  the  gospel  is  to  offer  a  Saviour  : — and 
the  Saviour  in  the  plainest  language  offers  him¬ 
self  to  all, — declaring  to  ‘all  the  ends  of  the 
earth,’ — ‘  Look  unto  me  and  be  saved.’  It  is 
therefore  an  undeniable  truth,  that  no  one  will 
perish  for  the  want  of  a  Saviour,  but  for  reject¬ 
ing  him.  That  none  are  excluded  who  do  not 
exclude  themselves,  as  many  unhappily  do,  who 
‘  reject  the  counsel  of  God  against  themselves, 
and  so  receive  the  grace  of  God  in  vain.’ 

But  to  suppose  that  because  Christ  has  died 
for  the  ‘  sins  of  the  whole  world,’  the  whole 
world  will  therefore  bo  saved,  is  a  most  fatal 
mistake.  In  the  same  book  which  tells  us  that 
‘  Christ  died  for  all,’  we  have  likewise  this  awful 
admonition  ;  ‘  Strait  is  the  gate,  and  few  there 
be  that  find  it which,  whether  it  be  understood 
of  the  immediate  reception  of  the  gospel,  or  of 


3 


408 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


the  final  ose  which  wa*  too  likely  to  be  maxle 
of  it,  fire*  no  encoaragernent  to  hope  that  all 
will  be  qualified  to  partake  of  its  promieee.  And 
whiUt  it  declare*  that  ‘  there  is  no  other  name 
whereby  we  may  be  Jiared  but  the  name  of  Je- 
«u* it  likewise  declares 

THAT  ‘  WJ7HOCT  lUjUJfZSt  SO  MAS  SHALL  SEE  THE 
Loan-’ 

It  is  much  to  be  feared  that  some,  in  their 
2eal  to  defend  the  gospel  doctrine*  of  free  grace, 
hare  materially  injured  the  gospel  doctrine  of 
holiness:  stating  that  Christ  has  done  all  in 
SQch  a  sense,  as  that  there  is  nothing  left  for  ns 
to  do. — But  do  the  Scriptore*  bold  out  this  lan¬ 
guage  ? — ‘  Come,  for  all  tilings  are  ready,’  is  the 
gospel  call  ;  in  which  we  may  obserre,*  that  at 
the  same  time  tliat  it  fells  ns  that  ‘  all  things  are 
ready,’  it  nevertheless  tells  ns  that  we  ’most 
‘  ame  ’  Food  being  prt^id^d  for  ns  will  not 
benefit  us  except  we  partakt  of  it  It  will  not 
avail  ns  that  ‘  Christ  our  passover  is  tacrijiced 
for  ns,’  unless  ‘  we  iteep  the  feasL’ — We  must 
make  ute  of  ‘  the  foonlain  which  is  op>ened  for 
fin  and  nncleanaess,’  if  we  wonld  be  purified. 
‘  All,  indeed,  who  are  athirtt  \rf.  invijed  to  take 
of  the  waters  of  life  freely  ;’  but  if  we  feel  no 
‘  thirrt  f  if  we  do  not  drink,  tfieir  saving  quali¬ 
ties  are  of  no  araiL 

It  is  the  more  necessary  to  insist  on  this  in 
the  present  day,  as  t/iere  is  a  worldly  and 
fashionable,  as  well  as  a  low  and  sectarian  An- 
tinornianism  :  there  lamentably  prevails  in  the 
world  an  unwarranted  assurance  of  salvation, 
founded  on  a  slight,  vague,  and  general  confi¬ 
dence  in  what  Christ  has  dtme  and  suffered  for 
ns,  as  if  tlie  great  object  of  bis  doing  and  suffer¬ 
ing  had  been  to  emancipate  u$  from  all  sfoliga- 
tions  to  duty  and  obedience ;  and  as  ifj  because 
he  died  for  sinners,  we  might  therefore  safely 
arid  comfortably  go  on  to  live  in  sin,  contenting 
ourselves  wi^  now  and  then  a  transient,  fi/rmal, 
and  oiimeaning  avowal  of  our  nnworthiness,  oor 
obligation,  and  the  all-Bujficiency  of  fns  atone¬ 
ment.  By  the  discharge  of  this  quit-rent,  of 
■which  all  the  cost  consists  in  acknowledgment, 
the  sensual,  tlie  worldly,  and  the  vain  iKpe  to 
find  a  refuge  in  beaveri,  when  driven  from  the 
enjoyment  of  this  world.  But  tliis  cheap  and 
indolent  Christianity  is  no  where  taught  in  the 
Bible.  The  faith  inculcated  there  is  not  a  lazy, 
professional  faith,  but  that  faitli  which  ‘  pro- 
duceth  'jfjedienee*  trial  faith  which  ‘  worketli  by 
or  e,’  that  faith  of  which  tlie  practical  language 
is — ‘  Strir.e  that  you  may  ‘  enter  in  ;’  ‘  .So  run 
chat  you  may  r-l^in  ;’ — ‘  So yig/d  that  you  may 
lay  ttfAd  on  eternal  life :’ — tliat  faith  which  di. 
reels  us  ‘  iy4  to  be  weary  in  weil.doing ;’ — 
which  says,  ‘  igori  wt  your  own  salvation  — 
never  forgetting  at  the  same  time,  ‘that  it  is 
Gf>l  which  worketli  in  us  Is/th  to  will  and  to  do.* 
The  cofilrary  doctrine  is  implied  in  the  very 
narr*e  of  the  Kedewier;  ‘And  his  name  shall 
1*  called  ‘Jesus,  for  he  shall  save  hi#  people 
from  their  «r»s,’  not  in  their  sins. — Are  those 
rich  supplie*  of  grace  which  the  gospel  offers; 
are  those  abundant  aids  of  tl>e  Spirit  which  it 
promises,  tenuered  to  Xite  slothful  ? — No.  (}'>d 
will  hare  all  bis  gifla  improved.  Crace  must 


■  be  used,  or  it  will  be  withdrawn-  The  Almighty 
thinks  it  not  derogatory  to  bis  free  grace  to  d^ 
clare,  tliat  ‘those  only  who  do  bis  command* 
ment*  have  right  to  the  tree  of  life.’  And  the 
ecriptures  represent  it  as  not  derogatory  to  the 

•  saerijice  of  Christ,  to  follow  his  example  in  well* 

:  doing.  The  only  caution  is,  that  we  moss  not 

work  in  oor  own  strength,  nor  bring  in  our  coo- 
j  tribution  of  works  as  if  in  aid  of  the  supposed 
i  deficiency  of  HU  merits. 

I  For  we  most  not  in  our  oter-eauiu/n  fancy, 
j  that  beca'ise  Christ  has  ‘  redeemed  us  frr/m  ton 
j  corse  of  the  law,’  we  are  tl>erefore  without  a 
I  law.  In  acknowledging  Christ  as  a  deliverer, 
;  we  most  not  forget  that  be  U  a  law-giver  too, 
ami  that  we  are  expressly  commanded  ‘  to  fulfil 
the  law  of  Christ if  we  wUh  to  know  what  hi* 
laws  are,  we  most  ‘  search  the  Scrijikures,’  espe 
cially  tlie  New  Testament ;  tliere  we  shall  fold 
him  declaring 

THE  AESOLCTE  .VECESSITT  OF  A  CHAJtUZ  OF  HEAET 
AXU  LIFE. 

Our  Saviour  says,  that  ‘  except  a  man  be  bom 
again,  he  csnitfA  see  the  kingdom  of  Cod  that 
it  is  not  a  mere  juiknowledging  Hi#  authority, 
calling  him  ‘  ly/rd,  Ix.rd,’  that  will  avail  any 
thing,  except  we  uo  what  He  commands;  that 
any  thing  short  of  this  is  like  a  man  building 
bis  house  upon  the  sar>d,  which  when  the  storm* 
come  on,  will  certainly  fitlL  In  like  manner 
the  af^/stles  are  continually  enforcing  the  neces¬ 
sity  of  this  change,  which  they  describe  under 
the  varion*  names  of  ‘  tlie  riew  man  — ‘  the 
new  creature ;’+ — ‘  a  transformatbai  into  the 
image  of  God  ft — ‘  a  parlic-ipation  of  the  divine 
nature.’^  Nor  is  this  change  represented  a* 
consisting  merely  in  a  change  of  religious  opi¬ 
nions,  not  even  in  being  delivered  over  from  a. 
worse  to  a  letter  system  of  doctrines,  rmr  in  ex¬ 
changing  gross  sins  for  tliose  which  are  rr»ore 
sorer  and  reputable  :  nor  in  rer»ooncirig  the  sin* 
of  youth,  and  assuming  those  of  a  quieter  period 
of  life;  nor  in  leaving  off  evil  practice*  because 
men  are  grown  tired  of  them,  or  find  they  in- 
;  jure  tl.eir  credit,  health,  or  fortune;  nor  dtjca  it 
(  coTisist  in  inoffensiveoe**  and  obliging  manner*, 

■  rior  indeed  in  any  merely  rmtuwrd  reformatbai. 
i  But  the  change  ry^aisist#  in  ‘  being  renewed 
I  in  the  apirit  of  oor  mind*  ;’  in  being  ‘  conformed 

to  tlie  image  of  the  .Son  of  God  in  being  ‘  call- 
‘  ed  out  of  darkness  into  his  marvellous  light,* 
Arid  tlie  witfAe  of  this  great  change,  iu  begln- 
'  ning,  pr'^re*«,and  final  accornpiisbmerit  Ter  it  i* 
I  represented  as  a  gradual  change;  is  zutcrihed  to 
I 

j  THE  ISFU-EirCE*  OF  THE  HOI-V^naiT. 

I  We  are  perpetually  reminded  of  our  otter  in¬ 
ability  to  help  ocrselves,  tliat  we  may  set  the 
'  higher  value  on  Xltf/ise  gracious  aids  which  are 

*  held  out  to  os.  We  are  taught  that  ‘  w«  are 
i  r.ot  sufficient  to  think  any  tiling  a#  of  ourselves, 
;  but  f/ur  suffir.iency  is  r/f  God-’  And  when  we  are 
j  told  tliat  ‘  if  we  live  after  tlie  flesh,  we  shall  die, 

i  we  are  at  tlie  same  time  reminded,  that  it  t* 
,  ‘  ihffitigh  tlie  Spirit  that  ‘  we  must  mortify  tha 

I  •  Kpteviafi*,  ir.  H.  t  Oalatise*.  vf,  U 

1  J  ‘i  <>iriniinaAs,  lii.  {  2  teur,  i.  4 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


409 


deeds  of  the  body.’  We  are  'likewise  cautioned 
that  we  ‘  grieve  not  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God,’ 
‘  that  we  quench  not  the  Spirit.’  By  all  which 
expressions,  and  many  others  of  like  import,  we 
are  taught  that,  while  we  are  to  ascribe  with 
humble  gratitude  every  good  thought,  word,  and 
work,  to  the  influence  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  we  are 
not  to  look  on  such  influence  as  superseding  our 
own  exertions  ;  and  it  is  too  plain  that  we  may 
reject  the  gracious  offers  of  assistance,  since 
otherwise  there  would  be  no  occasion  to  caution 
us  not  to  do  it.  The  scriptures  have  illustrated 
this  in  terms  which  are  familiar  indeed,  but 
which  are  therefore  only  the  more  condescend¬ 
ing  and  endearing.  ‘  Behold,  I  stand  at  the  door 
and  knock.  If  any  man  hear  my  voice  and 
open  the  door,- 1  will  come  in  to  him,  and  will 
sup  with  him,  and  he  with  me.’  Observe,  it  is 
not  said,  if  any  man  will  not  listen  to  me,  I  will 
force  open  the  door.  But  if  we  refuse  admit¬ 
tance  to  such  a  guest,  we  must  abide  by  the 
consequences. 

The  sublime  doctrine  of  divine  assistance  is 
the  more  to  be  prized  not  only  on  account  of 
our  own  helplessness,  but  from  the  additional 
consideration  of  the  powerful  adversary  with 
whom  the  Christian  has  to  contend  :  an  article 
of  our  faith  by  the  way,  which  is  growing  into 
general  disrepute  among  the  politer  class  of  so¬ 
ciety.  Nay,  there  is  a  kind  of  ridicule  attached 
to  the  very  suggestion  of  the  subject,  as  if  it 
were  exploded  by  general  agreement,  on  full 
.proof  of  its  being  an  absolute  absurdity,  utterly 
repugnant  to  the  liberal  spirit  of  an  enlightened 
age.  And  it  requires  no  small  neatness  of  ex¬ 
pression  and  periphrastic  ingenuity  to  get  the 
very  mention  tolerated ; — I  mean 

THi:  SCRIPTURE  DOCTRINE  OF  THE  EXISTENCE  AND 
POWER  OF  OUR  GREAT  SPIRITUAL  ENEMY. 

This  is  considered  by  the  fashionable  sceptic 
as  a  vulgar  invention,  which  ought  to  be  banish¬ 
ed  with  the  belief  in  dreams,  and  ghosts  and 
witchcraft : — by  the  fashionable  Christian,  as  an 
ingenious  allegory,  but  not  as  a  literal  truth  ; 
and  by  almost  all,  as  a  doctrine  which,  when  it 
happens  to  be  introduced  at  church,  has  at  least 
nothing  to  do  with  the  peius,  but  is  by  common 
consent  made  over  to  the  aisles,  if  indeed  it  must 
be  retained  at  all. 

May  I,  with  great  humility  and  respect,  pre¬ 
sume  to  suggest  to  our  divines  that  they  would 
do  well  not  to  lend  their  countenance  to  the  mo¬ 
dish  curtailments  of  the  Christian  faith  :  nor  to 
shun  the  introduction  of  this  doctrine  whenever 
it  consists  with  their  subject  to  bring  it  forward  ! 
A  truth  which  is  seldom  brought  before  the  eye, 
imperceptibly  grows  less  and  less  important ; 
and  if  it  be  an  unpleasing  truth,  we  grow  more 
and  more  reconciled  to  its  absence,  till  at  length 
its  intrusion  becomes  offensive,  and  we  learn  in 
the  end  to  renounce  what  we  at  first  only  ne¬ 
glected.  Because  some  coarse  and  ranting  en¬ 
thusiasts  have  been  fond  of  using  tremendous 
terms  and  awful  denunciations  with  a  violence 
and  frequency,  which  might  make  it  seem  to  be 
a  gratification  to  them  to  denounce  judgments 
and  anticipate  torments,  can  their  coarseness  or 
vulgarity  make  a  true  doctrine  false,  or  an  im¬ 


portant  one  trifling?  If  such  preachers  havo 
given  offence  by  their  uncouth  manner  of  ma¬ 
naging  an  awful  doctrine,  that  indeed  furnishes 
a  caution  to  treat  the  subject  more  discreetly, 
but  it  is  no  just  reason  for  avoiding  the  doctrine. 
For  to  keep  a  truth  out  of  sight  because  it  has 
been  absurdly  handled  or  ill-defended,  might  in 
time  be  assigned  as  a  reason  for  keeping  back, 
one  by  one,  every  doctrine  of  our  holy  church  ; 
for  which  of  them  has  not  occasionally  had  im¬ 
prudent  advocates  or  weak  champions? 

Be  it  remembered  that  the  doctrine  in  question 
is  not  only  interwoven  by  allusion,  implication, 
or  direct  assertion  throughout  the  whole  scrip¬ 
ture,  but  that  it  stands  prominently  personijied 
at  the  opening  of  the  New  as  well  as  the  Old 
Testament.  The  devil’s  temptation  of  our  Lord, 
in  which  he  is  not  represented  figuratively,  but 
visibly  and  palpably,  stands  exactly  on  the  same 
ground  of  authority  with  other  events  which  ara 
received  witliout  repugnance.  And  it  may  not 
be  an  unuseful  observation  to  remark,  that  the 
very  refusing  to  believe  in  an  evil  spirit,  may  be 
considered  as  one  of  his  own  suggestions ;  for 
there  is  not  a  more  dangerous  illusion  than  ta 
believe  ourselves  out  of  tne  reacn  of  n.asions, 
nor  a  more  alarming  temptation  than  to  fancy 
that  we  are  not  liable  to  be  tempted. 

But  the  dark  cloud  raised  by  this  doctrine 
will  be  dispelled  by  the  cheering  certainty  that 
our  blessed  Saviour  having  himself  ‘  been  tempt¬ 
ed  like  as  we  are,  is  able  to  deliver  those  who  ara 
tempted.’ 

To  return. — From  this  imperfect  sketch  wa 
may  see  how  suitable  the  religion  of  Christ  is  to 
fallen  man  !  How  exactly  it  meets  every  want  1 
No  one  needs  now  perish  because  he  is  a  sinner, 
provided  he  be  willing  to  forsake  his  sins ;  for 
‘  Jesus  Christ  came  into  the  world  to  save  sin¬ 
ners  ;’  and  ‘  He  is  now  exalted  to  be  a  Prince 
and  a  Saviour,  to  give  repentance  and  forgive¬ 
ness  of  sin.’  Which  passage,  be  it  observed, 
may  be  considered  as  pointing  out  to  us  the  or 
der  in  which  he  bestows  his  blessings  ;  he  gives 
first  repentance  and  then  forgiveness. 

We  may  likewise  see  how  much  the  character 
of  a  true  Christian  rises  above  every  other  ;  that 
there  is  a  wholeness,  an  integrity,  a  complete¬ 
ness  in  the  Christian  character,  that  a  few  natu¬ 
ral,  pleasing  qualities,  not  cast  in  the  mould  of 
the  Gospel,  are  but  as  beautiful  fragments,  or 
well-turned  single  limbs,  which  for  want  of  that 
beauty,  which  arises  from  the  proportion  of 
parts,  for  want  of  that  connexion  of  the  members 
with  the  living  head,  are  of  little  comparative 
excellence.  There  may  bo  amiable  qualities 
which  are  not  Christian  graces  ;  and  the  apostle, 
after  enumerating  every  separate  article  of  at¬ 
tack  or  defence  with  which  a  Christian  warrior 
is  to  bo  accoutred,  sums  up  the  matter  by  di¬ 
recting  that  we  put  on ‘the  whole  armour  of 
God.’  And  this  completeness  is  insisted  on  by 
all  the  apostles.  One  prays  that  his  converts 
may  ‘  stand  perfect  and  complete  in  the  whole 
will  of  God  anothef  enjoins  that  they  ‘  bo  per¬ 
fect  and  entire,  wanting  nothing.’ 

Now  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  they  expected 
any  convert  to  be  without  faults ;  they  knew 
too  well  the  constitution  of  the  human  heart  to 
form  80  unfounded  an  expectation.  But  Chris- 


410 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Cians  must  have  no  fault  in  their  principle  ;  their 
views  must  be  correct,  their  proposed  scheme 
must  be  faultless ;  their  intention  must  be  sin¬ 
gle  ;  their  standard  must  be  lofty ;  their  object 
must  be  right ;  their  mark  must  be  the  high  call¬ 
ing  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus.’ — There  must  be  no 
allowed  evil,  no  viarranted  defection,  no  tolerated 
impurity,  no  habitual  irregularity.  Though  they 
do  not  rise  as  high  as  they  ought,  nor  as  they 
wish,  in  the  scale  of  perfection,  yet  the  scale  it¬ 
self  must  be  correct,  and  the  desire  of  ascending 
perpetual ;  counting  nothing  done  while  any 
thing  remains  imdone.  Every  grace  must  be 
kept  in  exercise ;  conquests  once  made  over  an 
evil  propensity  must  not  only  be  maintained  but 
extended.  And  in  truth  Christianity  so  com¬ 
prizes  contrary,  and  as  it  may  be  thought  irre¬ 
concilable  excellences,  that  those  which  seem 
so  incompatible  as  to  be  incapable  by  nature  of 
tieing  inmates  of  the  same  breast  are  almost  ne¬ 
cessarily  involved  in  the  Christian  character. 

For  instance  ;  Christianity  requires  that  our 
faith  be  at  once  fervent  and  sober  ;  that  our  love 
be  both  ardent  and  lasting  ;  that  our  patience  be 
not  only  heroic  but  gentle ;  she  demands  daunt¬ 
less  zeal  and  genuine  humility  ;  active  services 
and  complete  self-renunciation ;  high  attain¬ 
ments  in  goodness,  with  deqp  consciousness  of 
defect ;  courage  in  reproving,  and  meekness  in 
bearing  reproof;  a  quick  perception  of  what  is 
.sinful ;  with  a  willingness  to  forgive  the  offender; 
active  virtue  ready  to  do  all,  and  passive  virtue 
ready  to  bear  all.  We  must  stretch  every  fa¬ 
culty  in  the  service  of  our  Lord,  and  yet  bring 
every  thought  into  obedience  to  Him  :  while  we 
aim  to  live  in  the  exercise  of  every  Christian 
grace,  we  must  account  ourselves  unprofitable 
servants  :  we  must  strive  for  the  crown,  yet  re¬ 
ceive  it  as  a  gift,  and  then  lay  it  at  our  Master’s 
feet :  while  we  are  busily  trading  in  the  world 
with  our  Lord’s  talents,  we  must  ‘commune 
with  our  hearts,  and  be  still :’  while  we  strive 
to  practise  the  purest  disinterestedness,  we  must 
be  contented  though  we  meet  with  selfishness  in 
return ;  and  while  laying  out  our  lives  for  the 
good  of  mankind,  we  must  submit  to  reproach 
without  murmuring,  and  to  ingratitude  without 
resentment.  And  to  render  us  equal  to  all  these 
services,  Christianity  bestows  not  only  the  pre¬ 
cepts,  but  the  power ;  she  does  what  the  great 
poet  of  Ethics  lamented  that  reason  could  not  do, 
‘  she  lends  us  arms  as  well  as  rules.’ 

I'or  here,  if  not  only  the  worldly  and  the  ti¬ 
mid,  but  the  humble  and  the  well-disposed,  should 
demand  with  fear  and  trembling,  ‘  Who  is  sufii- 
cient  for  these  things  ?’  Revelation  makes  its 
own  reviving  answer,  ‘  My  grace  is  sufficient  for 
thee.’ 

It  will  be  well  here  to  distinguish  that  there 
are  two  sorts  of  Christian  professors,  one  of 
which  affect  to  speak  of  Christianity  as  if  it  were 
a  mere  system  of  doctrines,  with  little  reference 
to  their  influence  on  life  and  manners ;  while 
the  other  consider  it  as  exhibiting  a  scene  of 
liuman  duties  independent  of  its  doctrines.  For 
though  the  latter  sort  may  admit  the  doctrines, 
yet  they  contemplate  them  as  a  separate  and 
disconnected  set  of  opinions,  rather  than  as  an 
influential  principle  of  action.  In  violation  of 
that  beautiful  harmony  which  subsists  in  every 


part  of  Scripture  between  practice  and  belief 
the  religious  world  furnishes  two  sorts  of  people 
who  seem  to  enlist  themselves,  as  if  in  opposi- 
tion,  under  the  banner  of  Saint  Paul  and  Saint 
James;  as  if  those  two  great  champions  of  the 
Christian  cause  had  fought  for  two  masters. 
Those  who  affect  respectively  to  be  the  disciples 
of  each,  treat  faith  and  works  as  if  they  were 
opposite  interests,  instead  of  inseparable  points. 
Nay,  they  go  farther,  and  set  Saint  Paul  at  va¬ 
riance  with  himself. 

Now  instead  of  reasoning  on  the  point,  let  us 
refer  to  the  apostle  in  question,  who  himself  de¬ 
finitely  settles  the  dispute.  The  apostolic  order 
and  method  in  this  respect  deserves  notice  and 
imitation :  for  it  is  observable  that  the  earlier 
parts  of  most  of  the  epistles  abound  in  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  Christianity,  while  those  latter  chap¬ 
ters,  which  wind  up  the  subject,  exhibit  all  the 
duties  which  grow  out  of  them,  as  the  natural 
and  necessary  productions  of  such  a  living  root.* 
But  this  alternate  mention  of  doctrine  and  prac¬ 
tice,  which  seemed  likely  to  unite,  has  on  the 
contrary  formed  a  sort  of  line  of  separation  be¬ 
tween  these  two  orders  of  believers,  and  intro¬ 
duced  a  broken  and  mutilated  system.  Those 
who  would  make  Christianity  consist  of  doc¬ 
trines  only,  dwell  for  instance,  on  the  first  eleven 
chapters  of  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans,  as  con¬ 
taining  exclusively  the  sum  and  substance  of 
the  Gospel.  While  the  mere  moralists,  who 
wish  to  strip  Christianity  of  her  lofty  and  appro¬ 
priate  attributes,  delight  to  dwell  on  the  twelfth 
chapter,  which  is  a  table  of  duties,  as  exclusive¬ 
ly  as  if  the  preceding  chapters  made  no  part  of 
the  sacred  Canon.  But  Saint  Paul  himself,  who 
was  at  least  as  sound  a  theologian  as  any  of  his 
commentators,  settles  the  matter  another  way, 
by  making  the  duties  of  the  twelfth  grow  out 
of  the  doctrines  of  the  antecedent  eleven,  just  as 
any  other  consequence  grows  out  of  its  cause. 
And  as  if  he  suspected  that  the  indivisible  union 
between  them  might  possibly  be  overlooked,  he 
links  the  two  distinct  divisions  together  by  a  lo¬ 
gical  ‘  therefore,’  with  which  the  twelfth  begins : 
— ‘  I  beseech  you  therefore,'  (that  is,  as  the  effect 
of  all  I  have  been  inculcating,)  ‘  that  you  pre¬ 
sent  your  bodies  a  living  sacrifice,  acceptable  to 
God,’  &.C.  and  then  goes  on  to  enforce  on  them, 
as  a  consequence  of  what  he  had,  been  preach¬ 
ing,  the  practice  of  every  Christian  virtue.  This 
combined  view  of  the  subject  seems  on  the  one 
hand,  to  bo  the  only  means  of  preventing  the 
substitution  of  Pagan  morality  for  Christian  ho¬ 
liness  :  and,  on  the  other,  of  securing  the  leading 
doctrine  of  justification  by  faith,  from  the  dread¬ 
ful  danger  of  Antinomian  licentiousness ;  every 
human  obligation  being  thus  grafted  on  the  liv*- 
ing  stock  of  a  divine  principle.  • 


CHAP.  XXI. 

On  the  duty  and  efficacy  of  prayer. 

It  is  not  proposed  to  enter  largely  on  a  topic 

*  This  is  the  language  of  our  church,  as  may  be  seea 
in  her  12th  article  ;  viz. 

Good  works  do  spring  out  necessarily  of  a  true  and 
lively  faith;  insomuch  that  by  them  a  lively  fhitli  may 
be  as  evidently  known,  as  a  tree  diwerned  by  its  ftuit. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


411 


which  has  been  exhausted  by  the  ablest  pens. 
But  as  a  work  of  this  nature  seems  to  require 
that  so  important  a  subject  should  not  be  over¬ 
looked,  it  is  intended  to  notice  in  a  slight  man¬ 
ner  a  few  of  those  many  difficulties  and  popular 
objections  which  are  brought  forward  against 
the  use  and  efficacy  of  prayer,  even  by  those 
who  would  be  unwilling  to  be  suspected  of  im¬ 
piety  and  unbelief. 

There  is  a  class  of  objectors  who  strangely 
profess  to  withhold  homage  from  the  Most  High, 
not  out  of  contempt  but  reverence.  They  affect 
to  consider  the  use  of  prayer  as  derogatory  from 
the  omniscience  of  God,  asserting  that  it  looks 
as  if  we  thought  he  stood  in  need  of  being  in¬ 
formed  of  our  wants ;  and  as  derogatory  from 
his  goodness,  as  implying  that  he  needs  to  be 
put  in  mind  of  them. 

But  is  it  not  enough  for  such  poor  frail  beings 
as  we  are  to  know,  that  God  himself  does  not 
consider  prayer  as  derogatory  either  to  his  wis¬ 
dom  or  goodness  ?  And  shall  we  erect  ourselves 
into  judges  of  what  is  consistent  with  the  attri¬ 
butes  of  Him  before  whom  angels  fall  prostrate 
with  self-abasement?  Will  he  thank  such  de¬ 
fenders  of  his  attributes,  who,  while  they  profess 
to  reverence,  scruple  not  to  disobey  him  ?  It 
ought  rather  to  be  viewed  as  a  great  encourage¬ 
ment  to  prayer,  that  we  are  addressing  a  Being, 
who  knows  our  wants  better  than  we  can  ex¬ 
press  them,  and  whose  preventing  goodness  is 
always  ready  to  relieve  them.  Prayer  seems  to 
unite  the  different  attributes  of  the  Almighty  : 
for  if  he  is  indeed  the  God  that  heareth  prayer, 
that  is  the  best  reason  why  ‘  to  him  all  flesh 
should  come.’ 

It  is  objected  by  another  class,  and  on  the  spe¬ 
cious  ground  of  humility  too,  though  we  do  not 
always  find  the  objector  himself  quite  as  humble 
as  his  plea  would  be  thought,  that  it  is  arrogant 
in  such  insignificant  beings  as  we  are  to  pre¬ 
sume  to  lay  our  petty  necessities  before  the  Great 
and  Glorious  God,  who  cannot  be  expected  to 
condescend  to  the  multitude  of  trifling  and  even 
interfering  requests  which  are  brought  before 
him  by  his  creatures.  These  and  such  like  ob¬ 
jections  arise  from  mean  and  unworthy  thoughts 
of  the  Great  Creator.  It  seems  as  if  those  who 
make  them  considered  the  Most  High  as  ‘  such 
an  one  as  themselves a  Being,  who  can  per¬ 
form  a  certain  given  quantity  of  business,  but 
who  would  be  overpowered  with  an  additional 
quantity,  p  Or,  at  best,  is  it  not  considering  the 
Almighty  in  the  light,  not  of  an  infinite  God, 
but  of  a  great  man,  of  a  minister,  or  a  king, 
who,  while  he  superintends  public  and  national 
concerns,  is  obliged  to  neglect  small  and  indivi¬ 
dual  petitions,  because  his  hands  being  full  he 
cannot  spare  that  leisure  and  attention  which 
suffice  for  every  thing  ?  They  do  not  consider 
him  as  that  infinitely  glorious  Being,  who  while 
he  beholds  at  once  all  that  is  doing  in  heaven 
and  in  earth,  is  at  the  same  time  as  attentive  to 
the  prayer  of  the  poor  destitute,  as  present  to 
the  sorrowful  sighing  of  the  prisoner,  as  if  each 
of  these  forlorn  creatures  were  individually  the 
object  of  his  undivided  attention. 

These  critics,  who  are  for  sparing  the  Sii- 
preme  Being  the  trouble  of  our  prayers,  and,  if 
I  may  so  speak  without  profaneness,  would  re¬ 


lieve  Omnipotence  of  part  of  his  burden,  by  as¬ 
signing  to  his  care  only  such  a  portion  as  may 
be  more  easily  managed,  seem  to  have  no  ade¬ 
quate  conception  of  his  attributes. 

They  forget  that  infinite  wisdom  puts  him  as 
easily  within  reach  of  all  knowledge,  as  infinite 
power  does  of  all  performance  ;  that  he  is  a  Be 
ing  in  whose  plans  complexity  makes  no  diffi¬ 
culty,  variety  no  obstruction,  and  multiplicity 
no  confusion  ;  that  to  ubiquity  distance  does  not 
exist;  that  to  infinity  space  is  annihilated  ;  that 
past,  present,  and  future,  are  discerned  more 
accurately  at  one  glance  of  his  eye,  to  whom  a 
thousand  years  are  as  one  day,  than  a  single 
moment  of  time  or  a  single  point  of  space  can 
be  by  ours. 

To  the  other  part  of  the  objection,  founded  on 
the  supposed  interference  (that  is  irreconcilable¬ 
ness)  of  one  man’s  petitions  with  those  of  an¬ 
other,  this  answer  seems  to  suggest  itself :  first, 
that  we  must  take  care  that  when  we  ask,  we 
do  not  ‘  ask  amiss  ;’  that  for  instance,  we  ask 
chiefly,  and  in  an  unqualified  manner,  only  for 
spiritual  blessings  to  ourselves  and  others  ;  and 
in  doing  this  the  prayer  of  one  man  cannot  in¬ 
terfere  with  that  of  another,  because  no  propor¬ 
tion  of  sanctity  or  virtue  implored  by  one  ob¬ 
structs  the  same  attainments  in  another.  Next 
in  asking  for  temporal  and  inferior  blessings, 
we  must  qualify  our  petition,  even  though  it 
should  extend  to  deliverance  from  the  severest 
pains,  or  to  our  very  life  itself,  according  to  that 
example  of  our  Saviour  :  ‘  Father  if  it  be  possi¬ 
ble,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me.  Nevertheless, 
not  my  will,  but  thine,  be  done.’  By  thus  qua¬ 
lifying  our  prayer,  we  exercise  ourselves  in  an 
act  of  resignation  to  God  :  we  profess  not  to  wish 
what  will  interfere  with  his  benevolent  plan,  and 
yet  we  may  hope  by  prayer  to  secure  the  bless¬ 
ing  so  far  as  it  is  consistent  with  it.  Perhaps 
the  reason  why  this  objection  to  prayer  is  so 
strongly  felt,  is  the  too  great  disposition  to  pray 
for  merely  temporal  and  worldly  blessings,  and 
to  desire  them  in  the  most  unqualified  manner, 
not  submitting  to  be  without  them,  even  though 
the  granting  them  should  be  inconsistent  with 
the  general  plan  of  Providence. 

Another  class  continue  to  bring  forward,  as 
pertinaciously  as  if  it  had  never  been  answered, 
the  exhausted  argument,  that  seeing  God  is  im¬ 
mutable,  no  petitions  of  ours  can  ever  change 
Him :  that  events  themselves  being  settled  in  a 
fixed  and  unalterable  course,  and  bound  in  a  fa¬ 
tal  necessity,  it  is  folly  to  think  that  we  can  dis¬ 
turb  the  established  laws  of  the  universe,  or  in¬ 
terrupt  the  course  of  Providence  by  our  prayers ; 
and  that  it  is  absurd  to  suppose  these  firm  de¬ 
crees  can  be  reversed  by  any  requests  of  ours. 

Without  entering  into  the  wide  and  trackless 
field  of  fate  and  free  will,  from  which  pursuit  I 
am  kept  back  equally  by  the  most  profound  ig¬ 
norance  and  the  most  invincible  dislike,  I  would 
only  observe,  that  these  objections  apply  equally 
to  all  human  action  as  well  as  to  prayer.  It 
may  therefore  with  the  same  propriety  be  urged, 
that  seeing  God  is  immutable  and  his  decrees 
unalterable,  therefore  our  actions  can  produce 
no  change  in  Him  or  in  our  own  state.  Weak 
as  well  as  impious  reasoning !  It  may  be  ques- 
tinned  whether  even  the  modern  French  and 


412 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


German  philosophers  may  not  be  prevailed  upon 
to  acknowledge  the  existence  of  God,  if  they 
might  make  such  a  use  of  his  attributes.  The 
truth  is  (and  it  is  a  truth  discoverable  without 
any  depth  of  learning)  all  these  objections  are 
the  olFspring  of  pride.  Poor  short-sighted  man 
cannot  reco'ncile  the  omniscience  and  decrees 
of  God  with  the  efficacy  of  prayer;  and  because 
he  cannot  reconcile  them,  he  modestly  concludes 
they  are  irreconcilable.  How  much  more  wis¬ 
dom,  as  well  as  happiness,  results  from  an  hum¬ 
ble  Christian  spirit !  Such  a  plain  practical  text 
as,  ‘  Draw  near  unto  God,  and  he  will  draw  near 
unto  you,’  carries  more  consolation,  more  true 
knowledge  of  his  wants  and  their  remedy  to  the 
heart  of  a  penitent  sinner,  than  all  the  ‘  tomes 
of  casuistry,’  which  have  puzzled  the  world  ever 
since  the  question  was  first  set  afloat  by  its 
original  propounders- 

And  as  the  plain  man  only  got  up  and  walked, 
to  prove  there  was  such  a  thing  as  motion, 
in  answer  to  the  philosopher  who  in  an  elabo¬ 
rate  theory  denied  it :  so  the  plain  Christian, 
when  he  is  borne  down  with  the  assurance  that 
there  is  no  efficacy  in  prayer,  requires  no  better 
argument  to  repel  the  assertion,  than  the  good 
he  finds  in  prayer  itself. 

All  the  doubts  proposed  to  him  respecting 
God,  do  not  so  much  affect  him,  as  this  one 
doubt  respecting  himself :  ‘  If  I  regard  iniquity 
n  my  heart,  the  Lord  will  not  hear  me.’  For 
.he  chief  doubt  and  difficulty  of  a  real  Christian 
consists,  not  so  much  of  a  distrust  of  God’s 
ability  and  willingness  to  answer  the  prayer  of 
the  upright,  as  in  a  distrust  of  his  own  upright¬ 
ness,  as  in  a  doubt  whether  he  himself  belongs 
to  that  description  of  persons  to  whom  the  pro¬ 
mises  are  made,  and  of  the  quality  of  the  prayer 
which  he  offers  up. 

Let  the  subjects  of  a  dark  fate  maintain  a 
sullen,  or  the  slaves  of  a  blind  chance  a  hopeless 
silence,  but  let  the  child  of  a  compassionate  Al¬ 
mighty  Father  supplicate  His  mercies  with  a 
humble  confidence,  inspired  by  the  assurance, 
that  ‘  the  very  hairs  of  his  head  are  numbered.’ 
Let  him  take  comfort  in  that  individual  and 
minute  attention,  without  which  not  a  sparrow 
falls  to  the  ground,  as  well  as  in  that  heart- 
cheering  promise ;  that,  as  ‘  the  eyes  of  the 
Lord  are  over  the  righteous,’  so  are  ‘  his  ears 
open  to  their  prayers.’  And  as  a  pious  bishop 
has  observed,  ‘  Our  Saviour  has  as  it  were 
hedged  in  and  inclosed  the  Lord’s  prayer  with 
these  two  great  fences  of  our  faith,  God’s  willing¬ 
ness  and  his  power  to  help  us  ;’  the  preface  to  it 
assures  us  of  the  one,  which  by  calling  God  by 
the  tender  name  of  ‘  Our  Father,’  intimates  his 
readiness  to  help  his  children  :  and  the  animat¬ 
ing  conclusion,  ‘  Thine  is  the  power'  rescues 
us  from  every  unbelieving  doubt  of  his  ability  to 
help  us. 

A  Christian  knows,  because  ho  feel^,  that 
prayer  is,  though  in  a  way  to  him  inscrutable,  the 
medium  of  connexion  between  God  and  his  ra¬ 
tional  creatures  ;  the  means  appointed  by  him  to 
draw  down  his  blessings  upon  us.  The  Christian 
knows  that  prayer  is  the  appointed  means  of  unit¬ 
ing  two  ideas,  one  of  the  highest  magnificence, 
the  other  of  the  most  profound  lowliness,  within 
the  cmnpass  of  imagination ;  namely,  that  it  is  the 


link  of  communication  between  ‘  the  high  and 
lofty  One  who  inhabiteth  eternity,  and  that 
heart  of  the  ‘  contrite  in  which  he  delights  to 
dwell.’  He  knows  that  this  inexplicable  union 
between  beings  so  unspeakably,  so  essentially 
different,  can  only  be  maintained  by  prayer : 
that  this  is  the  strong  but  secret  chain  which 
unites  time  with  eternity,  earth  with  heaven, 
man  with  God. 

The  plain  Christian,  as  was  before  observed, 
cannot  explain  why  it  is  so;  but  while  he  feels 
the  efficacy,  he  is  content  to  let  the  learnod  de¬ 
fine  it ;  and  he  will  no  more  postpone  prayer  till 
he  can  produce  a  chain  of  reasoning  on  the 
manner  in  which  he  derives  benefit  from  it, 
than  he  will  postpone  eating  till  he  can  give  a 
scientific  lecture  on  the  nature  of  digestion ;  he 
is  contented  with  knowing  that  his  meat  has 
nourished  him  ;  and  he  leaves  to  the  philosopher, 
who  may  choose  to  defer  his  meal  till  he  has 
elaborated  his  treatise,  to  starve  in  the  interim. 
The  Christian  feels  better  than  he  is  able  to  ex¬ 
plain,  that  the  functions  of  his  spiritual  life  can 
no  more  be  carried  on  without  habitual  prayer, 
than  those  of  his  natural  life  without  frequent 
bodily  nourishment.  He  feels  renovation  and 
strength  grow  out  of  the  use  of  the  appointed 
means,  as  necessarily  in  the  one  case  as  in  the 
other.  He  feels  that  the  health  of  his  soul  can 
no  more  be  sustained,  and  its  powers  kept  in 
continued  vigour,  by  the  prayers  of  a  distant 
day,  than  his  body  by  the  aliment  of  a  distant 
day. 

But  there  is  one  motive  to  the  duty  in  ques¬ 
tion,  far  more  constraining  to  the  true  believer 
than  all  others  that  can  be  named ;  more  im¬ 
perious  than  any  argument  on  its  utility,  than 
any  convictions  of  its  efficacy,  even  than  any 
experience  of  its  consolations.  Prayer  is  the 
command  of  God  ;  the  plain,  positive,  repeated 
injunction  of  the  Most  High,  who  declares, 
‘  He  will  be  inquired  of.’  This  is  enough  to 
secure  the  obedience  of  the  Christian,  even 
though  a  promise  were  not,  as  it  always  is,  at¬ 
tached  to  the  command.  But  in  this  case,  to 
our  unspeakable  comfort,  the  promise  is  as  clear 
as  the  precept :  ‘  Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive — 
seek,  and  ye  shall  find — Knock,  and  it  shall  be 
opened  unto  you.’  This  is  encouragement 
enough  for  the  plain  Christian.  As  to  the  man¬ 
ner  in  which  prayer  is  made  to  coincide  with 
the  general  scheme  of  God’s  plan  in  the  govern¬ 
ment  of  human  affairs  ;  how  God  has  left  him¬ 
self  at  liberty  to  reconcile  our  prayer  with  his 
own  predetermined  will,  the  Christian  does  not 
very  critically  examine,  his  precise  and  imme¬ 
diate  duty  being  to  pray,  and  not  to  examine  ; 
and  probably  this  being  among  the  ‘  secret 
things  which  belong  to  God,’  and  not  to  us,  it 
will  lie  hidden  among  those  numberless  myste¬ 
ries  which  we  shall  not  fully  understand  till 
faith  be  lost  in  sight 

In  the  meantime  it  is  enough  for  the  humble 
believer  to  be  assured,  that  the  Judge  of  all  the 
earth  is  doing  right ;  it  is  enough  for  him  to  be 
assured  in  that  word  of  God  ‘  which  cannot  lie,’ 
of  numberless  actual  instances  of  the  efficacy 
of  prayer  in  obtaining  blessings  and  averting 
calamities,  both  national  and  individual :  it  is 
enough  for  him  to  be  convinced  experimentally. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


413 


by  that  internal  evidence,  which  is  perhaps 
paramount  to  all  other  evidence,  the  comfort  he 
himself  has  received  from  prayer  when  all  other 
comforts  have  failed  : — and  above  all  to  end  with 
the  same  motive  with  which  we  beg-an,  the  only 
motive  indeed  which  he  requires  for  the  perfor¬ 
mance  of  any  duty — it  is  motive  enough  for 
him — that  thus  saith  the  Lord.  For  when  a 
serious  Christian  has  once  got  a  plain  unequivo¬ 
cal  command  from  his  Maker  on  any  point,  he 
never  suspends  his  obedience  while  he  is  amus¬ 
ing  himself  with  looking  about  for  subordinate 
motives  of  action.  Instead  of  curiously  ana¬ 
lysing  the  nature  of  the  duty,  he  considers 
how  he  shall  best  fulfil  it :  fbr  on  these  points 
at  least  it  may  be  said  without  controversy 
that  ‘  the  ignorant  (and  hero  who  is  not  igno¬ 
rant?)  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  law  hut  to 
obey  it  ? 

Others  there  are,  who,  perhaps  not  contro¬ 
verting  any  of  the  premises,  yet  neglect  to  build 
practical  consequences  on  the  admisssion  of 
them,  who  neither  denying  the  duty  nor  the 
efficacy  of  prayer,  yet  go  on  to  live  either  in  the 
irregular  observance  or  the  total  neglect  of  it, 
as  appetite,  or  pleasure,  or  business,  or  humour, 
may  happen  to  predominate ;  and  who  by  living 
almost  without  prayer,  may  be  Said  ‘  to  live 
almost  without  God  in  the  world.’  To  such  we 
can  only  say,  that  they  little  know  what  they 
lose. — The  time  is  hastening  on  when  they  will 
look  upon  those  blessings  as  invaluable,  which 
now  they  think  not  worth  asking  for ;  when 
they  will  bitterly  regret  the  absence  of  those 
means  and  opportunities  which  now  they  either 
neglect  or  despise.  ‘  O  that  they  were  wise  ! 
that  they  understood  this  !  that  they  would  con¬ 
sider  their  latter  end !’ 

There  are  again  others,  who  it  is  to  be  feared 
having  once  lived  in  the  habit  of  prayer,  yet  not 
having  been  well  grounded  in  those  principles 
of  faith  and  repentance  on  which  genuine  prayer 
is  built,  have  by  degrees  totally  discontinued  it. 
‘  They  do  not  find,’  say  they,  ‘  that  their  affairs 
prosper  the  better  or  the  worse ;  or  perhaps  they 
were  unsuccessful  in  their  affairs  even  before 
they  dropped  the  practice,  and  so  had  no  en¬ 
couragement  to  go  on.’  They  do  not  know  that 
they  had  no  encouragement;  they  do  not  know 
how  much  worse  their  affairs  might  have  gone 
on,  had  they  discontinued  it  sooner,  or  how  their 
prayers  helped  to  retard  their  ruin.  Or  they 
do  not  know  that  perhaps  ‘  they  asked  amiss,’ 
or  that  if  they  had  obtained  what  they  asked, 
they  might  have  been  far  more  unhappy.  For 
a  true  believer  never  ‘  restrains  prayer’  because 
he  is  not  certain  he  obtains  every  individual  re¬ 
quest;  for  he  is  persuaded  that  God,  in  com¬ 
passion  to  our  ignorance,  sometimes  in  great 
mercy  withholds  what  we  desire,  and  often  dis¬ 
appoints  his  most  favoured  children  by  giving 
them,  not  what  they  ask,  but  what  he  knows  is 
really  good  for  them.  The  froward  child,  as  a 
pious  prelate*  observes,  cries  for  the  shining 
blade,  which  the  tender  parent  withholds,  know¬ 
ing  it  would  cut  his  fingers. 

Thus  to  persevere  when  we  have  not  the  en¬ 
couragement  of  visible  success,  is  an  evidence 

*  Bishop  Hall. 


of  tried  faith.  Of  this  holy  perseverance  Job 
was  a  noble  instance.  Defeat  and  disappoint¬ 
ment  rather  stimulated  than  stopped  his  prayers- 
Though  in  a  vehement  strain  of  passionate  elo¬ 
quence  he  exclaims,  ‘  I  cry  out  of  wrong,  but  I 
am  not  heard ;  I  cry  aloud,  but  there  is  no 
judgment,’  yet  so  persuaded  was  he,  notwith¬ 
standing,  of  the  duty  of  continuing  this  holy 
importunity,  that  he  persisted  against  all  human 
hope,  till  he  attained  to  that  exalted  pitch  of 
unshaken  faith,  by  which  he  was  enabled  to 
break  out  into  that  sublime  apostrophe,  ‘  Though 
he  slay  me,  yet  I  will  trust  in  him.’ 

But  may  we  not  say  that  there  is  a  consider¬ 
able  class,  who  not  only  bring  none  of  the  ob¬ 
jections  which  we  have  stated  against  the  use 
of  prayer  ;  who  are  so  far  from  rejecting,  that 
they  are  exact  and  regular  in  the  performance 
of  it;  who  yet  take  it  up  on  asMow  ground  as  is 
consistent  with  their  ideas  of  their  own  safety  ; 
who  while  they  considsr  prayer  as  an  indispen¬ 
sable  form,  believe  nothing  of  that  change  of 
heart  and  of  those  holy  tempers  which  it  is  in¬ 
tended  to  produce  ?  Many  who  yet  adhere 
scrupulously  to  the  letter,  are  so  far  from  enter¬ 
ing  into  the  spirit  of  this  duty,  that  they  are 
strongly  inclined  to  suspect  those  of  hypocrisy 
who  adopt  the  true  scriptural  views  of  prayer. 
Nay,  as  even  the  Bible  may  be  so  wrested  as  to 
be  made  to  speak  almost  any  language  in  support 
of  almost  any  opinion,  these  persons  lay  hold  on 
Scripture  itself  to  bear  them  out  in  their  own 
slight  views  of  this  duty  ;  and  they  profess  to 
borrow  from  thence  the  ground  of  that  censure 
which  they  cast  on  the  more  serious  Christians. 
Among  the  many  passages  which  have  been 
made  to  convey  a  meaning  foreign  to  their 
original  design,  none  have  been  seized  upon 
with  more  avidity  by  such  persons  than  the 
pointed  censures  of  our  Saviour  on  those  ‘  who 
for  a  pretence  make  long  prayers;’  as  well  as 
on  those  ‘  who  use  vain  repetitions,  and  think 
they  shall  be  heard  for  much  speaking.’  Now 
the  things  here  intended  to  be  reproved,  were 
the  hypocrisy  of  the  Pharisees  and  the  igno¬ 
rance  of  the  heathen,  together  with  the  error  of 
all  those  who  depended  on  the  success  of  their 
prayers,  while  they  imitated  the  deceit  of  the 
one  or  the  folly  of  the  other.  But  our  Saviour 
never  meant  tliose  severe  reprehensions  should 
cool  or  abridge  the  devotion  of  pious  Christians, 
to  which  they  do  not  at  all  apply. 

More  or  fewer  words,  however,  so  little  con¬ 
stitute  the  true  value  of  prayer,  that  there  is  no 
doubt  but  one  of  the  most  affecting  specimens 
on  record  is  the  short  petition  of  the  publican  , 
full  fraught  as  it  is  with  tljat  spirit  of  contrition 
and  self-abasement  which  is  the  very  principle 
and  soul  of  prayer.  And  this  specimen  perhaps 
is  the  best  model  for  that  sudden  lifting  up  of 
the  heart  which  we  call  ejaculation.  But  I 
doubt,  in  general,  whether  those  few  hasty 
words  to  which  these  frugal  petitioners  would 
stint  the  scanty  devotions  of  others  and  them¬ 
selves,  will  be  always  found  ample  enough  to 
satisfy  the  humble  penitent,  who,  being  a  sinner, 
has  much  to  confess;  who,  hoping  he  is  a  par¬ 
doned  sinner,  has  much  to  acknowledge.  Such 
an  one  perhaps  cannot  always  pour  out  the  ful¬ 
ness  of  his  soul  within  the  prescribed  abridg 


414 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ments.  Even  the  sincercst  Christian,  when  he 
wishes  to  find  his  heart  warm,  has  often  to  la¬ 
ment  its  coldness.  Though  he  feel  that  he  has 
received  much,  and  has  therefore  much  to  be 
thankful  for,  yet  he  is  not  able  at  once  to  bring 
his  wayward  spirit  into  such  a  posture  as  shall 
fit  it  for  the  solemn  business ;  for  such  an  one 
has  not  merely  his  form  to  repeat ;  but  he  has 
his  tempers  to  reduce  to  order ;  his  affections  to 
excite,  and  his  peace  to  make.  His  thoughts 
may  be  realizing  the  sarcasm  of  the  prophet  on 
the  idol  Baal,  ‘  they  may  be  gone  a  journey,’ 
and  must  be  recalled  ;  his  heart  perhaps  ‘  sleep- 
eth  and  must  be  awaked.’  A  devout  supplicant 
loo  will  labour  to  affect  and  warm  his  mind 
with  a  sense  of  the  great  and  gracious  attributes 
of  God,  in  imitation  of  the  holy  men  of  old. 
Like  Jehosaphat,  he  will  sometimes  enumerate 
‘  the  power,  and  the  might,  and  the  mercies  of 
the  Most  High,’  in  order  to  stir  up  the  senti¬ 
ments  of  awe,  and  gratitude,  and  love,  and  hu¬ 
mility  in  his  own  soul.*  He  will  labour  to  imi¬ 
tate  the  example  of  his  Saviour,  whose  heart  di¬ 
lated  with  the  expression  of  the  same  holy 
affections.  ‘  I  thank  thee,  O  Father,  Lord  of 
heaven  and  earth.’  A  heart  thus  animated,  thus 
warmed  with  divine  love,  cannot  always  scru¬ 
pulously  limit  itself  to  the  mere  buainess  of 
prayer,  if  I  may  so  speak.  It  cannot  content 
itself  with  merely  spreading  out  its  own  neces- 
cities,  but  expands  in  contemplating  the  perfec¬ 
tions  of  Him  to  whom  he  is  addressing  them. 
The  humble  supplicant,  though  he  be  no  longer 
governed  by  a  Icve  of  the  world,  yet  grieves  to 
find  that  he  cannot  totally  exclude  it  from  his 
thoughts.  Though  he  has  on  the  whole  a  deep 
sense  of  his  own  wants,  and  of  the  abundant  pro¬ 
vision  which  is  made  for  them  in  the  Gospel ; 
yet  when  he  most  wishes  to  be  rejoicing  in  those 
strong  motives  for  love  and  gratitude,  alas !  even 
then  he  has  to  mourn  his  worldliness,  his  insen¬ 
sibility,  his  deadness.  He  has  to  deplore  the 
littleness  and  vanity  of  the  objects  which  are 
even  then  drawing  away  his  heart  from  his  Re¬ 
deemer.  The  best  Christian  is  but  too  liable, 
during  the  temptations  of  the  day,  to  be  ensnared 
by  ‘  the  lust  of  the  eye,  and  the  pride  of  life,’ 
and  is  not  always  brought  without  effort  to  re¬ 
flect  that  he  i«  but  dust  and  ashes.  How  can 
even  good  persons  who  are  just  come  perhaps 
from  listening  to  the  flattery  of  their  fellow- 
worms,  acknowledge  before  God,  without  any 
preparation  of  the  heart,  that  they  are  miserable 
sinners  ?  They  require  a  little  time  to  impress 
on  their  own  souls  the  truth  of  that  solemn  con¬ 
fession  of  sin  they  are  making  to  Him,  without 
which  brevity  and  not  length  might  constitute 
hypocrisy.  Even  the  sincerely  pious  have  in 
prayer  grievous  wanderings  to  lanront,  from 
which  others  mistakingly  suppose  the  advanced 
Christian  to  be  exempt.  Such  wanderings  that, 
as  an  old  divine  has  observed,  it  would  exceed¬ 
ingly  humble  a  good  man,  could  he,  after  he 
had  prayed,  be  made  to  see  his  prayers  written 
down,  with  exact  interlineations  of  all  the  vain 
and  impertinent  thoughts  which  had  thrust 
themselves  in  amongst  them.  So  that  such  an 
one  will  indeed,  from  a  strong  sense  of  these 
di,stractions,  fee!  deep  occasion  with  the  prophet 
*  2  Chron.  xv.  5,  C. 


to  ask  forgiveness  for  ‘  the  iniquity  of  his  kolp 
things:’  and  would  find  cause  enough  for  humi¬ 
liation  every  night,  had  he  to  lament  the  sins  of 
his  prayers  only. 

We  know  that  such  a  brief  petition  as  ‘  Lord 
help  my  unbelief,’  if  the  supplicant  be  in  so  hap¬ 
py  a  frame,  and  the  prayer  be  darted  up  with 
such  strong  faith  that  his  very  soul  mounts  with 
the  petition,  may  suffice  to  draw  down  a  blessing 
which  may  be  withheld  from  the  more  prolix 
petitioner  :  yet,  if  by  prayer  we,  do  not  mean  a 
mere  form  of  words,  whether  they  be  long  or 
short ;  if  the  true  definition  of  prayer  be,  that  it 
is  ike  desire  of  the  heart ;  if  it  be  that  secret 
communion  between  God  and  the  soul,  which  is 
the  very  breath  and  being  of  religion  ;  then  is 
the  Scripture  so  far  from  suggesting  that  short 
measure  of  which  it  is  accused,  that  it  expressly 
says,  ‘  Pray  without  ceasing’ — ‘  Pray  evermore 
— ‘  I  will  that  men  pray  every  where’ — ‘  conti¬ 
nue  instant  in  prayer.’ 

If  such  ‘repetitions’  as  these  objectors  re¬ 
probate,  stir  up  desires  as  yet  unawakened,  or 
protract  affections  already  excited  (for  ‘  vain  re¬ 
petitions’  are  such  as  awaken  or  express  no  new 
desire,  and  serve  no  religious  purpose)  then  are 
‘  repetitions  not  to  be  condemned.  And  that 
our  Saviour  did  not  give  the  warning  against 
‘  long  prayers  and  repetitions’  in  the  sense  these 
objections  allege,  is  evident  from  his  own  prac¬ 
tice  ;  for  once  we  are  told  ‘  he  continued  all 
night  in  prayer  to  God.’  And  again,  in  the 
most  awful  crisis  of  his  life,  it  is  expressly  said, 
‘  He  prayed  the  third  time,  using  the  same 
words'* 

All  habits  gain  by  exercise ;  of  course  the 
Christian  graces  gain  force  and  vigour  by  being 
called  out,  and,  as  it  were,  mustered  in  prayer. 
Love,  faith,  and  trust  in  the  divine  promises,  if 
they  were  not  kept  alive  by  this  stated  inter¬ 
course  with  God,  would  wither  and  die.  Prayer 
is  also  one  great  source  and  chief  enqourager  of 
holiness.  ‘  If  I  regard  iniquity  in  my  heart  the 
Lord  will  not  hear  me.’ 

Prayer  possesses  the  two-fold  property  of 
fighting  and  preparing  the  heart  to  receive  the 
blessings  we  pray  for,  in  case  we  should  attain 
them  ;  and  of  fortifying  and  disposing  it  to  sub¬ 
mit  to  the  will  of  God,  in  case  it  should  be  his 
pleasure  to  withhold  them. 

A  sense  of  sin  should  be  so  far  from  keeping 
us  from  prayer,  through  a  false  plea  of  unwor- 
thines.s,  that  the  humility  growing  on  this  very 
consciousness  is  the  truest  and  strongest  incen¬ 
tive  to  prayer.  There  is,  for  our  example  and 
encouragement,  a  beautiful  union  of  faith  and 
humility  in  the  prodigal — ‘I  have  sinned  against 
heaven  and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy 
to  be  called  thy  son.’  This  as  it  might  seem  to 
imply  hopelessness  of  pardon,  might  be  supposed 
to  promote  unwillingness  to  ask  it ;  but  the 
heart-broken  penitent  drew  the  direct  contrary 
conclusion — ‘  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father !’ 

Prayer,  to  make  it  accepted,  requires  neither 
genius,  eloquence,  nor  language ;  but  sorrow  for 
sin,  faitli,  and  humility.  It  is  the  cry  of  dis¬ 
tress,  the  sense  of  want,  the  abasement  of  con¬ 
trition,  the  energy  of  gratitude.  It  is  not  an 
elaborate  string  of  well  arranged  periods  nor  an 
*  Matt.  xxvi.  44. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


415 


exercise  of  ing^enuity,  nor  an  effort  of  the  me¬ 
mory  ;  but  the  devout  breathing  of  a  sou!  struck 
with  a  sense  of  its  own  misery,  and  of  the  infi¬ 
nite  holiness  of  Him  whom  it  is  addressing  ;  ex¬ 
perimentally  convinced  of  its  own  emptiness, 
and  of  the  abundant  fulness  of  God.  It  is  the 
complete  renunciation  of  self,  and  the  entire  de¬ 
pendence  on  another.  It  is  the  voice  of  a  beg. 
gar  who  would  be  relieved ;  of  the  sinner  who 
would  be  pardoned.  It  has  nothing  to  offer  but 
sin  and  sorrow;  nothing  to  ask  but  forgiveness 
and  acceptance  ;  nothing  to  plead  but  the  pro¬ 
mises  of  the  Gospel  in  the  death  of  Christ.  It 
never  seeks  to  obtain  its  object  by  diminishing 
the  guilt  of  sin,  but  by  exalting  the  merits  of  the 
Saviour. 

But  as  it  is  the  effect  of  prayer  to  expand  the 
affections  as  well  as  to  sanctify  them ;  the  bene¬ 
volent  Christian  is  not  satisfied  to  commend 
himself  alone  to  the  divine  favour.  The  heart 
which  is  full  of  the  love  of  God  will  overflow 
with  love  to  its  neighbour.  All  that  are  near  to 
himself  he  wishes  to  bring  near  to  God.  He 
will  present  the  whole  human  race  as  objects  of 
divine  compassion ;  but  especially  the  faithful 
followers  of  Jesus  Christ.  Religion  makes  a 
man  so  liberal  of  soul,  that  he  cannot  endure  to 
restrict  any  thing,  much  less  divine  mercies,  to 
himself :  he  therefore  spiritualizes  the  social  af¬ 
fections,  by  adding  intercessory  to  personal 
prayer  ;  for  he  knows  that  petitioning  for  others 
is  one  of  the  best  methods  of  exercising  and  en¬ 
larging  our  own  love  and  charity,  even  if  it  were 
not  to  draw  down  those  blessings  which  are  pro¬ 
mised  to  those  for  whom  we  ask  them.  It  is 
unnecessary  to  produce  any  of  the  numberless 
instances  with  which  Scripture  abounds,  on  the 
efficacy  of  intercession  :  in  which  God  has  pro¬ 
ved  the  truth  of  his  own  assurance,  that  ‘  his  ear 
was  open  to  their  cry.’  I  shall  confine  myself 
to  a  few  observations  on  the  benefits  it  brings  to 
him  who  opers  it.  When  we  pray  for  the  object 
of  our  dearest  regard,  it  purifies  passion,  and 
exalts  love  into  religion ;  when  we  pray  for  those 
with  whom  we  have  worldly  intercourse,  it 
smooths  down  the  swellings  of  envy,  and  bids 
the  tumults  of  anger  and  ambition  subside : 
wlien  we  pray  for  our  country,  it  sanctifies  pa¬ 
triotism  :  when  we  pray  for  those  in  authority. 


it  adds  a  divine  motive  to  human  obedience  i 
when  we  pray  for  our  enemies,  it  softens  the 
savageness  of  war  and  molifies  hatred  into  ten¬ 
derness,  and  resentment  into  sorrow.  And  we 
can  only  learn  the  duty  so  difficult  to  human 
nature,  of  forgiving  those  who  have  offended  us, 
when  we  bring  ourselves  to  pray  for  them  to 
Him  whom  we  ourselves  daily  offend.  When 
those  who  are  the  faithful  followers  of  the  same 
Divine  Master  pray  for  each  other,  the  recipro¬ 
cal  intercession  delightfully  realizes  that  beauti¬ 
ful  idea  of ‘the  communion  of  saints.’  There  is 
scarcely  any  thing  which  more  enriches  the 
Christian  than  the  circulation  of  this  holy  com¬ 
merce  ;  than  the  comfort  of  believing,  while  he 
is  praying  for  his  Christian  friends,  that  he  is 
also  reaping  the  benefit  of  their  prayers  for  him. 

Some  are  for  confining  their  intercessions  on¬ 
ly  to  the  good,  as  if  none  but  persons  of  merit 
were  entitled  to  our  prayers.  Merit !  who  has 
it?  Desert!  who  can  plead  it  ?  in  the  sight  of 
God,  I  mean.  Who  shall  bring  his  own  piety, 
or  the  piety  of  others,  in  the  way  of  claim,  be¬ 
fore  a  Being  of  such  transcendant  holiness,  that 
‘  the  heavens  are  not  clean  in  his  sight  ?’  And 
if  we  wait  for  perfect  holiness  as  a  preliminary 
to  prayer,  when  shall  such  erring  creatures  pray 
at  all  to  Him  ‘  who  chargeth  the  angels  with 
folly  !’ 

In  closing  this  little  work  with  the  subject  of 
intercessory  prayer,  mtky  the  author  be  allowed 
to  avail  herself  of  the  feeling  it  suggests  to  her 
own  heart  ?  And  while  she  earnestly  implores 
that  Being,  who  can  make  the  meanest  of  bis 
creatures  instrumental  to  his  glory,  to  bless  this 
humble  attempt  to  those  for  whom  it  was  written, 
may  she,  without  presumption,  entreat  that  this 
work  of  Christian  charity  may  be  reciprocal  ; 
and  that  those  who  peruse  these  pages  may  put 
up  a  petition  for  her,  that  in  the  great  day  to 
which  we  are  all  hastening,  she  may  not  be 
found  to  have  suggested  to  others  what  she  her¬ 
self  did  not  believe,  or  to  have  recommended 
what  she  did  not  desire  to  practice  ?  In  that 
awful  day  of  everlasting  decision,  may  both  the 
reader  and  the  writer  be  pardoned  and  accepted, 
‘  not  for  any  works  of  righteousness  which  they 
have  done,’'  but  through  the  merits  of  the  Great 
Intercessor. 


PRACTICAL  PIETY, 

OR  THE  INFLUENCE  OF 

THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  HEART 

ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  THE  LIFE. 

The  fear  of  God  begins  with  the  Heart,  and  purifies  and  rectifies  it ;  and  from  the  Heart,  tlius 
rectified,  grows  a  conformity  in  the  Life,  the  Words,  and  the  Actions. — Sir  Matthew  Hale's 
Contemplations. 


PREFACE. 

An  eminent  professor  of  our  own  time  modestly  declared  that  he  taught  chemistry  in  order 
that  he  might  learn  it.  The  writer  of  the  following  pages  might,  with  far  more  justice,  offer  a 


416 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Eimilar  declaration,  as  an  apology  for  so  repeatedly  treating  on  tbe  important  topics  of  religion 
and  morals 

Abashed  by  the  equitable  precept, 

Let  those  teach  others  who  themselves  excel— 

ehe  is  aware,  how  fairly  she  is  putting  it  in  the  power  of  the  reader,  to  ask,  in  the  searching 
Words  of  an  eminent  old  prelate,  ‘  They  that  speak  thus,  and  advise  thus,  do  they  do  thus  .  t^e 
can  defend  herself  in  no  other  way,  than  by  adopting  for  a  reply  the  words  of  the  same  venerab  e 
divine,  which  immediately  follow  ‘O  that  it  were  not  too  true.  Yet  although  it  be  but  little 
that  is  attained,  the  very  aim  is  right,  and  something  there  is  that  is  done  by  it.  It  is  better  to 
have  such  thoughts  and  desires,  than  altogether  to  give  them  up  ;  and  the  very  desire,  it  it  bo 
nerious  and  sincere,  may  so  much  change  the  habitude  of  the  soul  and  life,  that  it  is  not  to  be 

The  world  does  not  require  so  much  to  be  informed  as  reminded.  A  remembrancer  may  be 
almost  as  useful  as  an  instructor  ;  if  his  office  be  rnore  humble,  it  is  scarcely  less  necessary.  Ihe 
man  whose  employment  it  was,  statedly  to  proclaim  in  the  ear  of  Philip,  remember  that  thou 
ART  MORTAL,  had  his  plain  admonition  been  allowed  to  make  its  due^  impression,  migM  have 
produced  a  more  salutary  effect  on  the  royal  usurper,  than  the  imnassioned  orations  oi  his  im 
mortal  assailant — 

whose  resistless  eloquence 
Shook  th’  arsenal  and  fulmined  over  Greece 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxes’  throne. 

While  the  orator  boldly  strove  to  check  the  ambition,  and  arrest  the  injustice  oNhe  king,  the 
simple  herald  barely  reminded  him,  how  short  would  be  the  reign  of  injustice,  how  inevitable 
and  how  near  was  the  final  period  of  ambition.  Let  it  be  remembered  to  the  credit  of  the  mo- 
‘narch,  that  while  the  thunders  of  the  politician  were  intolerable,  the  monitor  was  of  his  own  ap- 

pomtment.  t  pretends  to  no  higher  name,  aims  only  at  being  plain  and  practical. 

Contending  solely  for  those  indispensable  points,  which  by  involving  present  duty,  involve  future 
happiness,  the  writer  has  avoided,  as  fp  as  Christian  sincerity  permits,  all  controverted  topics ; 
has  shunned  whatever  might  lead  to  disputation  rather  than  to  profit.  _  , .  , 

We  live  in  an  age,  when,  as  Mr.  Pope  observed  of  that  in  which  he  wrote,  it  is  crimind  to  be  mo- 
derate.  Would  it  could  not  be  said  that  Religion  has  her  parties  as  well  as  pohtics  -  Those  who 
endeavour  to  steer  clear  of  all  extremes  in  either,  are  in  danger  of  being  reprobated  by  both.  It 
is  rather  a  hardship  for  persons,  who  have  eonsidered  it  as  a  Christian  duty  to  cultivate  a  spirit 
of  moderation  in  thinking,  and  of  candour  in  judging,  that,  when  these  dispositions  are  brought 
into  action,  they  frequently  incur  a  harsher  censure  than  the  errors  which  it  was  their  chief  aim 

Perhaps,  therefore,  to  that  human  wisdom  whose  leading  object  is  human  aplause,  it  inight 

answer  best  to  be  exclusively  attaehed  to  some  one  party.  On  the  protection  of  that  party  at  least, 
St  might  in  that  case  reckon;  and  it  would  then  have  this  dislike  of  the  opposite  class  alone  to 
contend  against ;  while  those  who  cannot  go  all  lengths  with  either,  can  hardly  escape  Uie  dis- 

approbation  of  both.  .  ,  •  ^  i.  _ _ 

To  apply  the  remark  to  the  present  case  The  author  is  apprehensive  ffiat  she  may  at  once 
he  censured  by  opposite  classes  of  readers,  as  being  too  striet  and  too  relaxed too  much  a.ttach. 
ed  to  opinions,  and  too  indifferent  about  them  as  having  narrowed  the  broad  field  of  Christian- 
ity  by  labouring  to  establish  its  peculiar  doctrines as  having  broken  down  its  enclosures  by 
not  confining  herself  to  doctrines  exclusively as  having  considered  morality  of  too  little  impor- 
tance  ; — as  having  raised  it  to  an  undue  elevation  ; — as  having  made  practice  every  thing ,  as 

having  made  it  nothing.  ...  .  ..  n  •  • 

While  a  catholie  spirit  is  accused  of  being  laUtudinarian  in  one  party,  it  really  is  so  m  another. 
In  one  it  exhibits  the  character  of  Christianity  on  her  own  grand  but  correct  scale  ;  in  the  other, 
it  is  the  offspring  of  that  indifference,  which,  considering  all  opinions  as  nearly  of  the  same  value, 
indemnifies  itself  for  tolerating  all,  by  not  attaching  itself  to  any  which,  establishing  a  self-com- 
placent  notion  of  general  benevolence,  with  a  view  to  discredit  the  narrow  spirit  of  Christianity, 
and  adopting  a  display  of  that  cheap  material,  liberal  sentiment,  as  opposed  to  religious  strictness, 

sacrifices  true  piety  to  false  candour.  .  .  .  j  .  •  u 

Christianity  may  be  said  to  suffer  between  two  criminals,  but  it  is  difficult  to  determine  by 
which  she  suffers  most whether  by  that  uncharitable  bigotry  .which  disguises  her  divine  cha¬ 
racter,  and  speculatively  adopts  the  faggot  and  the  flames  of  inquisitorial  intolerance ;  or  by  tbai 
indiscriminate  candour,  that  conceding  slackness,  which,  by  stripping  her  of  her  appropriate  at¬ 
tributes,  reduces  her  to  something  scarcely  worth  contending  for  ;  to  something  which,  instead 
of  making  her  the  religion  of  (Jhrist,  generalizes  her  into  any  religion  which  may  choose  to  adopt 

her. _ 'Die  one  distorts  her  lovely  lineaments  into  caricature,  and  throws  her  graceful  figure  into 

gloomy  shadow  ;  the  other,  by  daubing  her  over  with  colours  not  her  ovvn,  renders  her  form  in¬ 
distinct,  and  obliterates  her  features.  In  the  first  instance,  she  excites  little  affection  ;  in  the  lat¬ 
ter  she  is  not  recognized. 

The  writer  has  endeavoured  to  address  herself  as  a  Christian  who  must  die  soon,  to  Ohrisiians 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


417 


who  must  die  certainly.  She  trusts  that  she  shall  not  be  accused  of  erecting  herself  into  a  ceii. 
sor,  but  be  considered  as  one  who  writes  with  a  real  consciousness  that  she  is  far  from  having 
reached  the  attainments  she  suggests ;  with  a  heartfelt  conviction  of  the  danger  of  holding  out  a 
standard  too  likely  to  discredit  her  own  practice.  She  writes  not  with  the  assumption  of  superi¬ 
ority,  but  with  a  deep  practical  sense  of  the  infirmities  against  which  she  has  presumed  to  cau¬ 
tion  others.  She  wishes  to  be  understood  as  speaking  the  language  of  sympathy,  rather  than  of 
dictation  ;  of  feeling  rather  than  of  document.  So  far  from  fancying  herself  exempt  from  the 
evils  on  which  she  has  animadverted,  her  very  feeling  of  those  evils  has  assisted  her  in  their  de¬ 
lineation.  Thus  this  interior  sentiment  of  her  own  deficiencies,  which  might  be  urged  as  a  dis¬ 
qualification,  has,  she  trusts,  enabled  her  to  point  out  dangers  to  others. — If  the  patient  cannot 
lay  down  rules  for  the  cure  of  a  reigning  disease,  much  less  etfect  the  cure  ;  yet  from  the  symp¬ 
toms  common  to  the  same  malady,  he  who  labours  under  it  may  suggest  the  necessity  of  attend¬ 
ing  to  it.  He  may  treat  the  case  feelingly,  if  not  scientifically.  He  may  substitute  experience, 
in  default  of  skill :  he  may  insist  on  the  value  of  the  remedy  he  has  neglected,  as  v,?ell  as  recom¬ 
mend  that  from  which  he  has  found  benefit. 

The  subjects  considered  in  this  treatise  have  been  animadverted  on,  have  been  in  a  manner  ex¬ 
hausted,  by  persons  before  whose  names  the  author  bows  down  with  the  deepest  humility ;  by  able 
professional  instructors,  by  piety  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  style,  and  invigorated  with  all 
the  powers  of  argument. 

Why,  then,  it  may  be  asked,  multiply  books  which  may  rather  incumber  the  reader  than 
strengthen  the  cause  ? — ‘  That  the  older  is  better,’  cannot  be  disputed.  But  is  not  the  being  ‘  old’ 
sometimes  the  reason  why  the  ‘  better’  is  not  regarded  ?  Novelty  itself  is  an  attraction  which  but 
loo  often  supersedes  merit.  A  slighter  drapery,  if  it  be  a  new  one,  may  excite  a  degree  of  at¬ 
tention  to  an  object,  not  paid  to  it  when  clad  in  a  richer  garb  to  which  the  eye  has  been  accus¬ 
tomed. 

The  author  may  begin  to  ask  with  one  of  her  earliest  and  most  enlightened  friends* — ‘  Where 
is  the  world  into  which  we  were  born  ?’  Death  has  broken  most  of  those  connexions  which  made 
the  honour  and  happiness  of  her  youthful  days.  Fresh  links  however  have  continued  to  attach 
,  her  to  society.  She  is  singularly  happy  in  the  affectionate  regard  of  a  great  number  of  amiable 
young  persons,  who  may  peruse  with  additional  attention,  sentiments  which  come  recommended 
to  them  by  the  warmth  of  their  own  attachment,  more  than  by  any  claim  of  merit  in  the  writer. 
Is  there  not  something  in  personal  knowledge,  something  in  the  feelings  of  endeared  acquaint¬ 
ance,  which  by  that  hidden  association,  whence  so  much  of  our  undefined  pleasure  is  derived,  if 
it  does  not  impart  new  force  to  old  truths,  may  excite  a  new  interest  in  considering  truths  which 
are  known  ?  Her  concern  for  these  engaging  persona  extends  beyond  the  transient  period  of 
present  intercourse.  It  would  shed  a  ray  of  brightness  on  her  parting  hour,  if  she  could  hope 
that  any  caution  hero  held  out,  any  principle  here  suggested,  any  habit  here  recommended,  might 
be  of  use  to  any  one  of  them  ;  when  the  hand  which  now  guides  the  pen,  can  be  no  longer  ex¬ 
erted  in  their  service.  This  would  be  remembering  their  friend  in  a  way  which  would  evince 
the  highest  affection  in  them,  which  would  confer  the  truest  honour  on  herself. 

Barley  Wood,  March  Isf,  1811. 


PRACTICAL  PIETY, 

OR  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  THE  RELIGION  OF  THE  HEART  ON  THE  CONDUCT  OF  THE  LIFE. 


CHAP.  I. 

Christianity  an  internal  principle, 

Christianity  bears  all  the  marks  of  a  divine 
original.  It  came  down  from  heaven,  and  its 
gracious  purpose  is  to  carry  us  up  thither.  Its 
Author  is  God.  It  was  foretold  from  the  begin¬ 
ning,  by  prophecies  which  grew  clearer  and 
brighter  as  they  approached  the  period  of  their 
accomplishment.  It  was  confirmed  by  miracles 
•which  continued  till  the  religion  they  illustrated 
was  established.  It  was  ratified  by  the  blood  of 
its  author.  Its  doctrines  are  pure,  sublime,  con¬ 
sistent.  Its  precepts  just  and  holy.  Its  worship 
is  spiritual.  Its  services  reasonable,  and  render¬ 
ed  practicable  by  offers  of  divine  aid  to  human 
weakness.  It  is  sanctioned  by  the  eternal  hap¬ 
piness  of  the  faithful,  and  the  everlasting  mise¬ 
ry  to  the  disobedient.  It  had  no  collusion  with  ! 


power,  for  power  sought  to  crush  it.  It  could 
not  be  in  any  league  with  the  world,  for  it  set 
out  by  declaring  itself  the  enemy  of  the  world. 
It  reprobated  its  maxims,  it  showed  the  vanity 
of  its  glories,  the  danger  of  its  riches,  the  emp¬ 
tiness  of  its  pleasures. 

Christianity  though  the  most  perfect  rule  of 
life  that  ever  was  devised,  is  far  from  being 
barely  a  rule  of  life.  A  religion  consisting  of  a 
mere  code  of  laws,  might  have  sufficed  for  a 
man  in  a  state  of  innocence.  But  man  who 
has  broken  these  laws  cannot  bo  saved  by  a  rule 
which  he  has  violated.  What  consolation  could 
he  find  in  the  perusal  of  statutes,  every  one  of 
which,  bringing  a  fresh  conviction  of  his  guilt, 
brings  a  fresh  assurance  of  his  condemnation 
The  chief  object  of  the  Gospel  is  not  to  furnisli 
rules  for  the  preservation  of  innocence,  but  to 
hold  out  the  means  of  salvation  to  tlic  guilty.  It 


VoL.  I‘ 


D2 


*  Dr.  Johnson. 


418 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


does  not  proceed  from  a  supposition  but  a  fact ; 
not  upon  what  might  have  suited  man  in  a  state 
of  purity,  but  upon  what  is  suitable  to  him  in 
the  exigences  of  his  .‘alien  state. 

This  religion  does  not  consist  in  an  external 
conformity  to  practices,  which,  though  right  in 
themselves,  may  be  adopted  from  human  mo¬ 
tives,  and  to  answer  secular  purposes.  It  is  not 
a  religion  of  forms,  and  modes,  and  decencies. 
It  is  being  transformed  into  the  image  of 
God.  It  is  being  like-minded  with  Christ.  It 
is  considering  him  as  our  sanctification,  as 
well  as  our  redemption.  It  is  endeavouring  to 
live  to  him  here  that  we  may  live  with  him 
hereafter.  It  is  desiring  earnestly  to  surrender 
our  will  to  his,  our  heart  to  the  conduct  of  his 
Spirit,  our  life  to  the  guidance  of  his  word. 

The  change  in  the  human  heart,  which  the 
Scriptures  declare  to  be  necessary,  they  repre¬ 
sent  to  be  not  so  much  an  old  principle  improved, 
as  a  new  one  created ;  not  educed  out  of  the 
former  character,  but  infused  into  the  new  one. 
This  change  is  there  expressed  in  great  varieties 
of  language,  and  under  different  figures  of 
speech.  Its  being  so  frequently  described,  or 
figuratively  intimated  in  almost  every  part  of 
the  volume  of  inspiration,  entitles  the  doctrine 
itself  to  reverence,  and  ought  to  shield  from  ob¬ 
loquy  the  obnoxious  terms  in  which  it  is  some¬ 
times  conveyed. 

The  sacred  writings  frequently  point  out  the 
analogy  between  natural  and  spiritual  things. 
The  same  Spirit  which  in  the  creation  of  the 
world  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters, 
operates  on  the  human  character  to  produce  a 
new  heart  and  a  new  life.  By  this  operation 
the  affections  and  faculties  of  the  man  receive  a 
new  impulse — his  dark  understanding  is  illu¬ 
minated,  his  rebellious  will  is  subdued,  his 
irregular  desires  are  rectified,  his  judgment  is 
informed,  his  imagination  is  chastised,  his  in¬ 
clinations  are  sanctified ;  his  hopes  and  fears 
are  directed  to  their  true  and  adequate  end. 
Heaven  becomes  the  object  of  his  hopes,  an 
eternal  separation  from  God  the  object  of  his 
fears.  His  love  of  the  world  is  transmuted 
into  the  love  of  God.  The  lower  faculties 
are  pressed  into  the  new  service.  The  senses 
have  a  higher  direction.  The  whole  inter¬ 
nal  frame  and  constitution  receive  a  nobler 
bent ;  the  intents  and  purposes  of  the  mind  a 
sublimer  aim  ;  his  aspirations  a  loftier  flight ; 
his  vacillating  desires  find  a  fixed  object ;  his 
vagrant  purposes  a  settled  home  ;  his  disappoint¬ 
ed  heart  a  certain  refuge.  The  heart,  no  longer 
a  worshipper  of  the  world,  is  struggling  to  be¬ 
come  its  conqueror.  Our  blessed  Redeemer, 
in  overcoming  the  world,  bequeathed  us  his  com¬ 
mand  to  overcome  it  also:  but  as  he  did  not 
give  the  command  without  the  example,  so  he 
did  not  give  the  example  without  Lire  offer  of  a 
power  to  obey  the  command. 

Genuine  religion  demands  not  merely  an  ex¬ 
ternal  profession  of  our  allegiance  to  God,  but 
an  inward  devotedness  of  ourselves  to  his  ser¬ 
vice.  It  is  not  a  recognition,  but  a  dedication. 
It  puts  the  Christian  into  a  new  state  of  things, 
a  new  condition  of  being.  It  raises  him  above 
the  world  while  he  lives  in  it.  It  disperses  the 
illusion  of  sense,  by  opening  his  eyes  to  realities 


in  the  place  of  those  shadows  which  he  has  been 
pursuing.  It  presents  this  world  as  a  scene  of 
whose  original  beauty  Sin  has  darkened  and 
disordered,  Man  as  a  dependant  creature,  Jesus 
Christ  as  the  repairer  of  all  the  evils  which  sin 
has  caused,  and  as  our  restorer  to  holiness  and 
happiness.  Any  religion  short  of  this,  any  at 
least,  which  has  not  this  for  its  end  and  object, 
is  not  that  religion,  which  the  Gospel  has  pre¬ 
sented  to  us,  which  our  Redeemer  came  down 
on  earth  to  teach  us  by  his  precepts,  to  illus¬ 
trate  by  his  example,  to  confirm  by  his  death, 
and  to  consummate  by  his  resurrection. 

If  Christianity  do  not  always  produce  these 
happy  effects  to  the  extent  here  represented,  it 
has  always  a  tendency  to  produce  them.  If  we 
do  not  see  the  progress  to  be  such  as  the  Gospel 
annexes  to  the  transforming  power  of  true  re¬ 
ligion,  it  is  not  owing  to  any  defect  in  the  prin¬ 
ciple,  but  to  the  remains  of  sin  in  the  heart ;  to 
the  imperfectly  subdued  corruptions  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian.  Those  who  are  very  sincere  are  still  very 
imperfect.  They  evidence  their  sincerity  by 
acknowledging  the  lowness  of  their  attainments, 
by  lamenting  the  remainder  of  their  corruptions- 
Many  an  humble  Christian  whom  the  world 
reproaches  with  being  extravagant  in  his  zeal, 
whom  it  ridicules  for  being  enthusiastic  in  his 
aims,  and  rigid  in  his  practice,  is  inwardly^ 
mourning  on  the  very  contrary  ground.  -He 
would  bear  tbeir  eensure  more  cheerfully,  but 
that  he  feels  his  danger  lies  in  the  opposite  di¬ 
rection.  He  is  secretly  abasing  himself  before 
his  Maker  for  not  carrying  far  enough  that 
principle  which  he  is  accused  of  carrying  toe 
far.  The  fault  which  others  find  in  him  is  ex¬ 
cess.  The  fault  he  finds  in  himself  is  deficiency. 
He  is,  alas  !  too  commonly  right.  His  enemies 
speak  of  him  as  tliey  hear.  He  judges  of  him¬ 
self  as  he  feels.  But  though  humbled  to  the 
dust  by  the  deep  sense  of  his  own  unworthiness, 
he  is,  ‘  strong  in  the  Lord,  and  in  the  power  of 
his  might.’  ‘  Ho  has,’  says  the  venerable 
Hooker,  ‘  a  Shepherd  full  of  kindness,  full  of 
care,  and  full  of  power.'  His  prayer  is  not  for 
reward  but  pardon.  His  plea  is  not  merit  but 
mercy  ;  but  then  it  is  mercy  made  sure  to  him  by 
the  promise  of  the  Almighty  to  penitent  believers.. 

The  mistake  of  many  in  religion  appears  to 
be,  that  they  do  not  begin  with  the  beginning. 
They  do  not  lay  their  foundation  in  the  persua¬ 
sion  that  man  is  by  nature  in  a  state  of  aliena¬ 
tion  from  God.  They  consider  him  rather  as 
an  imperfect  than  a  fallen  creature.  They  a  I- 
low  that  he  requires  to  be  improved,  but  deny 
that  he  requires  a  thorough  renovation  of 
heart. 

But  genuine  Christianity  can  never  be  graft¬ 
ed  on  any  other  stock  than  the  apostacy  of  man 
The  design  to  reinstate  beings  who  have  not 
fallen  ;  to  propose  a  restoration  without  a  pre  ■ 
vious  loss,  a  cure  where  there  was  no  radical 
disease,  is  altogether  an  incongruity  whicli 
would  seem  too  palpable  to  require  confutation, 
did  we  not  so  frequently  see  the  doctrine  of  re¬ 
demption  maintained  hy  those  who  deny  that 
man  was  in  a  state  to  require  such  a  redemption. 
But  would  Christ  have  been  sent  ‘  to  preach  do- 
liverence  to  the  captive,’  if  there  had  been  no 
captivity;  and  ‘tlie  opening  of  the  prison  to 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


4 


them  that  were  bound,’  had  there  been  no  prison, 
nad  man  been  in  no  bondage  ? 

We  are  aware  that  many  consider  the  doc¬ 
trine  in  question  as  a  bold  charge  against  our 
Creator.  But  may  we  not  venture  to  ask,  Is  it 
not  a  bolder  charge  against  God’s  goodness  to 
presume  that  he  had  made  beings  originally 
wicked ;  and  against  God’s  veracity  to  believe, 
that  having  made  such  beings  he  pronounced 
them  ‘  good  V  Is  not  that  doctrine  more  reason, 
able  which  is  expressed  or  implied  in  every  part 
of  Scripture,  that  the  moral  corruption  of  our 
first  parent  has  been  entailed  on  his  whole  pos¬ 
terity  ;  that  from  this  corruption  (though  only 
punishable  for  their  actual  offences)  they  are  no 
more  exempt  than  from  natural  death  ? 

We  must  not,  however,  think  falsely  of  our 
nature;  we  must  humble  but  not  degrade  it. 
Our  original  brightness  is  obscured,  but  not  ex¬ 
tinguished.  If  we  consider  ourselves  in  our 
natural  state,  our  estimation  cannot  be  too  low  : 
when  we  reflect  at  what  a  price  we  have  been 
bought,  we  can  hardly  overrate  ourselves  in 
the  view  of  immortality. 

If,  indeed,  the  Almighty  had  left  us  to  the 
consequences  of  our  natural  state,  we  might, 
with  more  colour  of  reason,  have  mutinied 
against  his  justice.  But  when  we  see  how 
graciously  he  has  turned  our  very  lapse  into  an 
occasion  of  improving  our  condition  ;  how  from 
this  evil  he  was  pleased  to  advance  us  to  a 
greater  good  than  we  had  lost;  how  that  life 
which  was  forfeited  may  be  restored ;  how  by 
grafting  the  redemption  of  man  on  the  very  cir- 
cumstance  of  his  fall,  he  has  raised  him  to  the 
capacity  of  a  higher  condition  than  that  which 
he  has  forfeited,  and  to  a  happiness  superior  to 
that  from  which  he  fell — What  an  impression 
does  this  give  us  of  the  immeasurable  wisdom 
and  goodness  of  God,  of  the  unsearehable  riches 
of  Christ. 

The  religion  which  it  is  the  object  of  these 
pages  to  recommend,  has  been  sometimes  mis¬ 
understood,  and  not  seldom  misrepresented.  It 
has  been  described  as  an  unproductive  theory, 
and  ridiculed  as  a  fanciful  extravagance.  For 
the  sake  of  distinction  it  is  here  called.  The  re¬ 
ligion  of  the  Heart. —  There  it  subsists  as  the 
fountain  of  spiritual  life;  thence  it  sends  forth, 
as  from  the  central  seat  of  its  existence,  supplies 
of  life  and  warmth  through  the  whole  frame; 
there  is  the  soul  of  virtue;  tAere  is  the  vital  princi¬ 
ple  which  animates  the  whole  being  of  a  Christian. 

This  religion  has  been  the  support  and  con¬ 
solation  of  the  pious  believer  in  all  ages  of  the 
church.  That  it  has  been  perverted  both  by  the 
cloistered  and  the  uncloistered  mystic,  not 
merely  to  promote  abstraction  of  mind,  but  in¬ 
activity  of  life,  makes  nothing  against  the  prin¬ 
ciple  itself.  What  doctrine  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment  has  not  been  made  to  speak  the  language 
of  its  injudicious  advocate,  and  turned  into  arms 
against  some  other  doctrines  v/hich  it  was  never 
meant  to  oppose  ? 

But  if  it  has  been  carried  toablameablc  excess 
by  the  pious  error  of  holy  men,  it  has  also  been 
adopted  by  the  less  innocent  fanatic,  and  abused 
to  the  most  pernicious  purposes.  His  extrava- 
gance  has  furnished  to  the  enemies  of  internal 
religion,  arguments  or  rather  invectives,  against 


the  sound  and  sober  exercises  of  genuine  piety 
They  sei*e  every  occasion  to  represent  it  as  if 
it  were  criminal,  as  the  foe  of  morality  ;  ridicu. 
lous  as  the  infallible  test  of  an  unsound  mind, 
mischievous,  as  hostile  to  active  virtue,  and  de¬ 
structive  as  the  bane  of  public  utility. 

But  if  these  charges  be  really  well  founded, 
then  were  the  brightest  luminaries  of  the  Chris¬ 
tian  church — then  were  TIorne,  and  Porteus, 
and  Beveridge  ;  then  were  Hooker,  and  Taylor, 
and  Herbert ;  Hopkins,  Leighton,  and  Usher 
Howe,  and  Baxter ;  Ridley,  Jewel,  and  Hooper ;; 
then  were  Chrysostome  and  Augustine,  the  re¬ 
formers  and  the  fathers ;  then  were  the  goodly 
fellowship  of  the  prophets  ;  then  were  the  noble 
army  of  martyrs ;  then  were  the  glorious  com¬ 
pany  of  the  apostles ;  then  was  the  disciple 
whom  Jesus  loved  ;  then  was  Jesus  himself — 
I  shudder  at  the  amplification — dry  speculatists, 
frantic  enthusiasts,  enemies  to  virtue,  and  sub- 
verters  of  the  public  weal. 

Those  who  disbelieve,  or  deride,  or  reject 
this  inward  religion,  are  much  to  be  compas¬ 
sionated.  Their  belief  that  no  such  principle 
exists,  will,  it  is  to  be  feared,  effectually  preven 
its  existing  in  themselves,  at  least,  while  they 
make  their  own  state  the  measure  of  their  gene- 
ral  judgment.  Not  being  sensible  of  their  re¬ 
quired  dispositions  in  their  own  hearts,  they 
establish  this  as  a  proof  of  its  impossibility  in  a  . 
cases.  This  persuasion,  as  long  as  they  main, 
tain  it,  will  assuredly  exclude  the  reception  of 
divine  truth.  What  they  assert  can  be  true  in 
no  case,  cannot  be  true  in  their  own.  Theij 
hearts  will  be  barred  against  any  influence  in 
the  power  of  which  they  do  not  believe.  They 
will  not  desire  it,  they  wilt  not  pray  for  it,  ex 
cept  in  the  Liturgy,  tohere  it  is  the  decided  Ian 
,  guage :  They  will  not  addict  themselves  ti: 
those  pious  exercises  to  which  it  invites  them,  ex 
ercises  which  it  ever  loves  and  cherishes.  Thus 
they  expect  the  end,  but  avoid  the  way  which 
leads  to  it;  they  indulge  the  hope  of  glory 
while  they  neglect  or  pervert  the  means  of 
grace.  But  let  not  the  formal  religionist,  whj 
has  probably  never  sought,  and  therefore  never 
obtained,  any  sense  of  the  spiritual  mercies  of 
God,  conclude  that  there  is,  therefore^  no  such 
state.  His  having  no  conception  of  it  is  no  more 
proof  that  no  such  state  exists,  than  it  is  a  proof, 
that  the  cheering  beams  of  a  genial  climate 
have  no  existence,  because  the  inhabitants  of 
the  frozen  zone  never  felt  them. 

Where  our  own  heart  and  experience  Jo  nof 
illustrate  these  truths  practically,  so  as  to  afford 
us  some  evidence  of  their  reality,  let  us  examine 
our  minds,  and  faithfully  follow  up  our  convic¬ 
tions;  let  us  inquire  whether  God  has  really 
been  wanting  in  the  accomplishment  of  his  pro¬ 
mises,  or  wliether  we  have  not  been  sadly  de¬ 
ficient  in  yielding  to  those  suggestions  of  con¬ 
science  which  are  the  motions  of  his  Spirit  ? 
Whether  we  have  not  neglected  to  implore  the 
aids  of  that  Spirit ;  whether  we  have  not,  in 
various  instances,  resisted  them  ?  Let  us  ask 
ourselves — have  we  looked  up  to  our  heavenly 
Father  with  humble  dependence  for  the  supplies, 
of  his  grace  ?  or  have  wo  prayed  for  these  bless 
ings  only  as  a  form,  and  having  acquitted  our 
selves  of  the  form,  do  we  oontinuo  to  live  as 


420 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


we  had  not  so  prayed  ?  Having  repeatedly  im¬ 
plored  his  direction,  do  vve  endeavour  to  submit 
ourselves  to  its  guidance?  Having  prayed  that 
his  will  may  be  done,  do  we  never  stoutly  set  up 
our  own  will  in  contradiction  to  his? 

If,  then,  we  receive  not  the  promised  support 
and  comfort,  the  failure  must  rest  somewhere  : 
it  lies  between  him  who  has  promised,  and  him 
to  whom  the  promise  was  made.  There  is  no 
other  alternative ;  would  it  not  be  blasphemy  to 
transfer  the  failure  to  God  ?  Let  us  not,  then, 
rest  till  we  have  cleared  up  the  difficulty.  The 
spirits  sink  and  the  faith  fails,  if,  after  a  conti¬ 
nued  round  of  reading  and  prayer  :  after  hav¬ 
ing  for  years  conformed  to  the  letter  of  the  com¬ 
mand  ;  after  having  scrupulously  brought  in  our 
tale  of  outward  duties,  we  find  ourselves  just 
where  we  were  at  setting  out. 

We  complain  justly  of  our  own  weakness,  and 
truly  plead  our  inability  as  a  reason  why  we 
cannot  serve  God  as  we  ought.  This  infirmity, 
its  nature,  and  its  measure,  God  knows  far  more 
exactly  than  we  know  it ;  yet  he  knows  that, 
with  the  help  which  he  offers  us,  we  can  both 
love  and  obey  him,  or  he  never  would  have  made 
it  the  qualification  of  our  obtaining  his  favour. 
He  nev'er  would  have  said,  ‘  give  me  thy  heart’ 
— ‘  seek  ye  my  face’ — ‘  add  to  your  faith,  virtue’ 
— ‘  have  a  right  heart  and  a  right  spirit,’ — 

‘  strengthen  the  things  that  remain’—'  ye  will 
not  come  to  me  that  yo  might  have  life’ — had 
not  all  these  precepts  a  definite  meaning,  had 
not  all  these  been  practicable  duties. 

Can  we  suppose  that  the  omniscient  God 
would  have  given  these  unqualified  commands 
to  powerless,  incapable,  unimpressible  beings  ? 
Can  we  suppose  that  he  would  paralyse  his  crea¬ 
tures,  and  then  condemn  them  for  not  being 
able  to  move?  He  knows,  it  is  true,  our  natural 
impotence,  but  he  knows,  because  he  confers, 
our  superinduced  strength.  There  is  scarcely 
a  command  in  the  whole  Scripture  which  has 
not  either  immediately,  or  in  some  other  part  a 
corresponding  prayer,  and  a  corresponding  pro¬ 
mise.  If  it  says  in  one  place  'get  thee  a  new  heart,’ 
— it  says  in  another  ‘  a  new  heart  will  I  give 
thee  ; — and  in  a  third  ‘  Jiiake  me  a  clean  heart !’ 
For  it  is  worth  observing  that  a  diligent  inquirer 
may  trace  every  where  this  threefold  union.  If 
God  commands  by  Saint  Paul,  ‘  let  not  sin  reign 
in  your  mortal  body,’  he  promises  by  the  same 
apostle,  ‘  sin  shall  not  have  dominion  over  you;’ 
— while  to  complete  the  tripartate  agreement, 
he  makes  David  pray  that  his  '  sins  may  not 
have  dominion  over  him.’ 

The  saints  of  old,  so  far  from  setting  up  on 
the  stock  of  their  own  independent  virtue,  seem 
to  have  had  no  idea  of  any  light  but  what  was 
imparted,  of  any  strength  but  what  was  commu¬ 
nicated  to  them  from  above.  Hear  their  impor¬ 
tunate  petitions  ! — ‘  O  send  forth  thy  light  and 
thy  truth.’ — Mark  their  grateful  declarations  ! 
— ‘  The  Lord  is  my  strength  and  my  salvation!’ 
— Observe  their  cordial  acknowledgments! — 
‘  Bless  the  Lord,  O  my  soul  !  and  all  that  is 
within  me  bless  his  holy  name  !’ 

Though  we  must  bo  careful  not  to  mistake 
for  the  divine  Agency  those  impulses  which 
pretend  to  operate  independently  of  external  re¬ 
velation  ;  which  have  little  reference  to  it ;  which 


set  themselves  above  it ;  it  is  however  that  pow¬ 
erful  agency  which  sanctifies  all  means,  renders 
all  external  revelation  effectual.  Notwithstand¬ 
ing  that  all  the  truths  of  religion,  all  the  doc¬ 
trines  of  salvation  are  contained  in  the  Ijoly 
Scriptures,  these  very  scriptures  require  tlie  in¬ 
fluence  of  that  Spirit  which  dictated  them  to  pro¬ 
duce  an  influential  faith.  This  Spirit,  by  en¬ 
lightening  the  mind,  converts  the  rational  per¬ 
suasion,  brings  the  intellectual  conviction  of 
divine  truth  conveyed  in  the  New  Testament, 
into  an  operative  principle.  A  man  from  read¬ 
ing,  examining,  and  inquiring,  may  attain  to 
such  a  reasonable  assurance  of  the  truth  of  re¬ 
velation  as  will  remove  all  doubts  from  his  own 
mind,  and  even  enable  him  to  refute  the  objec¬ 
tions  of  others ;  but  this  bare  intellectual  faith 
alone  will  not  operate  against  his  corrupt  affec¬ 
tions,  will  not  cure  his  besetting  sin,  will  not 
conquer  his  rebellious  will,  and  may  not  there¬ 
fore  be  an  efficacious  principle.  A  mere  histo¬ 
rical  faith,  the  mere  evidence  of  facts  with  the 
soundest  reasonings  and  deductions  from  them, 
may  not  be  that  faith  which  will  fill  him  with 
all  joy  and  peace  in  believing. 

An  habitual  reference  to  that  Spirit  which 
animates  the  real  Christian  is  so  far  from  ex¬ 
cluding,  that  it  strengthens  the  truth  of  revela¬ 
tion,  but  never  contradicts  it.  The  word  of  God 
is  always  in  unison  with  his  Spirit;  his  Spirit  is 
never  in  opposition  to  his  word.  Indeed  that 
this  influence  is  not  an  imaginary  thing,  is  con¬ 
firmed  by  the  whole  tenor  of  Scripture.  We  are 
aware  that  we  are  treading  on  dangerous,  be- 
cause  disputed  ground  ;  for  among  the  fashion¬ 
able  curtailments  of  Scripture  doctrines,  there 
is  not  one  truth  which  has  been  lopped  from  the 
modern  creed  with  a  more  unsparing  hand;  not 
one,  the  defence  of  which  excites  more  suspi¬ 
cion  against  its  advocates.  But  if  it  had  been 
a  mere  phantom,  should  wo  with  such  jealous 
iteration  have  been  cautioned  against  neglecting 
or  opposing  it  ?  If  the  Holy  Spirit  could  not  be 
‘  grieved,’  might  it  not  be  ‘  quenched ;’  were  it 
not  likely  to  be  ‘  resisted,’  that  very  Spirit  which 
proclaimed  the  prohibitions  would  never  have 
said  ‘  grieve  not,’  ‘  quench  not,’  ‘  resist  not.’  The 
Bible  never  warns  us  against  imaginary  evil, 
nor  courts  us  to  imaginary  good.  If  then  we 
refuse  to  yield  to  its  guidance,  if  wo  reject  its 
directions ;  if  we  submit  not  to  its  gentle  per¬ 
suasions,  for  such  they  are,  and  not  arbitrary 
compulsions,  we  shall  never  attain  to  that  peace 
and  liberty  which  are  the  orivilege,  the  promised 
reward  of  sincere  Christians. 

In  speaking  of  that  peace  which  passeth  un¬ 
derstanding,  we  allude  not  to  those  illuminations 
and  raptures,  which,  if  God  has  in  some  in¬ 
stances  bestowed  them,  he  has  no  where  pledged 
himself  to  bestow;  but  of  that  rational  yet  ele 
vated  hope  which  flows  from  an  assured  jKjrsua- 
sion  of  the  paternal  love  of  our  heavenly  Father  ; 
of  that  ‘  secret  of  the  Lord,’  which  he  liimsolf 
assured  us  ‘  is  with  them  that  fear  him  ;’  of  that 
life  and  power  of  religion  which  are  the  jjrivi- 
lego  of  those  ‘  who  abide  under  the  shadow  of 
tlie  Almighty  ;’  of  those  who  ‘  know  iri  whom 
they  have  believed ;’  of  those  ‘  who  walk  not 
after  the  flesh  but  after  the  Spirit;’  of  those 
‘  who  endure  as  seeing  him  who  is  invisible.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


421 


Many  faults  may  be  committed  where  there 
is  nevertheless  a  sincere  desire  to  please  God. 
Many  infirmities  are  consistent  with  a  cordial 
love  of  our  Redeemer.  Faith  may  be  sincere 
where  it  is  not  strong'.  But  ho  who  can  con¬ 
scientiously  say  that  he  seeks  the  favour  of  God 
above  every  earthly  good ;  that  he  delights  in 
his  service  incomparably  more  than  in  any  other 
gratification ;  that  to  obey  him  here  and  to  en¬ 
joy  his  presence  hereafter  is  the  prevailing  de¬ 
sire  of  his  heart ;  that  his  chief  sorrow  is  that 
he  loves  him  no  more  and  serves  him  no  better, 
such  a  man  requires  no  evidence  that  his  heart 
is  changed,  and  his  sins  forgiven. 

For  the  happiness  of  the  Christian  does  not 
consist  in  mere  feeling  which  may  deceive,  nor 
in  frames  which  can  be  only  occasional ;  but  in 
a  settled,  calm  conviction  that  God  and  eternal 
things  have  the  predominance  in  his  heart;  in 
a  clear  perception  that  they  have,  though  with 
much  alloy  of  infirmity,  the  supreme,  if  not  un¬ 
disturbed  possession  of  his  mind ;  in  an  experi¬ 
mental  persuasion  that  his  chief  remaining  sor¬ 
row  is,  that  he  does  not  surrender  himself  with 
so  complete  an  acquiescence  as  he  ought  to  his 
convictions.  These  abatements,  though  sufficient 
to  keep  us  humble,  are  not  powerful  enough  to 
make  us  happy. 

The  true  measure  then  to  be  taken  of  our 
state  is  from  a  perceptible  change  in  our  desires, 
tastes,  and  pleasures  ;  from  a  sense  of  progress, 
however  small,  in  holiness  of  heart  and  life. 
This  seems  to  be  the  safest  rule  of  Judging,  for 
if  mere  feeling  were  allowed  to  be  the  criterion, 
the  presumptuous  world  would  be  inflated  with 
spiritual  pride  from  the  persuasion  of  enjoying 
them  ;  while  the  humble  from  their  very  humi¬ 
lity,  might  be  as  unreasonably  depressed  at 
wanting  such  evidences. 

The  recognition  of  this  divine  aid  then,  in¬ 
volves  no  presumption,  raises  no  illusion,  causes 
no  inflation  :  it  is  sober  in  its  principle  and  ra¬ 
tional  in  its  exercise.  In  establishing  the  law 
of  God  it  does  not  reverse  the  law  of  nature,  for 
it  leaves  us  in  full  possession  of  those  natural 
faculties  which  it  improves  and  sanctifies;  and 
so  far  from  inflaming  the  imagination,  its  pro¬ 
per  tendency  is  to  subdue  and  regulate  it. 

A  security  which  outruns  our  attainments  is 
a  most  dangerous  state,  yet  it  is  a  state  most  un¬ 
wisely  coveted.  The  probable  way  to  be  safe 
hereafter,  is  not  to  be  presumptuous  now.  If 
God  graciously  vouchsafe  us  inward  consolation, 
it  is  only  to  animate  us  to  farther  progress.  It 
is  given  us  for  support  in  our  way,  and  not  for 
settled  maintenance  in  our  present  condition. 
If  the  promises  are  our  aliment,  the  command¬ 
ments  are  our  works ;  and  a  temperate  Chris¬ 
tian  ought  to  desire  nourishment  only  in  order 
to  carry  him  through  his  business.  If  he  so 
supinely  rest  on  the  one  as  to  grow  sensual  and 
indolent,  he  might  become  not  only  unwilling, 
but  incapacitated  for  the  performance  of  tbe 
other.  We  must  not  expect  to  live  upon  cordials, 
which  only  serve  to  inflame  without  strengthen¬ 
ing,  Even  without  these  supports,  which  we 
are  more  ready  to  desire  than  to  put  ourselves 
in  the  way  to  obtain,  there  is  'an  inward  peace 
in  an  humble  trust  in  God,  and  in  a  simple  re¬ 
liance  on  his  word ;  there  is  a  repose  of  spirit,  a 


freedom  from  solicitude  in  a  lowly  confidence 
in  him,  for  which  the  world  has  nothing  to  give 
in  exchange. 

On  the  whole  then,  the  state  which  we  have 
been  describing  is  not  the  dream  of  the  enthu- 
siast ;  it  is  not  the  revery  of  the  visionary,  who 
renounces  prescribed  duties  for  fanciful  specu¬ 
lations,  and  embraces  shadows  for  realities ;  but 
it  is  that  sober  earnest  of  Heaven,  that  reasona- 
ble  anticipation  of  eternal  felicity  which  God  is 
graciously  pleased  to  grant,  not  partially,  nor 
arbitrarily,  but  to  all  who  diligently  seek  his 
face,  to  all  to  whom  his  service  is  freedom,  his 
will  a  law,  his  word  a  delight,  his  Spirit  a  guide ; 
to  all  who  love  him  unfeignedly,  to  all  who  de¬ 
vote  themselves  to  him  unreservedly,  to  all  who 
with  deep  self-abasement,  yet  with  filial  confi¬ 
dence,  prostrate  themselves  at  the  foot  of  his 
throne,  saying,  Lord,  lift  thou  up  the  light  of 
thy  countenance  upon  us  and  we  shall  be  safe. 


CHAP.  II. 

Christianity  a  practical  principle. 

If  God  be  the  author  of  our  spiritual  life,  the 
root  from  which  we  derive  the  vital  principle, 
with  daily  supplies  to  maintain  this  vitality ; 
then  the  best  evidence  we  can  give  that  we  have 
received  something  of  this  principle,  is  an  unre- 
served  dedication  of  ourselves  to  the  actual  pro¬ 
motion  of  his  glory.  No  man  ought  to  flatter 
himself  that  he  is  in  the  favour  of  God,  whose 
life  is  not  consecrated  to  the  service  of  God. 
Will  it  not  be  the  only  unequivocal  proof  of  such 
a  consecration,  that  he  be  more  zealous  of  good 
works  than  those  who,  disallowing  the  principle, 
on  which  he  performs  them,  do  not  even  pretend 
to  be  actuated  by  any  such  motive  ? 

The  finest  theory  never  yet  carried  any  man 
to  heaven.  A  religion  of  notions  which  occupies 
the  mind,  without  filling  the  heart,  may  obstruct, 
but  cannot  advance  the  salvation  of  men.  If 
these  notions  are  false,  they  are  most  pernicious; 
if  true  and  not  operative,  they  aggravate  guilt ; 
if  unimportant  though  not  unjust,  they  occupy 
the  place  which  belongs  to  nobler  objects,  and 
sink  the  mind  below  its  proper  level ;  substitut¬ 
ing  the  things  which  only  ought  not  to  be  left 
undone,  in  the  place  of  those  which  ought  to  be 
done  ;  and  causing  the  grand  essentials  not  to 
be  done  at  all.  Such  a  religion  is  not  that  which 
Christ  came  to  teach  mankind. 

All  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel  are  practical 
principles.  The  word  of  God  was  not  written, 
the  Son  of  God  was  not  incarnate,  the  Spirit  of 
God  was  not  given,  only  that  Christians  might 
obtain  right  views,  and  possess  just  notions. 
Religion  is  something  more  than  more  correct¬ 
ness  of  intellect,  justness  of  conception,  and  ex¬ 
actness  of  judgment.  It  is  a  life-giving  princi¬ 
ple.  It  must  be  infused  into  the  habit,  as  well 
as  govern  the  understanding ;  it  must  regulate 
the  will  as  well  as  direct  the  creed.  It  must  not 
only  cast  the  opinions  into  a  newfranle,  but  the 
heart  into  a  new  mould.  It  is  a  transforming  as 
well  as  a  penetrating  principle.  It  changes  the 
taste,  gives  activity  to  the  inclinations,  and  tr 
gether  with  a  new  heart  produces  a  now  life. 


422 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Christianity  enjoins  the  same  temper,  the  same , 
spirit,  the  same  dispositions,  on  all  its  real  pro¬ 
fessors.  The  act,  the  performance,  must  depend 
on  circumstances  which  do  not  depend  on  us. 
The  power  of  doing  good  is  withheld  from  ma¬ 
ny,  from  whom,  however,  the  reward  will  not 
be  withheld.  If  the  external  act  constituted  the 
whole  value  of  Christian  virtue,  then  must  the 
author  of  all  good  be  himself  the  author  of  in¬ 
justice,  by  putting  it  out  of  the  power  of  multi- 
fcades  to  fulfil  his  own  commands.  In  principles, 
in  tempers,  in  fervent  desires,  in  holy  endea¬ 
vours,  consist  the  very  essence  of  Christian 
duty. 

Nor  must  we  fondly  attach  ourselves  to  the 
practice  of  some  particular  virtue,  or  value  our¬ 
selves  exclusively  on  some  favourite  quality ; 
nor  must  we  wrap  ourselves  up  in  the  perform¬ 
ance  of  some  individual  actions,  as  if  they  form¬ 
ed  the  sum  of  Christian  duty.  But  we  must 
embrace  the  whole  law  of  God  in  all  its  aspects, 
bearings  and.relations.  We  must  bring  no  fan¬ 
cies,  no  partialities,  no  prejudices,  no  exclusive 
choice  or  rejection  into  our  religion,  but  take  it 
as  we  find  it,  and  obey  it  as  we  receive  it,  as  it 
is  exhibited  in  the  Bible  without  addition,  cur¬ 
tailment,  or  adulteration. 

Nor  must  we  pronounce  on  a  character  by  a 
single  action  really  bad,  or  apparently  good  ;  if 
so,  Peter’s  denial  would  render  him  the  object 
of  our  execration,  while  we  should  have  judged 
favourably  of  the  prudent  economy  of  Judas. 
The  catastrophe  of  the  latter,  who  does  not 
know  ?  while  the  other  became  a  glorious  mar¬ 
tyr  to  that  master,  whom,  in  a  moment  of  infir¬ 
mity  he  had  denied. 

A  piety  altogether  spiritual,  disconnected  with 
all  outward  circumstances ;  a  religion  of  pure 
meditation  and  abstracted  devotion,  was  not 
made  for  so  compound,  so  imperfect  a  creature 
as  man.  There  have,  indeed,  been  a  few  sub¬ 
lime  spirits,  not  ‘  touched  but  rapt,’  who  totally 
cut  off  from  the  world,  seem  almost  to  have  lite¬ 
rally  soared  above  this  terrene  region,  who  al¬ 
most  appear  to  have  stolen  the  fire  of  the  Se¬ 
raphim,  and  to  have  had  no  business  on  earth, 
but  to  keep  alive  the  celestial  flame.  They 
would,  however,  have  approximated  more  nearly 
to  the  example  of  their  divine  master,  the  great 
standard  and  only  perfect  model,  had  they  com¬ 
bined  a  more  diligent  discharge  of  the  active 
duties  and  benefices  of  life  with  their  high  devo¬ 
tional  attainments. 

But  while  we  are  in  little  danger  of  imitating, 
let  us  not  too  harshly  censure  the  pious  error  of 
these  sublimated  spirits.  Their  number  is  small. 
Their  example  is  not  catching.  Their  ethereal 
fire  is  not  likely,  by  spreading,  to  inflame  the 
world.  The  world  will  take  due  care  not  to 
come  in  contact  with  it,  while  its  distant  light 
and  warmth  may  cast,  accidentally,  a  not  un¬ 
useful  ray  on  the  cold-hearted  and  the  worldly. 

But  from  this  small  number  of  refined  but  in¬ 
operative  beings,  we  do  not  intend  to  draw  our 
notions  of  practical  piety.  God  did  not  make  a 
religion  foV  those  few  exceptions  to  the  general 
state  of  the  world,  but  for  the  world  at  large  ; 
for  beings  active,  busy,  restless  ;  wiiose  activity, 
he,  by  his  word,  diverts  into  its  proper  channels; 
whose  busy  spirit  is  there  directed  to  the  com- 


,  mon  good ;  whose  restlessness,  indicating  the 
I  unsatisfactoriness  of  all  they  find  on  earth,  he 
points  to  a  higher  destination.  Were  total  se¬ 
clusion  and  abstraction  designed  to  have  been 
the  general  state  of  the  world,  God  would  have 
given  man  other  laws,  other  rules,  other  facul¬ 
ties,  and  other  employments. 

There  is  a  class  of  visionary  but  pious  writers 
who  seem  to  shoot  as  far  beyond  the  mark,  as 
mere  moralists  fall  short  of  it. — Men  of  low 
views  and  gross  minds  may  be  said  to  be  wise 
below  what  is  written,  while  those  of  too  subtle 
refinement  are  wise  above  it.  The  one  grovel 
in  the  dust  from  the  inertness  of  their  intellectual 
faculties ;  while  the  others  are  lost  in  the  clouds 
by  stretching  them  beyond  their  appointed  li 
mits.  The  one  build  spiritual  castles  in  the  air, 
instead  of  erecting  them  on  the  ‘  holy  ground’ 
of  Scripture  ;  the  other  lay  their  foundation  in 
the  sand  instead  of  resting  it  on  the  Rock  of 
Ages.  Thus,  the  superstructure  of  both  is  equal¬ 
ly  unsound. 

God  is  the  fountain  from  which  all  the  streams 
of  goodness  flow ;  the  centre  from  which  all  the 
rays  of  blessedness  diverge. — All  our  actions 
are,  therefore,  only  good,  as  they  have  a  refer¬ 
ence  to  Him  :  the  streams  must  revert  back  to 
their  fountain,  the  rays  must  converge  again  to 
their  centre. 

If  love  of  God  be  the  governing  principle,  this 
powerful  spring  will  actuate  all  the  movements 
of  the  rational  machine.  The  essence  of  reli¬ 
gion  does  not  so  much  consist  in  actions  as  af¬ 
fections.  Though  right  actions,  therefore,  as 
from  an  excess  of  courtesy  they  are  commonly 
termed,  may  be  performed  where  there  are  no 
right  affections ;  yet  are  they  a  mere  carcass 
utterly  destitute  of  the  soul,  and,  therefore,  of 
the  substance  of  virtue.  But  neither  can  affec¬ 
tions  substantially  and  truly  subsist  without  pro¬ 
ducing  right  actions ;  for  never  let  it  be  forgot¬ 
ten  that  a  pious  inclination  which  has  not  life 
and  vigour  sufficient  to  ripen  into  act  when  the 
occasion  presents  itself,  and  a  right  action  which 
does  not  grow  out  of  a  sound  principle,  will 
neither  of  them  have  any  place  in  the  account 
of  real  goodness.  A  good  inclination  will  be 
contrary  to  sin,  but  a  mere  inclination  will  not 
subdue  sin. 

The  love  of  God,  as  it  is  the  source  of  every 
right  action  and  feeling,  so  it  is  the  only  princi¬ 
ple  which  necessarily  involves  the  love  of  our 
fellow  creatu:es.  As  man  we  do  not  love  man. 
There  is  a  love  of  partiality  but  not  of  benevo¬ 
lence  ;  of  sensibility  but  not  of  philanthropy  ;  of 
friends  and  favourites,  of  parties  and  societies, 
but  not  of  man  collectively.  It  Ls  true  we  may 
and  do,  without  this  principle,  relieve  his  dis¬ 
tresses,  but  we  do  not  bear  with  his  faults.  We 
may  promote  his  fortune,  but  we  do  not  forgive 
his  offences ;  above  all,  we  are  not  anxious  for 
his  immortal  interests.  We  could  not  see  him 
want  without  pain,  but  we  can  see  him  sin  with¬ 
out  emotion.  We  could  not  hear  of  a  beggar 
perishing  at  our  door  without  horror,  but  we 
can,  without  concern,  witness  an  acquaintance 
dying  without  repentance.  Is  it  not  strange 
that  we  must  partfeipate  something  of  the  divine 
nature,  before  we  can  really  love  tlie  human  ? 
It  seems,  indeed,  to  be  an  insensibility  to  sin, 


I'HE  V/ORKS  OB'  HANNAH  MORE. 


423 


rather  than  want  of  benevolence  to  mankind, 
that  makes  us  naturally  pity  their  temporal,  and 
Be  careless  of  their  spiritual  wants ;  but  does 
not  this  very  insensibility  proceed  from  the  want 
of  love  to  God  ? 

As  it  is  the  habitual  frame,  and  predominating 
disposition,  which  are  the  true  measure  of  vir¬ 
tue,  incidental  good  actions  are  no  certain  crite¬ 
rion  of  the  state  of  the  heart ;  for  who  is  there, 
who  does  not  occasionally  do  them  ?  Having 
made  some  progress  in  attaining  this  disposition, 
we  must  net  sit  down  satisfied  with  propensities 
and  inclinations  to  virtuous  actions,  while  we 
rest  short  of  their  actual  exercise.  If  the  prin¬ 
ciple  be  that  of  sound  Christianity,  it  will  never 
be  inert.  While  we  shall  never  do  good  with 
any  great  effect,  till  we  labour  to  be  conformed, 
in  some  measure,  to  the  image  of  God  ;  we  shall 
best  evince  our  having  obtained  something  of 
that  conformity,  by  a  course  of  steady  and  ac¬ 
tive  obedience  to  God. 

Every  individual  should  bear  in  mind,  that  he 
is  sent  into  this  wprld  to  aet  a  part  in  it.  And 
though  one  may  have  a  more  splendid,  and  an¬ 
other  a  more  obscure  part  assigned  him,  yet  the 
actor  of  each  is  equally,  is  awfiilly  accountable. 
Though  God  is  not  a  hard,  he  is  an  exact  mas¬ 
ter.  His  service,  though  not  a  severe,  is  a  rea¬ 
sonable  service.  He  accurately  proportions  his 
requisitions  to  his  gifts.  If  he  does  not  expect 
that  one  talent  should  be  as  productive  as  five, 
yet  to  a  single  talent  a  proportionable  responsi¬ 
bility  is  annexed. 

Ho  who  has  said  ‘  Give  me  thy  heart,’  will 
Bot  be  satisfied  with  less  ;  he  will  not  accept  the 
praying  lips,  nor  the  mere  hand  of  charity  as 
substitutes. 

A  real  Christian  will  be  more  just,  sober,  and 
charitable  than  other  men,  though  he  will  not 
rest  lor  salvation  on  justice,  sobriety,  or  charity. 
f  He  will  perform  the  duties  they  enjoin,  in  the 
spirit  of  Christianity,  as  instances  of  devout 
obedience,  as  evidences  of  a  heart  devoted  to 
God. 

All  virtues,  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated, 
are  sanctified  or  unhallowed  according  to  the 
principle,  which  dictates  tliem  ;  and  will  be  ac¬ 
cepted  or  rejected  accordingly.  This  principle 
hept  in  due  exercise,  becomes  a  habit,  and 
every  act  strengthens  the  inclination,  adding 
vigour  to  the  principle  and  pleasure  to  the  per¬ 
formance. 

We  cannot  be  said  to  be  real  Christians,  till 
religion  become  our  animating  motive,  our  pre¬ 
dominating  principle  and  pursuit,  as  much  as 
worldly  things  are  the  predominating  motive, 
principle  and  pursuit,  of  worldly  men. 

Now  converts,  it  is  said,  are  most  zealous,  but 
they  are  not  always  the  moat  persevering.  If 
their  tempers  are  warm ;  and  they  have  only 
been  touched  on  the  side  of  their  passions,  they 
start  eagerly,  mareh  rapidly,  and  are  full  of 
confidence  in  their  own  strength.  They  too 
often  judge  others  with  little  charity,  and  them¬ 
selves  with  little  humility.  While  they  accuse 
those  who  move  steadily  of  standing  still,  they 
fancy  their  own  course  will  never  be  slackened. 
If  their  conversion  be  not  solid,  religion,  in  losing 
its  novelty,  loses  its  power.  Their  speed  de¬ 
clines.  Nay,  it  will  bo  happy  if  their  motion 


become  not  retrograde.  Those  who  are  truly 
sincere,  will  commonly  be  persevering.  If  their 
speed  is  less  eager,  it  is  more  steady.  As  they 
know  their  own  heart  more,  they  discover  its 
deceitfulness,  and  learn  to  distrust  themselves. 
As  they  become  more  humble  in  spirit,  they  be¬ 
come  more  charitable  in  judging.  As  they 
grow  more  firm  in  principle  they  grow  more 
exact  in  conduct. 

The  rooted  habits  of  a  religious  life  may  in 
deed  lose  their  prominence  because  they  are  be¬ 
come  more  indented.  If  they  are  not  embossed 
it  is  because  they  are  burnt  in.  Where  there 
is  uniformity  and  consistency  in  the  whole  cha¬ 
racter,  there  will  be  little  relief  in  an  individual 
action.  A  good  deed  will  be  less  striking  in  an 
established  Christian  than  a  deed  less  good  in 
one  who  has  been  previously  careless ;  good  ac¬ 
tions  being  his  expected  duty  and  his  ordinary 
practice.  Such  a  Christian  indeed,  when  his 
right  habits  cease  to  be  new  and  striking,  may 
fear  that  he  is  declining  :  but  his  quiet  and  con¬ 
firmed  course  is  a  surer  evidence  than  the  more 
early  starts  of  charity,  or  fits  of  piety,  which 
may  have  drawm  more  attention,  and  obtained 
more  appla’ise. 

Again ; — We  should  cultivate  most  assiduous¬ 
ly,  because  the  work  is  so  diflicult,  those  graces 
which  are  most  opposite  to  our  natural  temper ; 
the  value  of  our  good  qualities  depending  much 
on  their  being  produced  by  the  victory  over 
some  natural  wrong  propensity.  The  implanta¬ 
tion  of  a  virtue  is  the  eradication  of  a  vice.  It 
would  cost  one  man  more  to  keep  down  a  rising 
passion  than  to  do  a  brilliant  deed.  It  will  try 
another  more  to  keep  back  a  sparking  but  cor¬ 
rupt  thought,  which  his  wit  had  suggested  but 
which  religion  checks,  than  it  would  to  give  a 
large  sum  in  charity.  A  real  Christian  being 
deeply  sensible  of  the  worthlessness  of  any  ac¬ 
tions  which  do  not  spring  from  the  genuine 
fountain,  will  aim  at  such  an  habitual  conformi¬ 
ty  to  the  divine  image,  that  to  perform  all  acts 
of  justice,  charity,  kindness,  temperance,  and 
every  kindred  virtue,  may  become  the  temper, 
the  habitual,  the  abiding  state  of  his  heart;  that 
like  natural  streams  they  may  flow  spontaneously 
from  the  living  source. 

Practical  Christianity  then,  is  the  actual  ope¬ 
ration  of  Christian  principles.  It  is  lying  on 
the  watch  for  occasions  to  exemplify  them.  It 
is  ‘  exercising  ourselves  unto  godliness.’  A 
Christian  cannot  tell  in  the  morning,  what  op¬ 
portunities  he  may  have  of  doing  good  during 
the  day ;  but  if  he  be  a  real  Christian,  he  can 
tell  that  he  will  try  to  keep  his  heart  open,  his 
mind  prepared,  his  affections  alive  to  do  what¬ 
ever  may  occur  in  the  way  of  duty.  He  will, 
as  it  were,  stand  in  the  way  to  receive  the  orders 
of  Providence.  Doing  good  is  his  vocation.  Nor 
does  the  young  artisan  bind  himself  by  firmer 
articles  to  the  rigid  performance  of  his  master  s 
work,  than  the  indentured  Christian  to  the  ac¬ 
tive  service  of  that  Divine  Master,  who  himself 
‘  went  about  doing  good.’  He  rejects  no  duty 
which  comes  within  the  sphere  of  his  calling, 
nor  does  he  think  the  work  he  is  employed  in  a 
good  one,  if  he  might  be  doing  a  better.  His 
having  well  acquitted  himself  of  a  good  action, 
is  so  far  from  furnishing  him  with  an  excuse 


424 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


for  avoiding  the  next,  that  it  is  a  new  reason 
for  his  embarking  in  it.  He  looks  not  at  the 
work  which  he  has  accomplished  ;  but  on  that 
which  he  has  to  do.  His  views  are  always 
prospective.  His  charities  are  scarcely  limited 
by  his  power.  His  will  knows  no  limits.  His 
fortune  may  have  bounds  :  His  benevolence  has 
none.  He  is,  in  mind  and  desire,  the  benefactor 
of  every  miserable  man.  His  heart  is  open  to 
all  the  distressed  ;  to  the  household  of  faith  it 
civerflows.  Where  the  heart  is  large,  however 
sinall  >the  ability,  a  thousand  ways  of  doing  good 
will  be  invented.  Christian  charity  is  a  great 
enlarger  of  means.  Christian  self-denial  nega¬ 
tively  accomplishes  the  purpose  of  the  favourites 
of  fortune  in  tlie  fables  of  the  nursery — if  it  can¬ 
not  fill  the  purse  by  a  wish,  it  will  not  empty  it 
bv  a  vanity.  It  provides  for  others  by  abridg¬ 
ing  from  itself.  Having  carefully  defined  what 
is  necessary  and  becoming,  it  allows  of  no  en¬ 
croachment  on  its  definition.  Superfluities  it 
will  lop,  vanities  it  will  cut  off.  The  deviser 
of  liberal  things  will  find  means  of  effecting 
them,  which  to  the  indolent  appear  incredible, 
to  the  covetous  impossible.  Christian  bene¬ 
ficence  takes  a  large  sweep.  That  circumfer¬ 
ence  cannot  be  sinall  of  which  God  is  the  centre. 
Nor  does  religious  charity  in  a  Christian  stand 
still  because  not  kept  in  motion  by  the  main 
spring  of  the  world.  Money  may  fail,  but  benevo¬ 
lence  will  be  going  on.  If  he  cannot  relieve  want, 
he  may  mitigate  sorrow.  He  may  warn  the  inex¬ 
perienced,  he  may  instruct  the  ignorant,  he  may 
confirm  the  doubting.  The  Christian  will  find 
out  the  cheapest  way  of  being  good  as  well  as  of 
doing  good.  If  ho  cannot  give  money,  he  may 
exercise  a  more  difficult  virtue  ;  he  may  forgive 
injuries.  Forgiveness  is  the  economy  of  the 
heart.  A  Christian  will  find  it  cheaper  to  par¬ 
don  than  to  resent.  Forgiveness  saves  expense 
of  anger,  the  cost  of  hatred,  the  waste  of  spirits. 
It  also  puts  the  soul  into  a  frame,  whieh  makes 
the  practiee  of  other  virtues  easy.  The  achieve¬ 
ment  of  a  hard  duty  is  a  great  abolisher  of  diffi¬ 
culties.  If  great  occasions  do  not  arise,  he  will 
thankfully  seize  on  small  ones.  If  he  eannot 
glorify  God  by  serving  others,  he  knows  that 
he  has  always  something  to  do  at  home  ;  some 
evil  temper  to  correct,  some  wrong  propensity 
to  refbrm,  some  crooked  practice  to  straighten. 
He  will  never  be  at  a  loss  for  employment, 
while  there  is  a  sin  or  misery  in  the  world  ;  he 
will  never  be  idle,  while  there  is  a  distress  to  be 
relieved  in  another,  or  a  corruption  to  be  cured 
in  his  own  heart.  We  have  employment  assign¬ 
ed  to  us  for  every  circumstance  in  life.  When 
we  are  alone,  we  have  our  thoughts  to  wateh  : 
in  the  family,  our  tempers ;  in  company,  our 
tongues. 

What  an  example  of  disinterested  goodness 
and  unbounded  kindness  have  wc  in  our 
heavenly  Father,  who  is  merciful  over  all  his 
works  ;  who  distributes  common  blessings  with¬ 
out  distinction  ;  who  bestows  the  necessary  re¬ 
freshments  of  life,  the  shining  sun  and  the  re¬ 
freshing  shower,  without  wailing,  as  wo  are  apt 
to  do  for  personal  merit,  or  attachment  or  gra¬ 
titude  ;  who  does  not  look  out  for  desert,  but 
want  as  a  qualification  for  his  favours who 
does  not  afflict  willingly,  who  delights  in  the 


happiness  and  desires  the  salvation  of  all  his  chiF 
dren ;  who  dispenses  his  daily  munificence  and 
bears  with  our  daily  offences  ;  who  in  return  for 
our  violation  of  his  laws,  supplies  our  necessities  , 
who  waits  patiently  for  our  repentance,  and  even 
solieits  us  to  have  mercy  on  our  own  souls  ? 

What  a  model  for  our  humble  imitation  is 
that  Divine  person  who  was  clothed  with  our 
humanity ;  who  dwelt  among  us  that  the  pattern 
being  brought  near  might  be  rendered  more 
engaging,  the  conformity  be  made  more  practi¬ 
cable  ;  whose  whole  life  was  one  unbroken 
series  of  universal  charity;  who  in  his  com¬ 
plicated  bounties  never  forgot  that  man  is  com¬ 
pounded  both  of  soul  and  body  ;  who  after  teach¬ 
ing  the  multitude,  fed  them  ;  who  repulsed  none 
for  being  ignorant ;  was  impatient  with  none 
for  being  dull ;  despised  none  for  being  contemn¬ 
ed  by  the  world ;  rejected  none  for  being  sin¬ 
ners  ;  who  encouraged  those  whose  importunity 
others  censured  ;  who  in  healing  sickness  con¬ 
verted  souls ;  who  gave  bread  and  forgave  in¬ 
juries  ! 

It  will  be  the  endeavour  of  the  sincere  Chris¬ 
tian,  to  illustrate  his  devotions  in  the  morning 
by  his  actions  during  the  day.  He  will  try  to 
make  his  conduct  a  practical  exposition  of  the 
divine  prayer  which  made  a  part  of  them.  He 
will  desire  to  hallow  the  name  of  God,  to  pro¬ 
mote  the  enlargement  and  the  ‘  coming’  of  the 
‘  kingdom’  of  Christ.  He  will  endeavour  to  do 
and  to  suffer  his  whole  will ;  ‘  to  forgive’  as  he 
himself  trusts  that  he  is  forgiven.  He  will  re¬ 
solve  to  avoid  that  ‘  temptation’  into  which  he 
had  been  praying  ‘  not  to  be  led ;’  and  he  will 
labour  to  shun  the  ‘  evil’  from  which  he  had  been 
begging  to  be  ‘  delivered.’  He  thus  makes  his 
prayers  as  practical  as  the  other  parts  of  his 
religion  ;  and  labours  to  render  his  conduct  as 
spiritual  as  his  prayers.  The  commentary  and 
the  text  are  of  reciprocal  application. 

If  this  gracious  Saviour  has  left  us  a  perfect 
model  for  our  devotion  in  his  prayer,  he  has  left 
a  model  no  less  perfect  for  our  practice  in  his 
sermon.  This  Divine  exposition  has  been  some¬ 
times  misunderstood.  It  was  not  so  much  a 
supplement  to  a  defective  law,  at  the  restoration 
of  the  purity  of  a  perfect  law  from  the  corrupt 
interpretations  of  its  blind  expounders.  These 
persons  had  ceased  to  consider  it  as  forbidding 
the  principle  of  sin, and  as  only  forbidding  the  act. 
Christ  restores  it  to  its  original  meaning,  spreads 
it  out  on  its  due  extent,  shows  the  largeness  of  its 
dimensions  and  the  spirit  of  its  institution.  Ho 
unfolds  all  its  motions,  tendencies  and  relations. 
Not  contenting  himself,  as  human  legislators, 
are^  obliged  to  do,  to  prohibit  a  man  the  act 
which  is  injurious  to  others,  but  the  inward 
temper  which  is  prejudicial  to  himself. 

There  cannot  be  a  more  striking  instance, 
how  emphatically  every  doctrine  of  the  gospel 
has  a  reference  to  practical  goodness,  than  is 
exhibited  by  St.  Paul  in  that  magnificent  pic¬ 
ture  of  the  resurrection,  in  his  epistle  to  the 
Corinthians,  which  our  church  has  happily 
selected,  for  the  consolation  of  survivors  at  the 
last  closing  scene  of  mortality.  After  an  inter¬ 
ference  as  triumphant  as  it  is  logical,  that  be¬ 
cause  ‘  Christ  is  risen,  wo  shall  rise  also  ;’  after 
the  most  philosophical  illustration  of  the  raising 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


425 


of  the  body  from  the  dust,  by  the  process  of 
grain  sown  in  the  earth,  and  by  the  springing 
up  into  a  new  mode  of  existence ;  after  describ¬ 
ing  the  subjugation  of  all  things  to  the  Re¬ 
deemer,  and  his  laying  down  the  mediatorial 
kingdom ;  after  sketching  with  a  seraph’s  pen¬ 
cil,  the  relative  glories  of  the  celestial  and  ter- 
testrial  bodies ;  after  exhausting  the  grandest 
images  of  created  nature,  and  the  dissolution  of 
nature  itself; — after  such  a  display  of  the 
solemnities  of  the  great  day,  as  makes  this 
world,  and  all  its  concerns  shrink  into  nothing: 
in  such  a  moment,  when,  if  ever,  the  rapt  spirit 
might  be  supposed  too  highly  wrought  for  pre¬ 
cept  and  admonition,  the  apostle,  wound  up  as 
he  was  by  the  energies  of  inspiration,  to  the  im¬ 
mediate  view  of  the  glorified  state — the  last 
trumpet  sounding — the  change  from  mortal  to 
immortality  effected  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye 
— the  sting  of  death  drawn  out — victory  snatch¬ 
ed  from  the  grave — then,  by  a  turn  as  surprising 
as  it  is  beautiful,  he  draws  a  conclusion  as  un¬ 
expectedly  practical  as  his  premises  were  grand 
and  awful :  ‘  Therefore,  my  beloved  brethren,  be 
ye  steadfast,  unmoveable  ;  always  abounding  in 
the  work  of  the  Lord.’  Then  at  once,  by  an¬ 
other  quick  transition,  resorting  from  the  duty 
to  the  reward,  and  winding  up  the  whole  with 
an  argument  as  powerful,  as  his  rhetoric  had 
been  sublime,  he  adds — ‘  Forasmuch  as  ye  know 
that  your  labour  is  not  in  vain  in  the  Lord.’ 


CHAP.  III. 

Mistakes  in  Religion 

To  point  out  with  precision  all  the  mistakes 
which  exist  in  the  present  day,  on  the  awful 
subject  of  religion,  would  far  exceed  the  limits 
of  this  small  work.  No  mention  therefore  is 
intended  to  be  made  of  the  opinions  or  the  prac¬ 
tice  of  any  particular  body  of  people  ;  nor  will 
any  notice  be  taken  of  any  of  the  peculiarities 
of  the  numerous  sects  and  parties  which  have 
risen  up  among  us.  It  will  be  sufficient  for  the 
present  purpose,  to  hazard  some  slight  remarks 
on  a  few  of  those  common  classes  of  characters, 
which  belong  more  or  less  to  most  general  bodies. 

There  are,  among  many  others,  three  differ¬ 
ent  sorts  of  religious  professors.  The  religion 
of  one  consists  in  a  sturdy  defence  of  what  they 
themselves  call  orthodoxy,  an  attendance  on 
public  worship,  and  a  general  decency  of  beha¬ 
viour.  In  their  views  of  religion,  they  are  not 
a  little  apprehensive  of  excess,  not  perceiving 
hat  their  danger  lies  on  the  other  side.  They 
are  far  from  rejecting  faith  or  morals,  but  are 
somewhat  afraid  of  believing  too  much,  and  a 
little  scrupulous  about  doing  too  much,  lest  the 
former  be  suspected  of  fiinaticism,  and  the  latter 
of  singularity.  These  Christians  consider  re. 
ligion  as  a  point,  which  they,  by  their  regular 
observances,  having  attained,  tliere  is  nothing 
further  required  but  to  maintain  the  point  they 
nave  reached,  by  a  repetition  of  the  same  obser¬ 
vances.  They  are  therefore  satisfied  to  remain 
stationary,  considering  that  whoever  has  obtain¬ 
ed  his  end,  is  of  course  saved  the  labour  of  pur¬ 


suit ;  he  is  to  keep  his  ground  without  troubling 
himself  in  searching  after  imaginary  perfection. 
These  frugal  Christians  are  afraid  of  nothing 
so  much  as  superfluity  in  their  love,  and  supere¬ 
rogation  in  their  obedience.  This  kind  of  fear 
however  is  always  superfluous,  but  most  espe¬ 
cially  in  those  who  are  troubled  with  the  appre¬ 
hension.  They  are  apt  to  weigh  in  the  nicely 
poised  scales  of  scrupulous  exactness,  the  duties 
which  must  of  hard  necessity  be  done,  and 
those  which  without  much  risk  may  be  left 
undone ;  compounding  for  a  larger  indulgence 
by  the  relinquishment  of  a  smaller  ;  giving  up, 
through  fear,  a  trivial  gratification  to  which  they 
are  less  inclined,  and  snatching  doubtingly,  as 
an  equivalent,  at  one  they  like  better.  The 
gratification  in,  both  cases  being  perhaps  such 
as  a  manly  mind  would  hardly  think  worth 
contending  for,  oven  were  religion  out  of  the 
question.  Nothing  but  love  to  God  can  conquer 
love  of  the  world.  One  grain  of  that  divine 
principle  would  make  the  scale  of  self-indul¬ 
gence  kick  the  beam. 

These  persons  dread  nothing  so  much  as  en¬ 
thusiasm.  Yet  if  to  look  for  effects  without  their 
predisposing  causes ;  to  depend  for  heaven  on 
that  to  which  heaven  was  never  promised,  be 
features  of  enthusiasm,  then  are  they  themselves 
enthusiasts. 

The  religion  of  a  second  class,  we  have  al¬ 
ready  described  in  the  two  preceding  chapters. 
It  consists  in  a  heart  devoted  to  its  Maker ;  in¬ 
wardly  changed  in  its  temper  and  disposition, 
yet  deeply  sensible  of  its  remaining  infirmities  ; 
continually  aspiring  however  to  higher  improve¬ 
ments  in  faith,  hope  and  charity,  and  thinking 
that  ‘  the  greatest  of  these  is  charity.'  These, 
by  the  former  class,  are  reckoned  enthusiasts, 
but  they  are  in  fact,  if  Christianity  be  true, 
acting  on  the  only  rational  principles.  If  the 
doctrines  of  the  gospel  have  any  solidity,  if  its 
promises  have  any  meaning,  these  Christians 
are  building  on  no  false  ground.  They  liope 
that  submission  to  the  power  of  God,  obedience 
to  his  laws,  compliance  with  his  will,  trust  in 
his  word,  are  through  the  efficacy  of  the  eternal 
Spirit,  real  evidences,  because  they  are  vital 
acts  of  genuine  faith  in  Jesus  Christ.  If  they 
profess  not  to  place  their  reliance  on  works, 
they  are  however  more  zealous  in  performing 
them  than  the  others,  who  professing  to  depend 
on  their  good  deeds  for  salvation,  are  not  always 
diligent  in  securing  it  by  the  very  means  which 
they  themselves  establish  to  be  alone  effectual. 

There  is  a  third  class — the  high  flown  pro¬ 
fessor,  who  looks  down  from  the  giddy  heights 
of  antinomian  delusion  on  the  other  two,  abhors 
the  6ne,  and  despises  the  other,  concludes  that 
the  one  is  lost,  and  the  other  in  a  fair  way  to  be 
so.  Though  perhaps  not  living  himself  in  any 
course  of  immorality,  which  requires  the  sanc¬ 
tion  of  such  doctrines,  he  does  not  hesitate  to 
imply  in  his  discourse,  that  virtue  is  heathenish, 
and  good  works  superfluous  if  not  dangerous. 
He  does  not  consider  that  though  the  Gospel'  is 
an  act  of  oblivion  to  penitent  sinners,  yet  it  no 
where  promises  pardon  to  those  who  continue 
to  live  in  a  state  of  rebellion  against  God,  and 
of  disobedience  to  his  laws.  He  forgets  to  in . 
sist  to  others  that  it  is  of  little  importance  even 


426 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


to  ‘believe  that  sin  is  an  evil  (which  however 
thej  do  not  always  believe)  while  they  persist 
to  live  in.  it ;  that  to  know  every  thing  of  duty 
except  the  doing  it,  is  to  otfend  God  with  an  ag¬ 
gravation  from  which  ignorance  itself  is  exempt. 
It  is  not  giving  ourselves  up  to  Christ  in  a  name¬ 
less,  inexplicable  way,  which  will  avail  us.  God 
loves  an  humble,  not  an  audacious  faith.  To 
suppose  that  the  blood  of  Christ  redeems  us  from 
sin,  while  sin  continues  to  pollute  the  soul,  is  to 
suppose  an  impossibility  ;  to  maintain  that  it  is 
effectual  for  the  salvation,  and  not  for  the  sanc¬ 
tification  of  the  sinner,  is  to  suppose  that  it  acts 
like  an  amulet,  an  incantation,  a  talisman,  which 
is  to  produce  its  effect  by  operating  on  the  ima¬ 
gination,  and  not  on  the  disease. 

The  religion  which  mixes  with  human  pas¬ 
sions,  and  is  set  on  fire  by  them,  will  make  a 
stronger  blaze  than  that  light  which  is  from 
above,  which  sheds  a  steady  and  lasting  bright¬ 
ness  on  the  path,  and  communicates  a  sober  but 
desirable  warmth  to  the  heart.  It  is  equable 
and  constant;  while  the  other,  like  culinary 
■fire,  fed  by  gross  materials,  is  extinguished  the 
sooner  from  the  fierceness  of  the  flame. 

That  religion  which  is  merely  seated  in  the 
passions,  is  not  only  liable  to  wear  itself  out  by 
its  own  impetuosity,  but  to  be  driven  out  by 
some  other  passion.  The  dominion  of  violent 
passions  is  short.  They  dispossess  each  other. 
When  religion  has  had  its  day,  it  gives  way  to 
the  next  usurper.  Its  empire  is  no  more  solid 
than  it  is  lasting,  when  principle  and  reason  do 
Hot  fix  it  on  the  throne. 

The  first  of  the  above  classes  consider  pru¬ 
dence  as  the  paramountvirtue  in  religion.  Their 
antipodes,  the  flaming  professors,  believe  a  burn¬ 
ing  zeal  to  be  the  exclusive  grace.  They  revere 
saint  Paul’s  collocation  of  the  three  Christian 
graces,  and  think  that  the  greatest  of  these  is 
Jaith.  Though  even  in  respect  of  this  grace, 
their  conduct  and  conversation  too  often  give  us 
reason  to  lament  that  they  do  not  bear  in  mind 
its  genuine  and  distinctive  properties.  Their 
■faith  instead  of  working  bj^  love,  seems  to  be 
adopted  from  a  notion  that  it  leaves  the  Chris¬ 
tian  nothing  to  do,  rather  than  because  it  is  its 
nature  to  lead  him  to  do  more  and  better  than 
other  men. 

In  this  case,  as  in  many  others,  that  which  is 
directly  contrary  to  what  is  wrong,  is  wrong 
a-lso.  If  each  opponent  would  only  barter  half 
his  favourite  quality  with  the  favourite  quality 
of  the  other,  both  parties  would  approach  nearer 
to  the  truth.  They  might  even  furnish  a  com¬ 
plete  Christian  between  them,  that  is,  provided 
the  zeal  of  the  one  was  sincere,  and  the  prudence 
of  the  other  honest.  But  the  niisfortune  is,  each 
is  as  proud  of  not  possessing  the  quality  he 
wants,  because  Iris  adversary  has  it,  as  he  rs 
proud  of  possessing  that  of  which  the  other  is 
destitute,  and  because  he  is  destitute  of  it. 

Among  the  many  mistakes  in  religion,  it  is 
commonly  thought  that  there  is  something  so 
unintelligible,  absurd,  and  fanatical  in  the  term 
conversion,  that  those  who  employ  it,  run  no 
email  hazard  of  being  involved  in  the  ridicule  it 
excites.  It  is  seldom  used  but  ludicrously,  or 
in  contempt.  This  arises  partly  from  the  levity 
and  ignorance  of  the  censurer,  but  perhaps  as 


much  from  the  imprudence  and  enthusiasm  of 
those,  who  have  absurdly  confined  it  to  real  or 
supposed  instances  of  sudden  or  miraculous 
changes  from  profligacy  to  piety.  But  surely, 
with  reasonable  people,  we  run  no  risk  in  as¬ 
serting  that  he,  who  being  awakened  by  any  of 
those  various  methods  which  the  Almighty  uses 
to  bring  his  creatures  to  the  knowledge  of  him¬ 
self;  who  seeing  the  corruptions  that  are  in  the 
world,  and  feeling  those  with  which  his  heart 
abounds,  is  brought,  whether  gradually  or  rapid- 
ly  from  an  evil  heart  of  unbelief,  to  a  lively  faith 
in  the  Redeemer  ;  from  a  life,  not  only  of  gross 
vice,  but  of  worldliness  and  vanity,  to  a  life  of 
progressive  piety ;  whose  humility  keeps  pace 
with  his  progress  ;  who,  though  his  attainments 
are  advancing,  is  so  far  from  counting  himself 
to  have  attained,  that  he  presses  onward  with 
unabated  zeal,  and  evinces,  by  the  change  in  his 
conduct,  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  his 
heart — such  a  one  is  surely  as  sineerely  con¬ 
verted,  and  the  effect  is  as  much  produced  by 
the  same  divine  energy,  as  if  some  instantaneous 
revolution  in  his  character  had  given  it  a  mira¬ 
culous  appearance.  The  doctrines  of  Scripture 
are  the  same  now  as  when  David  called  them, 
‘  a  law  converting  the  soul,  and  giving  light  to 
the  eyes.’  This  is  perhaps  the  most  accurate 
and  comprehensive  definition  of  the  change  for 
which  we  are  contending,  for  it  includes  both 
the  illumination  of  the  understanding,  and  the 
alteration  in  the  disposition. 

If  then  this  obnoxious  expression  signify  no¬ 
thing  more  nor  less  than  that  change  of  charac¬ 
ter  which  consists  in  turning  from  the  world  to 
God,  however  the  term  may  offend,  there  is  no¬ 
thing  ridiculous  in  the  thing.  Now,  as  it  is  not 
for  the  term  which  we  contend,  but  for  the  prin¬ 
ciple  conveyed  by  it ;  so  it  is  the  principle  and 
not  the  term  which  is  the  real  ground  of  objec 
tion ;  though  it  is  a  little  inconsistent  that  many 
who  would  sneer  at  the  idea  of  conversion,  would 
yet  take  it  extremely  ill  if  it  were  suspected  that 
their  hearts  were  not  turned  to  God. 

Reforjnation,  a  term  against  which  rJo  objec¬ 
tion  is  ever  made,  would,  if  words  continued  to 
retain  their  primitive  signification,  convey  the 
same  idea.  For  it  is  plain  that  to  reform  means 
to  make  anew.  In  the  present  use,  however,  it 
does  not  convey  the  same  meaning  in  the  same 
extent,  nor  indeed  does  it  imply  the  operation 
of  the  same  principle.  Many  are  reformed  on 
human  motives,  many  are  partially  reformed ; 
but  only  those  who,  as  our  great  poet  says,  are 
‘  reformed  altogether,’  are  converted.  There  is 
no  complete  reformation  in  the  conduct  effected 
without  a  revolution  in  the  heart.  Ceasing  from 
some  sins  ;  retaining  others  in  a  less  degree  ;  or 
adopting  such  as  are  merely  creditable ;  or  fly. 
ing  from  one  sin  to  another ;  or  ceasing  from 
the  external  act  without  any  internal  change  of 
disposition,  is  not  Christian  reformation.  The 
new  principle  must  abolish  tl)e  old  habit;  the 
rooted  inclination  must  be  subdued  by  the  sub¬ 
stitution  of  an  opposite  one.  The  natural  bias 
must  be  changed.  The  actual  offence  will  no 
more  be  pardoned  than  cured,  if  the  inward  cor¬ 
ruption  be  not  eradicated.  To  'Ije  ‘  alive  unto 
God  through  Jesus  Christ’  must  follow  ‘the 
death  unto  sin.’  There  cannot  be  new  aims  and 


THE  WORKS  OP  HANNAH  MORE. 


427 


ends  where  there  is  not  a  new  principle  to  pro¬ 
duce  them.  Wo  shall  not  choose  a  new  path 
until  a  light  from  heaven  direct  our  choice  and 
‘  guide  our  feet.’  We  shall  not  ‘  run  the  way  of 
God’s  commandments,’  till  God  himself  enlarge 
our  heart. 

We  do  not,  however,  insist  that  the  change 
required  is  such  as  precludes  the  possibility  of 
falling  into  sin ;  but  it  is  a  change  which  fixes 
in  the  soul  such  a  disposition  as  shall  make  sin 
a  burden,  as  shall  make  the  desire  of  pleasing 
God  the  governing  desire  of  a  man’s  heart ;  as 
shall  make  him  hate  the  evil  which  he  does ;  as 
shall  make  the  lowness  of  his  attainments  the 
subject  of  his  deepest  sorrow.  A  Christian  has 
hopes  and  fears,  cares  and  temptations,  inclina¬ 
tions  and  desires,  as  well  as  other  men.  God  in 
changing  the  heart  does  not  extinguish  the  pas¬ 
sions.  Were  that  the  case  the  Christian  life 
would  cease  to  be  a  warfare. 

We  are  often  deceived  by  that  partial  improve¬ 
ment  which  appears  in  the  victory  over  some 
one  bad  quality.  But  we  must  not  mistake  the 
removal  of  a  symptom  for  a  radical  cure  of  the 
disease.  An  occasional  remedy  might  remove 
an  accidental  sickness,  but  it  requires  a  general 
regimen  to  renovate  the  diseased  constitution. 

It  is  the  natural  but  melancholy  history  of  the 
unchanged  heart,  that  from  youth  to  advapeed 
years,  there  is  no  other  revolution  in  the  cha¬ 
racter  but  such  as  increase  both  the  number  and 
quality  of  its  defects :  that  the  levity,  vanity, 
and  self-sufficiency  of  the  young  man  is  carried 
into  advanced  life,  and  only  meet,  and  mix  with 
the  defects  of  a  mature  period  :  that,  instead  of 
crying  out  with  the  royal  prophet,  ‘  O  remember 
not  my  old  sins,’  he  is  inflaming  his  reckoning 
by  new  ones  :  that  age,  protracting  all  the  faults 
of  youth,  furnishes  its  own  contingent  of  vices  : 
that  sloth,  suspicion,  and  covetousness,  swell 
the  account  which  religion  has  not  been  called 
in  to  cancel :  that  the  world,  though  it  has  lost 
the  power  to  delight,  has  yet  lost  nothing  of  its 
power  to  enslave.  Instead  of  improving  in  can¬ 
dour  by  the  inward  sense  of  its  own  defects,  that 
very  consciousness  makes  him  less  tolerant  of 
the  defects  of  others,  and  more  suspicious  of 
their  apparent  virtues.  His  charity  in  a  warmer 
season  having  failed  to  bring  him  in  that  return 
of  gratitude  fbr  which  it  was  partly  performed, 
and  having  never  flowed  from  the  genuine  spring, 
is  dried  up.  His  friendships  having  been  form¬ 
ed  on  worldly  principles,  or  interest,  or  ambi¬ 
tion,  or  convivial  hilarity,  fail  him.  One  must 
make  some  sacrifices  to  the  world,  is  the  pre¬ 
vailing  language  of  the  nominal  Christian. 
‘  What  will  the  world  pay  you  for  your  sacri¬ 
fices  V  replies  the  real  Christian.  Though  ho 
finds  that  the  world  is  insolvent,  that  it  pays  no¬ 
thing  of  what  is  promised,  for  it  cannot  bestow 
what  it  does  not  possess — happiness :  yet  he 
continues  to  cling-  to  it  almost  as  confidently  as 
if  it  had  never  disappointed  him.  Were  we 
called  upon  to  name  the  object  under  the  sun 
which  excites  the  deepest  commiseration  in  the 
heart  of  Christian  sensibility,  which  includes  in 
itselfthe  most  affecting  congruities,  which  con- 
tains  the  sum  and  substance  of  real  human  mi¬ 
sery,  we  should  not  hesitate  to  say  an  irreligi- 
Am«  old  age.  •The  mere  debility  of  declining 


years,  even  the  hopelessness  of  decrepitude,  in 
the  pious,  though  they  excite  sympathy,  yet  it 
is  the  sympathy  of  tenderness  unmixed  with 
distress.  We  take  and  give  comfort,  from  the 
cheering  persuasion  that  the  exhausted  body 
will  soon  cease  to  clog  its  immortal  companion  ; 
that  the  dim  and  failing  eyes  will  soon  open  on 
a  world  of  glory.  Dare  we  paint  the  reverse  of 
the  picture  ?  Dare  we  suffer  the  imagination 
to  dwell  on  the  opening  prospects  of  hoary  im¬ 
piety  ?  Dare  we  figure  to  ourselves  that  the 
weakness,  the  miseries,  the  terrors,  we  are  now 
commiserating,  are  ease,  are  peace,  are  happi- 
ness  compared  with  the  unutterable  perspec¬ 
tive  ? 

There  is  a  fatal  way  of  lulling  the  conscience 
by  entertaining  diminishing  thoughts  of  sins 
long  since  committed.  We  persuade  ourselves 
to  forget  them,  and  we  therefore  persuade  our¬ 
selves  that  they  are  not  remembered  by  God. 
But  though  distance  diminishes  objects  td  the 
eye  of  the  beholder,  it  does  not  actually  lessen 
them.  Their  real  magnitude  remains  the  same. 
Deliver  us,  merciful  God !  from  the  delusion  of 
believing  that  secret  sins,  of  which  the  world 
has  no  cognizance,  early  sins,  which  the  world 
has  forgotten,  but  which  are  known  to  ‘  Him 
with  whom  we  have  to  do,’  become  by  secrecy 
and  distance  as  if  they  had  never  been.  ‘  Are 
not  these  things  noted  in  thy  book  ?’  Perhaps 
if  we  remember  them,  God  may  forget  them, 
especially  if  our  remembrance  be  such  as  to  in¬ 
duce  a  sound  repentance.  If  we  remember 
them  not.  He  assuredly  will.  The  holy  contri¬ 
tion  which  should  accompany  this  remembrance, 
while  it  will  not  abate  our  humble  trust  in  our 
compassionate  Redeemer,  will  keep  our  con¬ 
science  tender,  and  our  heart  watchful. 

We  do  not  deny  that  there  is  frequently  much 
kindness  and  urbanity,  much  benevolence  and 
generosity,  in  men  who  do  not  even  pretend  to 
be  religious.  These  qualities  often  flow  from 
constitutional  feeling,  natural  softness  of  temper, 
and  warm  affections :  often  from  an  elegant  edu¬ 
cation,  that  best  human  sweetener,  and  polisher 
of  social  life.  We  feel  a  tender  regret  as  we 
exclaim  ‘  what  a  fine  soil  would  such  dispositions 
afford  to  plant  religion  in  V  Well  bred  persons 
are  accustomed  to  respect  all  the  decorums  of 
society,  to  connect  inseparably  the  ideas  of  per¬ 
sonal  comfort  with  public  esteem,  of  generosity 
with  credit,  of  order  with  respectability.  They 
have  a  keen  sense  of  dishonour,  and  are  careful- 
to  avoid  every  thing  that  may  bring  the  shadow 
of  discredit  on  their  name.  Public  opinion  is 
the  breath  by  which  they  live,  the  standard  by 
which  they  act ;  of  course  they  would  not  lower 
by  gross  misconduct,  that  standard  on  which 
their  happiness  depends.  They  have  been  taught 
to  respect  themselves ;  this  they  can  do  with 
more  security  while  they  can  retain,  on  this 
half-way  principle  the  respect  of  others. 

In  some  who  make  further  advances  towards 
religion,  we  continue  to  see  it  in  that  same  low 
degree  which  we  have  always  observed.  It  is 
dwarfish  and  stunted,  it  makes  no  shoots. 
Though  it  gives  some  signs  of  life,  it  does  not 
grow.  By  a  tame  and  spiritless  round,  or  rather 
by  this  fixed  and  irnmoveaDio  position,  we  rob 
ourselves  of  that  fair  reward  of  peace  and  joy 


428 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


which  attends  on  an  humble  consciousness  of 
progress :  on  the  feeling  of  difficulties  conquered; 
on  a  sense  of  the  divine  favour.  That  religion 
which  is  profitable,  is  commonly  perceptible. 
Nothing  supports  a  traveller  in  his  Christian 
course  like  the  conviction  that  he  is  getting  on  ; 
like  looking  back  on  the  country  he  has  passed  ; 
and,  above  all,  like  the  sense  of  that  protection 
which  has  hitherto  carried  him  on,  and  of  that 
grace  which  has  promised  to  support  him  to  the 
end. 

The  proper  motion  of  the  renewed  heart  is 
still  directed  upward.  True  religion  is  of  an 
aspiring  nature,  continually  tending  towards 
that  heaven  from  whence  it  was  transplanted. 
Its  top  is  high  because  its  root  is  deep.  It  is 
watered  by  a  perennial  fountain ;  in  its  most 
flourishing  state  it  is  always  capable  of  further 
growth.  Real  goodness  proves  itself  to  be  such 
by  a  continual  desire  to  be  better.  No  virtue 
on  earth  is  ever  in  a  complete  state.  Whatever 
stage  of  religion  any  man  has  attained,  if  he  be 
satisfied  to  rest  in  that  stage,  we  would  not  call 
that  man  religious.  The  Gospel  seems  to  con¬ 
sider  the  highest  degree  of  goodness  as  the  low¬ 
est  with  which  a  Christian  ought  to  sit  down 
satisfied.  We  cannot  be  said  to  be  finished  in 
any  Christian  grace,  because  there  is  not  one 
which  may  not  be  carried  further  than  we  have 
carried  it.  This  promotes  the  double  purpose 
of  keeping  us  humble  as  to  our  present  stage, 
and  of  stimulating  us  to  something  higher  which 
we  may  hope  to  attain. 

That  superficial  thing,  which  by  mere  people 
of  the  world  is  dignified  by  the  appellation  of 
religion,  though  it  brings  just  that  degree  of 
credit  which  makes  part  of  the  system  of  world¬ 
ly  Christians ;  neither  brings  comfort  for  this 
world,  nor  security  for  the  next.  Outward  ob¬ 
servances,  indispensable  as  they  are,  are  not  re¬ 
ligion.  They  are  the  accessory,  but  not  the 
principal  ;  they  are  important  aids  and  adjuncts, 
but  not  the  thing  itself ;  they  are  its  aliment 
but  not  its  life,  the  fuel  but  not  the  flame,  the 
scaffolding  but  not  the  edifice.  Religion  can  no 
more  subsist  merely  by  them.  They  are  di¬ 
vinely  appointed,  and  must  be  conscientiously 
observed  ;  but  observed  as  a  means  to  promote 
an  end,  and  not  as  an  end  in  themselves. 

The  heartless  homage  of  formal  worship, 
where  the  living  power  does  not  give  life  to  the 
form,  the  cold  compliment  of  ceremonial  attend¬ 
ance,  without  the  animating  principle,  as  it  will 
not  bring  peace  to  our  own  mind,  so  neither  will 
it  satisfy  a  jealous  God.  That  God  whose  eye 
is  on  the  heart,  ‘  who  trieth  the  reins  and  search- 
eth  the  spirits,’  will  not  be  satisfied  that  we  make 
nim  little  more  than  a  nominal  deity,  while  the 
world  is  the  real  object  of  our  worship.  Such 
persons  seem  to  have  almost  the  whole  body  of 
performance  ;  all  they  want  is  the  soul.  They 
are  constant  in  their  devotions,  but  the  heart, 
which  even  the  heathens  esteemed  the  best  part 
of  the  sacrifice,  they  keep  away.  They  read 
he  Scriptures,  but  rest  in  the  letter,  instead  of 
rying  themselves  by  its  spirit. — They  consider 
t  as  an  enjoined  task,  but  not  as  the  quick  and 
powerful  instrument  put  into  their  hands  for  the 
critical  dissection  of  ‘  piercing  and  dividing 
asunder  the  sc'ol  and  spirit;’  not  as  the  pene¬ 


trating  ‘  discerner  of  the  thoughts  and  intents 
of  the  heart.’  These  well-intentioned  persons 
seem  to  spend  no  inconsiderable  portion  of  time 
in  religious  exercises,  and  yet  complain  that 
they  make  little  progress.  They  almost  seem 
to  insinuate  as  if  the  Almighty  did  not  keep  his 
word  with  them,  and  manifest  that  religion  to 
them  is  not  ‘  pleasantness,’  nor  her  ‘  paths  peace.’ 

Of  such  may  we  not  ask,  would  you  not  do' 
better  to  examine  than  to  complain  ?  to  inquire 
whether  you  do,  indeed,  possess  a  heart  which 
notwithstanding  its  imperfections,  is  sincerely 
devoted  to  God  ?  He  who  does  not  desire  to  be 
perfect,  is  not  sincere.  Would  you  not  do  well 
to  convince  yourselves  tliat  God  is  not  unfaithful? 
that  his  promises  do  not  fail  ?  that  his  goodness 
is  not  slackened  ?  May  you  not  be  entertaining 
some  secret  infidelity,  practising  some  latent 
disobedience,  withholding  some  part  of  your 
heart,  neglecting  to  exercise  that  faith,  subtract¬ 
ing  something  from  that  devotedness,  to  which 
a  Christian  should  engage  himself,  and  to  which 
the  promises  of  God  are  annexed  ?  Do  you  in¬ 
dulge  no  propensities  contrary  to  his  will  ?  Do 
you  never  resist  the  dictates  of  his  Spirit  ?  never 
shut  your  eyes  to  its  illumination,  nor  your 
heart  to  its  influences  ?  Do  you  not  indulge 
some  cherished  sin  which  obscures  the  light  of 
grace,  some  practice  which  obstructs  the  growth 
of  virtue,  some  distrust  which  chills  the  warmth 
of  love  ?  The  discovery  will  repay  the  search, 
and  if  you  succeed  in  this  scrutiny,  let  not  the 
detection  discourage  but  stimulate. 

If,  then,  you  resolve  to  take  up  religion  in 
earnest,  especially  if  you  have  actually  adopted 
its  customary  forms,  rest  not  in  such  low  attain¬ 
ment  as  will  afibrd  neither  present  peace  nor 
future  happiness.  To  know  Christianity  only 
in  its  external  forms,  and  its  internal  dissatis¬ 
faction,  its  superficial  appearances  without,  and 
its  disquieting  apprehensions  within  ;  to  be  de¬ 
sirous  of  standing  well  with  the  world  as  a 
Christian,  yet  to  be  unsupported  by  a  well- 
founded  Christian  hope ;  to  depend  for  happi¬ 
ness  on  the  opinion  of  men,  instead  of  the  favour 
of  God  ;  to  go  on  dragging  through  the  mere 
exercises  of  piety,  without  deriving  from  them 
real  strength  or  solid  peace  ;  to  live  in  the  dread 
of  being  called  an  enthusiast,  by  outwardly  ex¬ 
ceeding  in  religion,  and  in  secret  consciousness 
of  falling  short  of  it ;  to  be  conformed  to  the 
world’s  view  of  Christianity,  rather  than  to  as¬ 
pire  to  be  transformed  by  the  renewing  of  your 
mind,  is  a  state,  not  of  pleasure  but  of  penalty 
not  of  conquest  but  of  hopeless  conflict,  not  of 
ingenuous  love  but  of  tormenting  fear.  It  is 
knowing  religion  only  as  the  captive  in  a  foreign 
land  knows  the  country  in  which  he  is  a  pri¬ 
soner.  He  hears  from  the  cheerful  natives  of 
its  beauties,  but  is  himself  ignorant  of  every 
thing  beyond  his  own  gloomy  limits.  He  hears 
of  others  as  free  and  happy,  yet  feels  nothing 
himself  but  the  rigours  of  incarceration. 

The  Christian  character  is  little  understood 
by  the  votaries  of  the  world ;  if  it  were,  they 
would  be  struck  with  its  grandeur.  It  is  the 
very  reverse  of  that  meanness  and  pusillanimity, 
that  abject  spirit  and  those  narrow  views,  which 
those  who  know  it  not  ascribe  to  iL 

A  Christian  lives  at  the  heigl^  of  his  being ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


429 


not  only  at  tho  top  of  his  spiritual,  but  of  his 
intellectual  life.  He  alone  lives  in  the  full  ex¬ 
ercise  of  his  rational  powers.  Religion  ennobles 
his  reason  while  it  enlarges  it. 

Let  then  your  soul  act  up  to  its  high  destina- 
tion ;  let  not  that  which  was  made  to  soar  to 
heaven,  grovel  in  the  dust.  Let  it  not  live  so 
much  below  itself.  You  wonder  it  is  not  more 
fixed,  when  it  is  perpetually  resting  on  things 
which  are  not  fixed  themselves.  In  the  rest  of 
a  Christian  there  is  stability.  Nothing  can 
shalse  his  confidence  but  sin.  Outward  attack 
and  troubles  rather  fix  than  unsettle  him,  as 
tempests  from  without  only  serve  to  root  the  oak 
faster,  while  an  inward  canker  will  gradually  rot 
and  decay  it. 

These  are  only  a  few  of  the  mistakes  among 
the  multitude  which  might  have  been  pointed 
out;  but  these  are  noticed  as  being  of  common 
and  ev'ery  day  occurrence.  The  ineffectiveness 
of  such  a  religion  will  be  obvious. 

That  religion  which  sinks  Christianity  into  a 
mere  conformity  to  religious  usages,  must  al¬ 
ways  fail  of  substantial  effects.  If  sin  be  seated 
in  the  heart,  if  that  be  its  home,  that  is  the  place 
in  which  it  must  be  combatted.  It  is  in  vain  to 
attack  it  in  the  suburbs,  when  it  is  lodged  in 
the  centre.  Mere  forms  can  never  expel  that 
enemy  which  they  can  never  reach.  By  a  re¬ 
ligion  of  decencies,  our  corruptions  may  perhaps 
he  driven  out  of  sight,  but  they  will  never 
he  driven  out  of  possession.  If  they  are  expelled 
from  their  outworks,  they  will  retreat  to  their 
citadel.  If  they  do  not  appear  in  grosser  forms, 
prohibited  by  the  decalogue,  still  they  will  exist. 
The  shape  may  be  altered,  but  the  principle  will 
remain.  They  will  exist  in  the  spiritual  modi¬ 
fication  of  tho  same  sins,  equally  forbidden  by 
the  divine  expositor.  He  who  dares  not  be  re¬ 
vengeful,  will  be  unforgiving.  He  who  ventures 
not  to  break  the  letter  of  the  seventh  command¬ 
ment  in  act,  will  violate  it  in  the  spirit.  He  who 
has  not  courage  to  forfeit  heaven  by  profligacy, 
will  scale  it  by  pride,  or  forfeit  it  by  unprofita¬ 
bleness. 

It  is  not  any  vain  hope,  built  on  some  external 
privilege  or  performance  on  the  one  hand,  nor  a 
presumptuous  confidence  that  our  names  are 
written  in  the  book  of  life,  on  the  other,  which 
can  afford  a  reasonable  ground  of  safety,  but  it 
is  endeavouring  to  keep  all  the  commandments 
of  God  ;  it  is  living  to  him  who  died  for  us ;  it 
is  being  conformed  to  his  image,  as  well  as  re¬ 
deemed  by  his  blood.  This  is  Christian  virtue; 
this  is  the  holiness  of  a  believer.  A  lower  mo¬ 
tive  v/ill  produce  a  lower  morality,  but  such  an 
unsanctified  morality  God  will  not  accept. 

For  it  will  little  avail  us  that  Christ  has  died 
for  us,  that  he  has  conquered  sui,  triumphed 
over  the  powers  of  darkness,  and  overcome  the 
world,  while  any  sin  retains  its  unresisted  do¬ 
minion  in  our  hearts,  while  the  world  is  our 
idol,  wliilo  our  fostered  corruptions  cause  us  to 
])reler  darkness  to  light.  We  must  not  persuade 
ourselves  that  we  are  reconciled  to  God  while 
our  rebellious  hearts  are  not  reconciled  to  good¬ 
ness. 

It  is  not  casting  a  set  of  opinions  into  a  mould, 
and  a  set  of  duties  into  a  system,  which  consti- 
utes  tho  Christian  religion.  The  circumfer¬ 


ence  must  have  a  centre,  the  body  must  have 
soul,  the  performances  must  have  a  principle 
Outward  observances  were  wisely  constituted 
to  rouse  our  forgetfulness,  to  awaken  our  secu¬ 
lar  spirits,  to  call  back  our  negligent  hearts ; 
but  it  was  never  intended  that  w'e  should  stop 
short  in  the  use  of  them.  They  were  designed 
to  excite  holy  thoughts,  to  quicken  us  to  holy 
deeds,  but  not  to  be  used  as  equivalents  for  either 
But  we  find  it  cheaper  to  serve  God  in  a  multi¬ 
tude  of  exterior  acts,  than  to  starve  on  interior 
corruption. 

Nothing  short  of  that  uniform  stable  principle, 
that  fixedness  in  religion  which  directs  a  man 
in  all  his  actions,  aims,  and  pursuits,  to  God  as 
his  ultimate  end,  can  give  consistency  to  his 
conduct  or  thanquillity  to  his  soul.  This  state 
once  attained,  he  will  not  waste  all  his  thoughts 
and  designs  upon  the  world  ;  he  will  not  lavish 
all  his  affections  on  so  poor  a  thing  as  his  own 
advancement.  He  will  desire  to  devote  all  to  the 
only  object  worthy  of  them,  to  God.  Our  Sa¬ 
viour  has  taken  care  to  provide  that  our  ideas 
of  glorifying  him  may  not  run  out  into  fanci¬ 
ful  chimeras  or  subtle  inventions,  by  simply 
stating — ‘  HEREIN  IS  my  father  glorified,  that 
YE  BEAR  MUCH  FRUIT.’  This,  he  goes  on  to  in¬ 
form  us,  is  the  true  evidence  of  our  being  of  the 
number  of  his  people,  by  adding — ‘  so  shall  ye 
bo  my  disciples.’ 


CHAP.  IV. 

Periodical  Religion. 

We  deceive  ourselves  not'  a  little  when  W6 
fancy  that  what  is  emphatically  called  the  world, 
is  only  to  be  found  in  this  or  that  situation.  The 
world  is  every  where.  It  is  a  nature  as  well  as 
a  place ;  a  principle  as  well  as  a  ‘  local  habitation 
and  a  name.’  Though  the  principle  and  the  na¬ 
ture  ffourish  most  in  those  haunts  which  are 
their  congenial  soil,  yet  we  are  too  ready,  when 
we  withdraw  from  the  world  abroad,  to  bring  it 
home,  to  lodge  it  in  our  own  bosom.  The  natu¬ 
ral  heart  is  both  its  temple  and  its  worshipper. 

But  the  most  devoted  idolater  of  the  world, 
with  all  the  capacity  and  industry  which  he  may 
have  applied  to  the  subject,  has  never  yet  been 
able  to  accomplish  the  grand  design  of  uniting 
tho  interests  of  heaven  and  earth.  This  ex¬ 
periment,  which  has  been  more  assiduously  and 
more  frequently  tried  than  that  of  the  philoso¬ 
pher  for  the  grand  hermetic  secret,  has  been 
tried  with  about  the  same  degree  of  success. 
The  most  laborious  process  of  the  spiritual 
chemist  to  reconcile  religion  with  the  world, 
has  never  yet  been  oompetent  to  make  the  con¬ 
tending  principles  coalesce. 

But  to  drop  metaphor. — Religion  was  never 
yet  thoroughly  relinquished  by  a  heart  full  of 
the  world.  The  world  in  return  cannot  be  com¬ 
pletely  enjoyed  where  there  is  just  religion 
enough  to  disturb  its  false  peace.  In  such 
minds  heaven  and  earth  ruin  each  other’s  en. 
joyments. 

There  is  a  religion  which  is  too  sincere  for 
lypocrisy,  but  too  transient  to  be  profitable  ;  too 


430 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


superficial  to  reach  the  heart,  too  unproductive 
to  proceed  from  it.  It  is  slight,  but  not  false. 
It  has  discernment  enough  to  distinguish  sin, 
but  not  firmness  enough  to  oppose  it ;  compunc¬ 
tion  sufficient  to  soften  the  heart,  but  not  vigour 
sufficient  to  reform  it.  It  laments  when  it  does 
wrong,  and  performs  all  the  functions  of  re¬ 
pentance  of  sin  except  forsaking  it  It  has 
every  thing  of  devotion  except  the  stability,  and 
gives  every  thing  to  religion  except  the  heart. 
This  is  a  religion  of  times,  events,  and  circum¬ 
stances  ;  it  is  brought  into  play  by  accidents, 
and  dwindles  away  with  the  occasion  which 
called  it  out.  Festivals  and  fasts  which  occur 
but  seldom,  are  much  observed,  and  it  is  to  be 
feared  because  they  occur  but  seldom  ;  while  the 
great  festival  which  comes  every  tveek,  comes 
too  often  to  be  so  respectfully  treated.  The 
piety  of  these  people  comes  out  much  in  sick¬ 
ness,  but  is  apt  to  retreat  again  as  recovery  ap¬ 
proaches.  If  they  die,  they  are  placed  by  their 
admirers  in  the  Saints’  calender;  if  they  re¬ 
cover,  they  go  back  into  the  world  they  had  re¬ 
nounced,  and  again  suspend  their  amendment 
as  often  as  Death  suspends  his  blow. 

There  is  another  class  whose  views  are  still 
lower,  who  cannot  so  far  shake  off  religion  as  to 
be  easy  without  retaining  its  brief  and  stated 
forms,  and  who  contrive  to  mix  up  these  forms 
with  a  faith  of  a  piece  with  their  practice. 
They  blend  their  inconsistent  works  with  a 
vague  and  unwarranted  reliance  on  .what  the 
Saviour  has  done  for  them,  and  thus  patch  up 
a  merit,  and  a  propitiation  of  their  own — run¬ 
ning  the  hazard  of  incurring  the  danger  of 
punishment  by  their  lives,  and  inventing  a 
scheme  to  avert  it  by  their  cre.ed.  Religion 
never  interferes  with  their  pleasures  except  by 
the  compliment  of  a  short  and  occasional  sus¬ 
pension.  Having  got  through  these  periodical 
acts  of  devotion,  they  return  to  the  same  scenes 
of  vanity  and  idleness  which  they  had  quitted 
for  the  temporary  duty  :  forgetting  that  it  was 
the  very  end  of  those  acts  of  devotion  to  cure  the 
vanity  and  to  correct  the  idleness.  Had  the 
periodical  observance  answered  its  true  design, 
it  would  have  disinclined  them  to  the  pleasure 
instead  of  giving  them  a  disposition  for  its  in¬ 
dulgence.  Had  they  used  the  devout  exercise 
in  a  right  spirit,  and  improved  it  to  the  true  end, 
it  would  have  set  the  heart  and  life  at  work  on 
all  those  pursuits  which  it  was  calculated  to 
promote.  But  their  project  has  more  ingenuity. 
By  the  stated  minutes  they  give  to  religion, 
they  cheaply  purchase  a  protection  for  the  mis- 
employment  of  the  rest  of  their  time.  They 
make  these  periodical  devotions  a  kind  of  spiri¬ 
tual  insurance  office,  which  is  to  make  up  to  the 
adventurers  in  pleasure,  any  loss  or  damage 
which  they  may  sustain  in  its  voyage. 

It  is  of  these  shallow  devotions,  these  pre¬ 
sumed  equivalents  for  a  new  heart  and  a  new 
life,  that  God  declares  by  the  prophet,  that  he  is 
weary.’  Though  of  his  own  express  appoint¬ 
ment,  they  become  ‘  an  abomination’  to  him  as 
soon  as  the  sign  comes  to  be  rested  in  for  the 
thing  signified.  We  Christians  have  our  ‘new 
moons  and  our  sacrifices’  under  other  names 
and  other  shapes ;  of  which  sacrifices,  that  is, 
of  the  spirit  in  which  they  are  offered,  the  Al¬ 


mighty  has  said,  ‘  I  cannot  away  with  them,, 
they  are  iniquity.* 

Now  is  this  superficial  devotion  that  ‘  giving 
up  ourselves  not  with  our  lips  only,  but  with 
our  lives,’  to  our  Maker,  to  which  we  solemnly 
pledge  ourselves,  at  least  once  a  week  ?  Is  con 
secrating  an  hour  or  two  to  public  worship  on 
the  Sunday  morning,  making  the  Sabbath  ‘  a 
delight  ?’  Is  desecrating  the  rest  of  the  day,  by 
‘  doing  our  own  ways,  finding  our  own  pleasure, 
speaking  our  own  words,’  making  it  ‘honour¬ 
able  ?’ 

Sometimes  in  an  awakening  sermon,  these 
periodical  religionists  hear,  with  awe  and  terror, 
of  the  hour  of  death  and  the  day  of  judgment. 
Their  hearts  are  penetrated  with  the  solemn 
sounds.  They  confess  the  awful  realities  by 
the  impression  they  make  on  their  own  feelings. 
The  sermon  ends,  and  with  it  the  serious  re¬ 
flections  it  excited.  While  they  listen  to  these 
things  especially  if  the  preacher  be  alarming, 
they  are  all  in  all  to  them.  They  return  to  the 
world — and  these  things  are  as  if  they  were 
not;  as  if  they  had  never  been  ;  as  if  their  re¬ 
ality  lasted  only  while  they  were  preached  ;  as 
if  their  existence  depended  only  on  their  being 
heard  ;  as  if  truth  were  no  longer  truth  than 
while  it  solicited  their  notice ;  as  if  there  were 
as  little  stability  in  religion  itself  as  in  their  at¬ 
tention  to  it.  As  soon  as  their  minds  are  dis¬ 
engaged  from  the  question,  one  would  think 
that  death  and  judgment  were  an  invention, 
that  heaven  and  hell  were  blotted  from  existence,, 
that  eternity  ceased  to  be  eternity,  in  the  long 
intervals  in  which  they  cease  to  be  thp  object 
of  their  consideration. 

This  is  the  natural  effect  of  what  we  venture 
to  denominate  periodical  religion.  It  is  a  tran¬ 
sient  homage  kept  totally  distinct  and  separate 
from  the  rest  of  our  lives,  instead  of  its  being 
made  the  prelude  and  the  principle  of  a  course 
of  pious  practice ;  instead  of  our  weaving  our 
devotions  and  our  actions  into  one  uniform  tissue 
by  doing  all  in  one  spirit  and  to  one  end.  When 
worshippers  of  this  description  pray  for  ‘  a  clean 
heart  and  a  right  spirit ;’  when  they  beg  of  God 
to  ‘  turn  away  their  eyes  from  beholding  vanity,’ 
is  it  not  to  be  feared  that  they  pray  to  be  made 
what  they  resolve  never  to  become,  that  they 
would  be  very  unwilling  to  become  as  good,  as 
they  pray  to  be  made,  and  would  be  sorry  to  bo 
as  penitent  as  they  profess  to  desire  ?  But  alas  ! 
they  are  in  little  danger  of  being  taken  at  their 
word  ;  there  is  too  much  reason  to  fear  their  pe¬ 
titions  will  not  be  heard  or  answered,  for  prayer 
for  the  pardon  of  sin  will  obtain  no  pardon, 
while  we  retain  the  sin  in  hope  that  the  prayer 
will  be  accepted  without  the  renunciation. 

The  most  solemn  office  of  our  Religion,  the  sa¬ 
cred  memorial  of  the  death  of  its  Author,  the 
blessed  injunction  and  tender  testimony  of  his 
dying  love,  the  consolation  of  the  humble  be¬ 
liever,  the  gracious  appoinment  for  strengthen¬ 
ing  his  faith,  quickening  his  repentance,  awaken¬ 
ing  his  gratitude  and  kindling  his  charity,  is  too 
often  resorted  to  on  the  same  erroneous  princi¬ 
ple.  He  who  ventures  to  live  without  the  uso 
of  this  holy  institution,  lives  in  a  state  of  dis¬ 
obedience  to  the  last  appointment  of  his  Re¬ 
deemer.  Ho  who  rests  in  it  as  a  means  for  sup- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


431 


piying  the  place  of  habitual  piety,  totally  mis¬ 
takes  its  design,  and  is  fatally  deceiving  his  own 
soul. 

This  awful  solemnity  is,  it  is  to  be  hoped, 
rarely  frequented  even  by  this  class  of  Chris¬ 
tians  without  a  desire  of  approaching  it  with  the 
pious  feelings  above  described.  But  if  they 
carry  them  to  the  altar,  are  they  equally  anxious 
to  carry  them  away  from  it ;  are  they  anxious 
to  maintain  them  after  it?  Does  the  rite  so 
seriously  approached  commonly  leave  any  ves- 
tige  of  seriousness  behind  it  ?  Are  they  carefu 
to  perpetuate  the  feelings  they  were  so  desirous 
to  excite  ?  Do  they  strive  to  make  them  pro¬ 
duce  solid  and  substantial  effects?  Would  that 
this  inconstancy  of  mind  were  to  be  found  only- 
in  the  class  of  characters  under  consideration  ! 
Let  the  reader,  however  sincere  in  his  desires, 
let  the  writer,  however  ready  to  lament  the 
levity  of  others,  seriously  ask  their  own  hearts 
if  they  can  entirely  acquit  themselves  of  the  in¬ 
consistency  they  are  so  forward  to  blame.  If 
they  do  not  find  the  charge  brought  against 
others  but  too  applicable  to  themselves. 

Irreverence  antecedent  to,  or  during  this 
sacred  solemnity,  is  far  more  rare  than  durable 
improvement  after  it.  If  there  are,  as  we  are 
willing  to  believe,  none  so  profane  as  to  violate 
the  act,  except  those  who  impiously  use  it  only 
as  ‘  a  pick-lock  to  a  place,’  there  are  too  few  who 
make  it  lastingly  beneficial.  Few  so  thought¬ 
less  as  not  to  approach  it  with  resolution  of 
amendment ;  few  comparatively  who  carry  those 
resolutions  into  effect.  Fear  opeTates  in  the 
previous  instance.  Why  should  not  love  ope¬ 
rate  in  that  which  is  subsequent  ? 

A  periodical  religion  is  accompanied  with  a 
periodical  repentance.  This  species  of  repen¬ 
tance  is  adopted  with  no  small  mental  reserva¬ 
tion.  It  is  partial  and  disconnected.  These 
fragments  of  contrition,  these  broken  parcels  of 
penitence — while  a  succession  of  worldly  pur¬ 
suits  is  not  only  resorted  to,  but  is  intended  to 
be  resorted  to,  during  the  whole  of  the  interven¬ 
ing  spaces,  is  not  that  sorrow  which  the  Al¬ 
mighty  hath  promised  to  accept.  To  render  it 
pleasing  to  God  and  efficacious  to  ourselves, 
there  must  be  an  agreement  in  the  parts,  an 
entireness  in  the  whole  web  of  life.  There 
must  be  an  integral  repentance.  A  quarterly 
contrition  in  the  four  weeks  preceding  the  sa¬ 
cred  seasons  will  not  wipe  out  the  daily  offences, 
the  hourly  negligences  of  the  whole  sinful  year. 
Sins  half  forsaken  through  fear,  and  half  retain¬ 
ed  through  partially  resisted  temptation  and 
partially  adopted  resolution,  make  up  but  an  un¬ 
profitable  piety. 

In  the  bosom  of  these  professors  there  is  a  per- 
])etual  conflict  between  fear  and  inclination. 
In  conversation  you  will  generally  find  them 
very  warm  in  the  cause  of  religion  ;  but  it  is  re¬ 
religion  as  opposed  to  infidelify,  not  as  opposed 
to  worldly-mindedness.  They  defend  the  worship 
of  God,  but  desire  to  be  excused  from  his  service. 
Their  heart  is  the  slave  of  the  world,  but  their 
blindness  hides  from  them  the  turpitude  of  that 
world.  They  commend  piety  but  dread  its  requi¬ 
sitions.  They  allow  that  repentance  is  necessary, 
but  then  how  easy  is  it  to  find  reasons  for  defer¬ 
ring  a  necessary  evil  ?  Who  will  hastily  adopt  a 


painful  measure  which  he  can  find  a  creditable 
pretence  for  evading?  They  censure  whatever  is 
ostensibly  wrong,  but  avoiding  only  part  of  it, 
the  part  they  retain  robs  them  of  the  benefits 
of  their  partial  renunciation. 

We  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  wisdom  of 
the  church,  in  enjoining  extraordinary  acts  of 
devotion  at  the  return  of  those  festivals  so  hap¬ 
pily  calculated  to  excite  devotional  feelings. 
Extraordinary  repentance  of  sin  is  peculiarly 
suitable  to  the  seasons  that  record  those  grand 
events  which  sin  occasioned.  But  the  church 
never  intended  that  these  more  stated  and  strict 
self-examinations  should  preclude  our  habitual 
self-inspection.  It  never  intended  its  holy  of¬ 
fices  to  supply  the  place  of  general  holiness,  but 
to  promote  it.  It  intended  that  these  solemn 
occasions  should  animate  the  flame  of  piety,  but 
it  never  meant  to  furnish  a  reason  for  neglect¬ 
ing  to  keep  the  flame  alive  till  the  next  return 
should  again  kindle  the  dying  embers.  It 
meant  that  every  such  season  should  gladden 
the  heart  of  the  Christian  at  its  approach,  and 
not  discharge  him  from  duty  at  its  departure. 
It  meant  to  lighten  his  conspience  of  the  burden 
of  sin,  not  to  encourage  him  to  begin  a  new  score, 
again  to  be  wiped  off"  at  the  succeeding  festival. 
It  intended  to  quicken  the  vigilance  of  the  be¬ 
liever  and  not  to  dismiss  the  sentinel  from  his 
post.  If  we  are  not  the  better  for  these  divinely 
appointed  helps,  we  are  the  worse  If  we  use 
them  as  a  discharge  from  that  diligence  which 
they  were  intended  to  promote,  we  convert 
our  blessings  into  snares. 

This  abuse  of  our  advantages  arises  from  our 
not  incorporating  our  devotions  into  the  general 
habit  of  our  lives.  Till  our  religion  become  an 
inward  principle,  and  not  an  external  act,  we 
shall  not  receive  that  benefit  from  her  forms, 
however  excellent,  which  they  are  calculated  ta 
convey.  It  is  to  those  who  possess  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  that  her  forms  are  so  valuable. 
To  them,  the  form  excites  the  spirit,  as  the 
spirit  animates  the  form.  Till  religion  become 
the  desire  of  our  hearts,  it  will  not  become  the 
business  of  our  lives.  We  are  far  from  mean¬ 
ing  that  it  is  to  be  its  actual  occupation ;  but 
that  every  portion,  every  habit,  every  act  of  life 
is  to  be  animated  by  its  spirit,  influenced  by  its 
principle,  governed  by  its  power. 

The  very  mark  of  our  nature  and  our  neces¬ 
sary  commerce  with  the  world,  naturally  fill 
our  hearts  and  minds  with  thoughts  and  ideas, 
over  which  we  have  unhappily  too  little  control. 
We  find  this  to  be  the  case  when  in  our  better 
hours  we  attempt  to  give  ourselves  up  to  serious 
reflection.  How  many  intrusions  of  worldly 
thoughts,  how  many  impertinent  imaginations, 
not  only  irrelevant,  but  uncalled  and  unwel¬ 
come,  crowd  in  upon  the  mind  so  forcibly  as 
scarcely  to  bo  repelled  by  our  sincerest  efforts. 
How  impotent  then  to  repel  such  images  must 
that  mind  be,  which  is  devoted  to  worldly  pur¬ 
suits,  which  yields  itself  up  to  them,  whoso 
opinions,  habits,  and  conduct  are  under  their 
allowed  influence ! 

If,  as  we  have  before  observed,  religion  con¬ 
sists  in  a  new  heart  and  a  new  spirit,  it  will  be¬ 
come  not  our  occasional  act,  but  our  abiding 
disposition,  proving  its  settled  existence  in  tho 


432 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


mind  by  its  habitually  disposing  our  thoughts 
and  actions,  our  devotions  and  our  practice  to  a 
conformity  to  each  other  and  to  itself. 

Let  us  not  consider  a  spirit  of  worldliness  as 
a  little  infirmity,  as  a  natural,  and  therefore  a 
pardonable  weakness  ;  as  a  trifling  error  which 
will  be  overlooked  for  the  sake  of  our  many  good 
qualities.  It  is  in  fact  the  essence  of  our  other 
faults  ;  the  temper  that  stands  between  us  and 
our  salvation  ;  the  spirit  which  is  in  direct  op¬ 
position  to  the  Spirit  of  God.  Individual  sins 
may  more  easily  be  cured,  but  this  is  the  prin¬ 
ciple  of  all  spiritual  disease.  A  worldly  spirit 
where  it  is  rooted  and  cherished,  runs  through 
the  whole  character,  insinuates  itself  in  all  we 
say  and  think  and  do.  It  is  this  which  makes 
us  so  dead  in  religion,  so  averse  from  spiritual 
things,  so  forgetful  of  God,  so  unmindful  of  eter- 
nit)q  so  satisfied  with  ourselves,  so  impatient  of 
serious  discourse,  and  so  alive  to  that  vain  and 
frivolous  intercourse,  which  excludes  intellect 
almost  as  much  as  piety  from  our  general  con¬ 
versation. 

It  is  not  therefore  our  more  considerable  ac¬ 
tions  alone  which  require  watching,  for  they 
seldom  occur.  They  do  not  form  the  habit  of 
life  in  ourselves,  nor  the  chief  importance  of  our 
example  to  others.  It  is  to  our  ordinary  beha¬ 
viour  ;  it  is  to  our  deportment  in  common  life ; 
it  is  to  our  prevailing  turn  of  mind  in  general 
intercourse,  by  which  we  shall  profit  or  corrupt 
those  with  whom  we  associate.  It  is  our  con¬ 
duct  in  social  life  which  will  help  to  diffuse  a 
spirit  of  piety,  or  a  distaste  to  it.  If  we  have 
much  influence,  this  is  the  place  in  which  par¬ 
ticularly  to  exert  it.  If  we  have  little  we  have 
still  enough  to  infect  the  temper  and  lower  the 
tone  of  our  narrow  society. 

If  we  really  believe  that  it  is  the  design  of 
Christianity  to  raise  us  to  a  participation  of  the 
divine  nature,  the  slightest  reflection  on  this 
elevation  of  our  character  would  lead  us  to  main¬ 
tain  its  dignity  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of 
iife.  We  should  not  so  much  inquire  whether 
we  are  transgressing  any  actual  prohibition; 
whether  any  standing  law  is  pointed  against  us  ; 
as  whether  we  are  supporting  the  dignity  of  the 
Christian  character ;  whether  we  are  acting 
suitably  to  our  profession  ;  whether  more  exact¬ 
ness  in  the  common  occurrences  of  the  day, 
more  correctness  in  our  conversation,  would  not 
be  such  evidences  of  our  religion,  as  by  being 
obvious  and  intelligible,  might  not  almost  insen¬ 
sibly  produce  important  effects. 

The  most  insignificant  people  must  not  through 
indolence  and  selfishness  undervalue  their  own 
influence.  Most  persons  have  a  little  circle  of 
which  they  are  a  sort  of  centre.  Its  smallness 
may  lessen  their  quantity  of  good,  but  does  not 
diminish  the  duty  of  using  that  little  influence 
wisely.  Where  is  the  human  being  so  inconsi¬ 
derable  but  that  he  may  in  some  shape  benefit 
others,  either  by  calling  their  virtues  into  ex¬ 
ercise,  or  by  setting  them  an  example  of  virtue 
liimsolf?  But  we  are  humble  just  in  the  wrong 
place.  When  the  exhibition  of  our  talents  or 
splendid  qualities  is  in  question,  wo  are  not  back¬ 
ward  in  the  display.  When  a  little  self-denial 
is  to  be  exercised,  when  a  little  good  might  be 
effected  by  our  example,  by  our  discreet  raa- 


npgement  in  company,  by  giving  a  better  turn 
to  conversation,  then  at  once  we  grow  wickedly 
nmdest — ‘Such  an  insignificant  creature  as  I 
ana  can  do  no  good.’ — ‘  Had  I  higher  rank  or 
br'^hter  talents,  then  indeed  my  influence  might 
be  exerted  to  some  purpose.’ — Thus  under  the 
mask  of  diffidence,  we  justify  our  indolence ; 
and  let  slip  those  lesser  occasions  of  promoting 
religion  which  if  we  all  improved,  how  much 
might  the  condition  of  society  be  raised. 

The  hackneyed  interrogation,  ‘  What — must 
we  be  always  talking  about  religion  ?’  must 
have  the  hackneyed  answer— Far  from  it.  Talk¬ 
ing  about  religion  is  not  being  religious.  But 
we  may  bring  the  spirit  of  religion  into  compa¬ 
ny,  and  keep  it  in  perpetual  operation  when  we 
do  not  professedly  make  it  our  subject.  We 
may  be  constantly  advancing  its  interests,  we 
may  without  effort  or  affectation  bo  giving  an 
example  of  candour,  of  moderation,  of  humility, 
of  forbearance.  We  may  employ  our  influence 
by  correcting  falsehood,  by  checking  levity,  by 
discouraging  calumny,  by  vindicating  misre¬ 
presented  meiit,  by  countenancing  everything 
which  has  a  good  tendency — in  short,  by  throw, 
ing  our  whole  weight,  be  it  groat  or  small,  into 
the  right  scale. 

CHAP.  V. 

Prayer. 

Prayer  is  the  application  of  want  to  him  who 
only  can  relieve  it ;  the  voice  of  sin  to  him  who 
alone  can  pardon  it.  It  is  the  urgency  of  po- 
verty,  the  prostration  of  humility,  the  fervency 
of  penitence,  the  confidence  of  trust.  It  is  nc 
eloquence,  but  earnestness :  not  the  definition 
of  helplessness,  but  the  feeling  of  it ;  not  figures 
of  speech,  but  compunction  of  soul.  It  is  the 
‘  Lord  save  us  or  we  perish’  of  drowning  Peter 
the  cry  of  faith  to  the  ear  of  mercy. 

Adoration  is  the  noblest  employment  of  ere* 
ated  beings ;  confession  the  natural  language 
of  guilty  creatures ;  gratitude  the  spontaneous 
expression  of  pardoned  sinners. 

Prayer  is  desire.  It  is  not  a  conception  of 
the  mind  nor  a  mere  effort  of  the  intellect,  nor 
an  act  of  the  memory  ;  but  an  elevation  of  the 
soul  towards  its  Maker ;  a  pre.ssing  sense  of 
our  own  ignorance  and  infirmity,  a  conscious¬ 
ness  of  the  perfections  of  God,  of  his  readiness 
to  hear,  of  his  power  to  help,  of  his  willingness 
to  save. 

It  is  not  an  emotion  produced  in  the  senses ; 
nor  an  effect  wrought  by  the  imagination  ;  but 
a  determination  of  the  will,  an  effusion  of  the 
heart. 

Prayer  is  the  guide  to  self-knowledge  by 
prompting  us  to  look  after  our  sins  in  order  to 
pray  against  them ;  a  motive  to  vigilance,  by 
teaching  us  to  guard  against  those  sins  which, 
through  self-examination,  wo  have  been  enabled 
to  detect. 

Prayer  is  an  act  both  of  the  understanding 
and  of  the  heart.  The  understanding  must  ap¬ 
ply  itself  to  the  knowledge  of  the  divine  perfec¬ 
tions,  or  the  heart  will  not  be  led  to  the  a  iora- 
tion  of  them.  It  would  not  be  a  reasonable 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


433 


service  if  the  mind  was  excluded.  It  must  be 
rational  worship, or  the  human  worshipper  would 
not  bring  to  the  service  the  distinguished  faculty 
of  his  nature,  which  is  reason.  It  must  be  spi¬ 
ritual  worship ;  or  it  would  want  the  distinctive 
quality  to  make  it  acceptable  to  Him,  who  has 
declared  that  He  will  be  worshipped  ‘  in  spirit 
and  in  truth.’ 

Prayer  is  right  in  itself  as  the  most  powerful 
means  of  resisting  sin  and  advancing  in  holi¬ 
ness.  It  is  above  all  right,  as  every  thing  is, 
which  has  the  authority  of  Scripture,  the  com¬ 
mand  of  God,  and  the  example  of  Christ. 

There  is  a  perfect  consistency  in  all  the  or¬ 
dinations  of  God ;  a,  perfect  congruity  in  the 
whole  scheme  of  his  dispensations.  If  man 
were  not  a  corrupt  creature,  such  prayer  as  the 
gospel  enjoins  would  not  have  been  necessary. 
Had  not  prayer  been  an  important  means  for 
curing  those  corruptions,  a  God  of  perfect  wis¬ 
dom  would  not  have  ordered  it.  He  would  not 
have  prohibited  every  thing  which  tends  to  in¬ 
flame  and  promote  them,  had  they  not  existed, 
nor  would  he  have  commanded  every  thing  that 
has  a  tendency  to  diminish  and  remove  them, 
had  not  their  existence  been  fatal.  Prayer, 
therefore,  is  an  indispensable  part  of  his  econo¬ 
my  and  of  our  obedience. 

•  It  is  a  hackneyed  objection  to  the  use  of  pray¬ 
er  that  it  is  offending  the  omniscience  of  God  to 
suppose  he  requires  information  of  our  wants. 
But  no  objectioh  can  be  more  futile.  We  do 
not  pray  to  inform  God  of  our  wants,  but  to  ex¬ 
press  our  sense  of  the  wants  which  he  already 
knows.  As  he  has  not  so  much  made  his  pro¬ 
mise  to  our  necessities,  as  to  our  requests,  it  is 
Tca.sonable  that  our  requests  should  be  made  be¬ 
fore  we  can  hope  that  our  necessities  v/ill  be  re¬ 
lieved.  God  does  not  promise  to  those  who  want 
that  they  shall  ‘  have,’  but  to  those  who  ‘  ask  ;’ 
nor  to  those  who  need  that  they  shall  ‘  find,’  but 
to  those  who  ‘  seek.’  So  far  therefore  from  his 
previous  knowledge  of  our  wants  being  a  ground 
of  objection  to  prayer,  it  is  in  fact  the  true  ground 
for  our  application.  Were  he  not  knowledge  it¬ 
self,  our  information  would  be  of  as  little  use  as 
our  application  would  be,  were  he  not  goodness 
itself. 

We  cannot  attain  to  a  just  notion  of  prayer 
while  we  remain  ignorant  of  our  own  nature, 
of  the  nature  of  God  as  revealed  in  Scripture,  of 
our  relation  to  him  and  dependence  on  him.  II' 
therefore  we  do  not  live  in  the  daily  study  of 
the  holy  scriptures,  we  shall  want  the  highest 
motives  to  this  duty  and  the  best  helps  for  per¬ 
forming  it ;  if  we  do,  the  cogency  of  these  mo¬ 
tives,  and  the  inestimable  value  of  these  helps, 
will  render  argument  unnecessary  and  exhorta¬ 
tion  superfluous. 

One  cause  therefore  of  the  dulness  of  many 
(Christians  in  prayer,  is,  their  slight  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  the  sacred  volume.  They  hear  it  pe- 
riodically,  the»  read  it  occasionally,  they  are 
contented  to  know  it  historically,  to  consider  it 
superficially,  but  they  do  not  endeavour  to  get 
their  minds  imbued  with  its  spirit.  If  they 
store  their  memory  with  its'  facts,  they  do  not 
impress  their  hearts  with  its  truths.  They  do 
not  regard  it  as  the  nutriment  on  wliieh  their 
•piritual  life  and  growth  depend.  They  do  not 
VoL.  I.  E  2 


pray  over  it ;  they  do  not  consider  all  its  doc- 
trines  as  of  practical  application ;  they  do  not 
cultivate  that  spiritual  discernment  which  alone 
can  enable  them  judiciously  to  appropriate  its 
promises  and  its  denunciations  to  their  own 
actual  case.  They  do  not  apply  it  as  an  un¬ 
erring  line  to  ascertain  their  own  rectitude  or 
obliquity. 

In  our  retirements,  we  too  often  fritter  away 
our  precious  moments,  moments  rescued  from 
the  world,  in  trivial,  sometimes  it  is  to  be  feared, 
in  corrupt  thoughts.  But  if  we  must  give  the 
reins  to  our  imagination,  let  us  send  this  excur¬ 
sive  faculty  to  range  among  great  and  noble  ob¬ 
jects.  Let  it  stretch  forward  under  the  sanction 
of  faith  and  the  anticipation  of  prophecy,  to  the 
accomplishment  of  those  glorious  promises  and 
tremendous  threatenings  which  will  soon  be  re- 
alized  in  the  eternal  world.  These  are  topics 
which  under  the  safe  and  sober  guidance  of 
Scripture,  will  fix  its  largest  speculations  and 
sustain  its  loftiest  flights.  The  same  Scripture 
while  it  expands  and  elevates  the  mind,  will 
keep  it  subject  to  the  dominion  of  truth  ;  while 
at  the  same  time  it  will  teach  it  that  its  boldest 
excursions  must  fall  infinitely  short  of  the  asto¬ 
nishing  realities  ,of  a  future  state. 

Though  we  cannot  pray  with  a  too  deep  sense 
of  sin,  we  may  make  our  sins  too  exclusively  the 
object  of  our  prarars.  While  we  keep,  with  a 
self  abasing  eye,  our  own  corruptions  in  view, 
let  us  look  with  equal  intenseness  on  that  mer¬ 
cy,  which  cleanseth  from  all  sin.  Let  our  pray¬ 
ers  be  all  humiliation,  but  let  them  not  be  all 
complaint — When  men  indulge  noother  thought 
but  that  they  are  rebels,  the  hopelessness  of  par¬ 
don  hardens  them  into  disloyalty.  Let  them 
look  to  the  mercy  of  the  king,  as  well  as  to  the 
rebellion  of  the  subject.  If  we  contemplate  his 
grace  as  displayed  in  the  gospel,  then,  though 
our  humility  will  increase,  our  despair  will  va¬ 
nish.  Gratitude  in  this  as  in  human  instances 
will  create  affection.  ‘  We  love  him  because  he 
first  loved  us.* 

Let  us  then  always  keep  our  unworthiness  in 
view  as  a  reason  why  we  stand  in  need  of  the 
mercy  of  God  in  Christ ;  but  never  plead  it  as  a 
reason  why  we  should  not  draw  nigh  to  him  to 
implore  that  mercy.  The  best  men  are  unwor¬ 
thy  for  their  own  sakes ;  the  wmrst  on  repent¬ 
ance  will  be  accepted  for  his  sake  and  through 
his  merits. 

In  prayer  then,  the  perfections  of  God,  and 
especially  his  mercy  in  our  redemption,  should 
occupy  our  thoughts  as  much  as  our  sins;  our 
obligation  to  him  as  much  as  our  departures 
from  him.  We  should  keep  up  in  our  hearts  a 
constant  sCnse  of  our  own  weaii.iess.  not  with  a 
design  to  discourage  the  mind  and  depress  the 
sjiirils;  but  with  a  view  to  drive  us  out  of  our¬ 
selves,  in  search  of  the  divine  assistance.  We 
should  contemplate  our  infirmity  in  order  to 
draw  us  to  look  for  his  strength,  and  to  seek 
that  power  from  God  which  we  vainly  look  for 
'in  ourselves.  Wo  do  not  tell  a  sick  friend  of 
his  danger  in  order  to  grieve  or  territy  him,  but 
to  induce  him  to  apply  to  his  physician,  and  to 
have  recourse  to  his  remedy. 

Among  the  charges  which  have  been  brough 
against  serious  piety,  one  is,  that  it  teaches  men 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


434 

to  despair.  The  charge  is  just  in  one  sense  as  , 
to  the  fact,  but  false  in  the  sense  intended.  It  | 
teaches  us  to  despair  indeed  of  ourselves,  while 
it  inculcates  that  faith  in  a  Redeemer,  which  is 
the  true  antidote  to  despair.  Faith  quickens  the 
doubting  spirit,  while  it  humbles  the  presump¬ 
tuous.  The  lowly  Christian  takes  comfort  in 
the  blessed  promise,  that  God  will  never  forsake 
them  that  are  his.  The  presumptuous  man  is 
equally  right  in  the  doctrine,  but  wrong  in  ap¬ 
plying  it.  He  takes  that  comfort  to  himself 
which  was  meant  for  another  class  of  characters. 
The  mal-appropriation  of  Scripture  promises 
and  threatenings,  is  the  cause  of  much  error 
and  delusion. 

Though  some  devout  enthusiasts  have  fallen 
into  error  by  an  unnatural  and  impracticable 
disinterestedness,  asserting  that  God  is  to  be 
loved  exclusively  for  himself,  with  an  absolute 
renunciation  of  any  view  of  advantage  to  our¬ 
selves  ;  yet  that  prayer  cannot  be  mercenary, 
which  involves  God’s  glory  with  our  own  happi¬ 
ness,  and  makes  his  will  the  law  of  our  requests. 
Though  we  are  to  desire  the  glory  of  God  su¬ 
premely  ;  though  this  ought  to  be  our  grand  ac¬ 
tuating  principle,  yet  he  has  graciously  permit¬ 
ted,  commanded,  invited  us,  to  attach  our  own 
happiness  to  this  primary  object.  The  Bible 
exhibits  not  only  a  beautiful,  but  an  inseparable  | 
combination  of  both,  which  delivers  us  from  the 
danger  of  unnaturally  renouncing  our  own  be¬ 
nefit  for  the  promotion  of  God’s  glory,  on  the 
one  hand ;  and  on  the  other,  from  seeking  any 
happiness  independent  of  him,  and  underived 
from  him.  In  enjoining  us  to  love  him  supreme¬ 
ly,  he  has  connected  an  unspeakable  blessing 
with  a  paramount  duty,  the  highest  privilege 
with  the  most  positive  command. 

What  a  triumph  for  the  humble  Christian  to 
be  assured,  that  ‘  the  high  and  lofty  One  which 
inhabiteth  eternity,’  condescends  at  the  same 
time  to  dwell  in  the  heart  of  the  contrite  ; — in 
his  heart!  To  know  that  God  is  the  God  of  his 
life,  to  know  that  he  is  even  invited  to  take  the 
Lord  for  his  God.  To  close  with  God’s  offers, 
to  accept  his  invitations,  to  receive  God  as  his 
portion,  must  surely  be  more  pleasing  to  our 
heavenly  Father,  than  separating  our  happiness 
from  his  glory.  To  disconnect  our  interests 
from  his  goodness,  is  at  once  to  detract  from  his 
perfections,  and  to  obscure  the  brightness  of  our 
own  hopes.  The  declarations  of  inspired  writers 
are  confirmed  by  the  authority  of  the  heavenly 
hosts.  They  proclaim  that  the  glory  of  God 
and  the  happiness  of  his  creatures,  so  far  from 
interfering,  are  connected  with  each  other.  We 
know  but  of  one  anthem  composed  and  sung  by 
angels,  and  this  most  harmoniously  combines 
‘  tlic  glory  of  God  in  the  highest  with  peace  on 
cartli  and  good  will  to  men.’ 

‘  The  beauty  of  Scripture,’  says  the  great 
Saxon  reformer,  ‘consists  in  pronouns.’  This 
God  is  our  God — God,  even  our  own  God,  shall 
bless  us.  How  delightful  the  appropriation! 
To  glorify  him  as  being  in  himself  consummate 
excellence,  and  to  love  him  from  the  feeling  that 
this  excellence  is  directed  to  our  felicity  !  Here 
modesty  would  be  ingratitude  ;  disinterestedness 
rebellion.  It  would  be  severing  ourselves  frogi 
Him,  in  whom  we  live,  and  move,  and  are  ;  it 


would  be  dissolving  the  connexion  which  he  ha* 
condescended  to  establish  between  himself  and 
his  creatures. 

It  has  been  justly  observed,  that  the  Scripture 
saints  make  this  union  the  chief  ground  of  their 
grateful  exultation — ‘ i¥y  strength’ — '■my  rock’ 
— ‘  my  fortress’ — '■my  deliverer  !’  Again — ‘  Let 
the  God  ofwiy  salvation  be  exalted  !’  Now  talra 
away  the  pronoun  and  substitute  the  article  tij, 
how  comparatively  cold  is  the  impression  !  The 
consummation  of  the  joy  arises  from  the  peculi¬ 
arity,  the  intimacy,  the  ende,arment  of  the  rela¬ 
tion. 

Nor  to  the  liberal  Christian  is  the  grateful  joy 
diminished,  when  he  blesses  his  God  as  ‘the 
God  of  all  them  that  trust  in  him.’  All  general 
blessings,  will  he  say,  all  providential  mercies, 
are  mine  individually,  are  mine  as  completely 
as  if  no  other  shared  in  the  enjoyment.  Life,; 
light,  the  earth  and  heavens,  the  sun  and  stars, 
whatever  sustains  the  body,  and  recreates  the 
spirits !  My  obligation  is  as  great  as  if  the  mer¬ 
cy  had  been  made  purely  for  me.  As  great  ? 
r  V,  it  is  greater — it  is  augmented  by  a  sense 
of  the  millions  who  participate  in  the  blessing. 
The  same  enlargement  of  the  personal  obliga¬ 
tion  holds  good,  nay  rises  higher,  in  the  mercies 
of  redemption.  The  Lord  is  my  Saviour  as  com¬ 
pletely  as  if  he  had  redeemed  only  me.  That 
he  has  redeemed  ‘  a  great  multitude  which  no 
man  can  number,  of  all  nations,  and  kindreds, 
and  people,  and  tongues,’  is  diffusion  without 
abatement ;  it  is  general  participation  without 
individual  diminution — Each  has  all. 

In  adoring  the  providence  of  God,  we  are  apt 
to  be  struck  with  what  is  new  and  out  of  course, 
while  we  too  much  overlook  long,  habitual,  and 
uninterrupted  mercies.  But  common  mercies, 
if  less  striking,  are  more  valuable,  both  because 
we  have  them  always,  and  for  the  reason  above 
assigned,  because  others  share  them.  The  or¬ 
dinary  blessings  of  life  are  overlooked  for  the 
very  reason  that  they  ought  to  be  most  prized — 
because  they  are  most  uniformly  bestowed- 
They  are  most  essential  to  our  support,  and 
when  once  they  are  withdrawn  we  begin  to  find 
that  they  are  also  most  essential  to  our  comforL 
Nothing  raises  the  price  of  a  blessing  like  its 
removal ;  whereas  it  was  its  continuance  wliich 
should  have  taught  us  its  value.  We  require 
novelties  to  awaken  our  gratitude,  not  consider¬ 
ing  that  it  is  the  duration  of  mercies  which  en¬ 
hances  their  value.  We  want  fresh  excitements. 
We  consider  mercies  long  enjoyed  as  things  of 
course,  as  things  to  which  we  have  a  sort  of 
presumptive  claim ;  as  if  God  had  no  right  to 
withdraw  what  he  had  once  bestowed  ;  as  if  he 
were  obliged  to  continue  what  he  has  once  been 
pleased  to  confer. 

But  that  the  sun  has  shone  unremittingly 
from  the  day  that  God  created  him,  is  not  a  less 
stupendous  exertion  of  power  than  that  the  hand 
which  fixed  him  in  the  heavens,  and  marked 
out  his  progress  through  them,  once  said  by  his 
servant,  ‘  Sun,  stand  thou  still  upon  Gibeon.’ 
That  he  has  gone  on  in  his  strength,  driving  his 
uninterrupted  career,  and  ‘  rejoicing  as  a  giant 
to  run  his  course,’  for  six  thousand  years,  is  a 
more  astonishing  exhibition  of  Omnipotence 
than  that  he  should  have  been  once  suspended 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


43d 


by  the  hand  which  set  him  in  motion.  That 
tho  ordinances  of  heaven,  that  the  established 
laws  of  nature,  should  have  been  for  one  day  in¬ 
terrupted  to  serve  a  particular  occasion,  is  a  less 
real  wonder,  and  certainly  a  less  substantial 
blessing,  than  that  in  such  a  multitude  of  ages 
they  should  have  pursued  their  appointed  course, 
for  the  comfort  of  the  whole  system  : 

For  ever  singing  as  they  shine 

The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine. 

As  the  affections  of  the  Christian  ought  to  be 
set  on  things  above,  so  it  is  for  them  that  his 
prayers  will  be  chiefly  addressed.  God  in  pro¬ 
mising  to  ‘  give  those  who  delight  in  him  the 
desire  of  their  heart,’  could  never  mean  tempo¬ 
ral  things ;  for  these  they  might  desire  impro¬ 
perly  as  to  the  object,  and  inordinately  as  to  the 
degree.  The  promise  relates  principally  to  spi¬ 
ritual  blessings.  He  not  only  gives  us  these 
mercies,  but  the  very  desire  to  obtain  them  is 
also  his  gift.  Here  our  prayer  requires  no  qua¬ 
lifying,  no  conditioning,  no  limitation.  We 
cannot  err  in  our  choice,  for  God  himself  is  the 
object  of  it ;  we  cannot  exceed  in  the  degree, 
unless  it  were  possible  to  love  him  too  well,  or 
to  please  him  too  much. 

We  should  pray  for  worldly  comforts,  and  for 
a  blessing  on  our  earthly  plans,  though  lawful 
in  themselves,  conditionally,  and  with  a  reser¬ 
vation  :  because  after  having  been  earnest  in 
our  requests  for  them,  it  may  happen  that  when 
we  come  to  the  petition  thy  will  be  done,’  we 
may  in  these  very  words  be  praying  that  our 
previous  petitions  may  not  be  granted.  In  this 
brief  request  consists  the  vital  principle,  the  es¬ 
sential  spirit  of  prayer.  God  shows  his  munifi¬ 
cence  ill  encouraging  us  to  ask  most  earnestly 
for  the  greatest  things,  by  promising  that  the 
smaller  ‘  shall  be  added  unto  us.’  We  therefore 
acknowledge  his  liberality  most  when  we  re¬ 
quest  the  highest  favours.  He  manifests  his  in¬ 
finite  superiority  to  earthly  fathers  by  chiefly 
deligliting  to  confer  those  spiritual  gifts,  which 
they  less  solicitously  desire  for  their  children 
than  tliose  worldly  advantages  on  which  God 
sets  so  little  value. 

Nothing  short  of  a  sincere  devotedness  to  God, 
can  enable  us  to  maintain  an  equality  of  mind, 
under  uriequa#  circumstances.  We  murmur 
that  we  have  not  the  things  we  ask  amiss,  not 
knowing  that  they  are  withheld  by  the  same 
mercy  by  which  the  things  that  are  good  for  us 
uro  granted.  Things  good  in  themselves  may 
not  bo  good  for  us.  A  resigned  spirit  is  tho 
proper  disposition  to  prepare  us  for  receiving 
mercies,  or  for  having  them  denied.  Resigna¬ 
tion  of  soul,  like  the  allegiance  of  a  good  sub¬ 
ject,  is  always  in  readiness,  though  not  in  ac¬ 
tion  :  whereas  an  impatient  mind  is  a  spirit  of 
disaffection  always  prepared  to  revolt,  when  the 
will  of  tlie  sovereign  is  in  opposition  to  that  of 
the  subject.  This  seditious  principle  is  tho  in¬ 
fallible  characteristic  of  an  unrenewed  mind. 

A  sincere  love  of  God  will  make  us  thankful 
•when  our  supplications  are  granted,  and  patient 
Jmd  cheerful  when  they  arc  denied.  He  who 
feels  liis  heart  rise  against  any  divine  dispensa¬ 
tion,  ought  not  to  rest  till  by  serious  meditation 
and  earnest  prayer  it  bo  moulded  into  submis¬ 


sion,  A  habit  of  acquiescence  in  the  will  of 
God,  will  so  operate  on  the  faculties  of  his  mind, 
that  even  his  judgment  will  embrace  the  con¬ 
viction,  that  what  ho  once  so  ardently  desired, 
would  not  have  been  that  good  thing,  which  his 
blindness  had  conspired  with  his  wishes  to  make 
him  believe  it  to  be.  He  will  recollect  the  many 
instances  in  which  if  his  importunity  had  pre- 
vailed,  the  thing  which  ignorance  requested,  and 
wisdom  denied,  would  have  insured  his  misery. 
Every  fresh  disappointment  will  teach  him  to 
distrust  himself,  and  to  confide  in  God.  Expe¬ 
rience  will  instruct  him  that  there  may  be  a 
better  way  of  hearing  our  requests  than  that  of 
granting  them.  Happy  for  us  that  he  to  whom 
they  are  addressed  knows  which  is  best,  and 
acts  upon  that  knowledge. 

Still  lift  for  pood  the  supplicating  voice, 

But  leave  to  Heaven  the  measure  and  the  choice ; 

Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest, 

Secure  wliate’er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 

We  should  endeavour  to  render  our  private 
devotions  effectual  remedies  for  our  own  parti¬ 
cular  sins.  Prayer  against  sin  in  general  is  too 
indefinite  to  reach  the  individual  case.  We  must 
bring  it  home  to  our  own  heart,  else  we  may  be 
confessing  another  man’s  sins  and  overlooking 
our  own.  If  we  have  any  predominant  fault, 
we  should  pray  more  especially  against  that 
fault.  If  we  pray  for  any  virtue  of  which  we 
particularly  stand  in  need,  we  should  dwell  on 
our  own  deficiencies  in  that  virtue,  till  our  souls 
become  deeply  affected  with  our  want  of  it.  Our 
prayers  should  be  circumstantial,  not,  as  was 
before  observed,  for  the  information  of  infinite 
wisdom,  but  for  the  stirring  up  of  our  own  dull 
affections.  And  as  the  recapitulation  of  our 
wants  tends  to  keep  up  a  sense  of  our  depen¬ 
dence,  the  enlarging  on  our  especial  mercies 
will  tend  to  keep  alive  a  sense  of  gratitude. 
While  indiscriminate  petitions,  confessions,  and 
thanksgivings  leave  the  mind  to  wander  in  in¬ 
definite  devotion  and  unaffecting  generalities, 
without  personality  and  without  appropriation. 
It  must  be  obvious  that  we  except  those  grand 
universal  points  in  which  all  have  an  equal  in¬ 
terest,  and  which  must  always  form  the  essence 
of  public  prayer. 

On  the  blessing  attending  importunity  in 
prayer,  the  Gospel  is  abundantly  explicit.  God 
perhaps  delays  to  give  that  we  may  persevere 
in  asking.  He  may  require  importunity  forour 
own  sakes,  that  the  frequency  and  urgency  of 
the  petition  may  bring  our  hearts  into  that  frame 
to  which  he  will  be  favourable. 

As  we  ought  to  live  in  a  spirit  of  obedience  to 
his  commands,  so  we  should  live  in  a  frame  of 
waiting  for  his  blessings  on  our  prayers,  and  in 
a  spirit  of  gratitude  when  we  have  obtained  it. 
Thi.s  is  that  ‘  preparation  of  the  heart’  which 
would  always  keep  us  in  a  posture  for  duty.  If 
we  desert  the  duty  because  an  immediate  bless¬ 
ing  does  not  visibly  attend  it,  it  shows  that  we 
do  not  serve  God  out  of  conscience,  but  selfish¬ 
ness  :  that  wo  grudge  expending  on  him  that 
service  which  brings  us  in  no  immediate  inte¬ 
rest.  I’hough  he  grant  not  our  petition,  let  us 
never  be  tempted  to  withdraw  our  application. 

Our  reluctant  devotions  may  remind  us  of 


43S 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


the  remark  of  a  certain  political  wit,  who  apolo¬ 
gized  for  his  late  attendance  in  parliament, 
by  his  being  detained  while  a  party  of  soldiers 
were  dragging  a  volunteer  to  his  duty.  How 
many  excuses  do  we  find  for  not  being  in  time  ! 
How  many  apologies  for  brevity  !  How  many 
evasions  for  neglect !  How  unwilling,  too  often, 
are  we  to  come  into  the  divine  presence,  how 
reluctant  to  remain  in  it !  Those  hours  which 
are  least  valuable  for  business,  which  are  least 
seasonable  for  pleasure,  we  commonly  give  to 
religion.  Our  energies  which  were  so  exerted 
in  the  society  we  have  just  quitted,  are  sunk  as 
we  approach  the  divine  presence.  Our  hearts, 
which  were  all  alacrity  in  some  frivolous  con¬ 
versation,  become  cold  and  inanimate,  as  if  it 
were  the  natural  property  of  devotion  to  freeze 
the  affections.  Our  animal  spirits,  which  so 
readily  performed  their  functions  before,  now 
slacken  their  vigour  and  lose  their  vivacity. 
The  sluggish  body  sympathizes  with  the  un¬ 
willing  mind,  and  each  promotes  the  deadness 
of  the  other;  both  are  slow  in  listening  to  the 
call  of  duty ;  both  are  soon  weary  in  performing 
it.  As  prayer  requires  all  the  energies  of  the 
compound  being  of  man,  so  we  too  often  feel  as 
if  there  were  a  conspiracy  of  body,  soul  and 
spirit,  to  disincline  and  disqualify  us  for  it. 

When  the  heart  is  once  sincerely  turned  to 
religion,  we  need  not,  every  time  we  pray,  ex¬ 
amine  into  every  truth,  and  seek  for  conviction 
over  and  over  again  ;  but  assume  that  those  doc¬ 
trines  are  true,  the  truth  of  which  we  have  al¬ 
ready  proved.  From  a  general  and  fixed  im¬ 
pression  of  these  principles,  will  result  a  taste, 
a  disposedness,  a  love,  so  intimate,  that  the  con¬ 
victions  of  the  understanding  will  become  the 
affections  of  the  heart. 

To  be  deeply  impressed  with  a  few  funda¬ 
mental  truths,  to  digest  them  thoroughly,  to 
meditate  on  them  seriously,  to  pray  over  them 
fervently,  to  get  them  deeply  rooted  in  the  heart, 
will  be  more  productive  of  faith  and  holiness, 
than  to  labour  after  variety,  ingenuity  or  ele¬ 
gance.  The  indulgence  of  imagination  will 
rather  distract  than  edify.  Searching  after  in¬ 
genious  thoughts  will  rather  divert  tlie  atten¬ 
tion  from  God  to  ourselves,  than  promote  fixed¬ 
ness  of  thought,  singleness  of  intention,  and  de¬ 
votedness  of  spirit.  Whatever  is  subtil  and  re¬ 
fined,  is  in  danger  of  being  unscriptural.  If  we 
do  not  guard  the  mind  it  will  learn  to  wander  in 
quest  of  novelties.  It  will  learn  to  set  more 
value  on  original  thoughts  than  devout  affec¬ 
tions.  It  is  the  business  of  prayer  to  cast  down 
imaginations  which  gratify  the  natural  activity 
of  the  mind,  while  they  leave  the  heart  un- 
humblcd. 

We  should  confine  ourselves  to  the  present 
business  of  the  present  moment;  we  should  keep 
the  mind  in  a  state  of  perpetual  dependence  ; 
we  should  entertain  no  long  views.  ‘Now  is 
the  accepted  time.’ — ‘  To  day  wc  must  hear  his 
voice.’ — ‘Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread.’  The 
manna  will  not  keep  till  to-morrow  :  to-morrow 
will  have  its  own  wants,  and  must  have  its  own 
petitions.  To-morrow  we  must  seek  the  bread  of 
heaven  afresh. 

We  should,  however,  avoid  coming  to  our  de¬ 
votions  with  unfurnished  minds.  We  should 


be  always  laying  in  materials  for  prayer,  by 
diligent  course  of  serious  reading,  by  treasur- 
ing  up  in  our  minds  the  most  important  truths. 
If  we  rush  into  the  divine  presence  with  a  va¬ 
cant,  or  ignorant,  or  unprepared  mind,  with  a 
heart  full  of  the  world  ;  as  we  shall  feel  no  dis- 
position  or  qualification-  for  the  work  we  are 
about  to  engage  in,  so  vm  cannot  expect  that  our 
petitions  will  be  heard  or  granted.  There  must 
be  some  congruity  between  the  heart  and  the 
object,  some  affinity  between  the  state  of  our 
minds  and  the  business  in  which  they  are  ein 
ployed,  if  we  would  expect  success  in  the  work. 

We  are  often  deceived,  both  as  to  the  princi¬ 
ple  and  the  effect  of  our  prayers.  When  from 
some  external  cause  the  heart  is  glad,  the 
spirits  light,  the  thoughts  ready,  the  tongue  volu 
able,  a  kind  of  spontaneous  eloquence  is  the  re 
suit ;  with  this  we  are  pleased,  and  this  ready  flow 
we  are  willing  to  impose  on  ourselves  for  piety. 

On  the  other  hand  when  the  mind  is  dejected, 
the  animal  spirits  low  ;  the  thoughts  confused  , 
when  apposite  words  do  not  readily  present 
themselves,  we  are  apt  to  accuse  our  hearts  of 
want  of  fervour,  to  lament  our  weakness,  and 
to  monrn  that  because  we  have  had  no  pleasure 
in  praying,  our  prayers  have,  therefore,  not  as¬ 
cended  to  the  throne  of  mercy.  In  both  cases 
we  perhaps  judge  ourselves  unfairly.  These 
unready  accents,  these  faltering  praises,  these 
ill  expressed  petitions,  may  find  more  accept¬ 
ance  than  the  florid  talk  with  which  we  were 
so  welt  satisfied  :  the  latter  consisted,  it  may  be, 
of  shining  thoughts  floating  on  the  fancy,  elo¬ 
quent  words  dwelling  only  on  the  lips  :  the  for 
mer  was  the  sighing  of  a  contrite  heart,  abased 
by  the  feeling  of  its  own  unworthiness,  and 
awed  by  the  perfections  of  a  holy  and  heart¬ 
searching  God.  The  heart  is  dissatisfied  with 
its  own  dull  and  tasteless  repetitions,  which, 
with  all  their  imperfections,  infinite  goodness 
may  perhaps  hear  with  favour.*  We  may  not 
only  be  elated  with  the  fluency,  but  even  with 
the  fervency  of  our  prayers-  Vanity  may  grow 
out  of  the  very  act  of  renouncing  it,  and  we  may 
begin  to  feel  proud  at  having  humbled  ourselves 
so  eloquently. 

There  is,  however,  a  strain  and  spirit  of 
prayer  equally  distinct  from  that  facility  and 
copiousness  for  which  we  cei%iinly  are  never 
the  better  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  from  that 
constraint  and  dryness  for  which  we  may  be 
never  the  worse.  There  is  a  simple,  solid, 
pious  strain  of  prayer,  in  which  the  supplicant 
is  so  filled  and  occupied  with  a  sense  of  his  own 
dependence,  and  of  the  importance  of  the  things 
for  which  he  asks,  and  so  persuaded  of  the 
power  and  grace  of  God  through  Christ  to  give 
him  those  things,  that  while  he  is  engaged  in 
it,  he  does  not  merely  imagine,  but  feels  assured 
that  God  is  nigh  to  him  as  a  reconciled  Fathei; 
so  that  every  burden  and  doubt  are  taken  off 

*  Of  this  sort  of  ri'pp.titioiis,  our  admirable  chuicn 
litiirpy  has  been  arciised  as  a  fault ;  hut  this  defect,  i. 
it  bo  one,  happily  nccoinniodates  itself  to  our  infirmiti,**. 
Where  is  the  favoured  beitij;  whose  attention  neve» 
wanders,  whose  heart  accoiupanies  his  liies  in  ovet-y 
sentence  ?  Is  thete  no  absence  of  ininil  in  the  pctitioujr. 
no  wanderinc  of  the  thoughts,  no  inconstancy  of  .1* 
heart?  which  these  rejiotitions  are  wisely  calculaUM  t» 
correct,  to  rouse  the  dead  attention,  to  brtr.g  baOit 
strayed  affections. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


437 


from  his  mind.  ‘  He  knows,’  as  Saint  John  ex¬ 
presses  it,  ‘  that  he  has  the  petitions  he  desired 
of  God,’  and  feels  the  truth  of  that  promise, 
‘  while  they  are  yet  speaking  I  will  hear.’ 
This  is  the  perfection  of  prayer. 


CHAP.  VI. 

Cultivation  of  a  Devotional  Spirit. 

To  maintain  a  devotional  spirit,  two  things  are 
especially  necessary — habitually  to  cultivate  the 
disposition,  and  habitually  to  avoid  whatever  is 
unfavourable  to  it.  Frequent  retirement  and 
recollection  are  indispensable,  together  with 
such  a  general  course  of  reading,  as  if  it  do  not 
actually  promote  the  spirit  we  are  endeavour¬ 
ing  to  maintain,  shall  never  be  hostile  to  it. 
We  should  avoid  as  much  as  in  us  lies  all  such 
society,  all  such  amusements,  as  excite  tempers 
vroich  it  is  the  daily  business  of  a  Christiari  to 
subdue,  and  all  those  feelings  which  it  is  his 
constant  duty  to  suppress. 

And  here  may  we  venture  to  observe,  that 
if  some  things  which  are  apparently  innocent, 
and  do  not  assume  an  alarming  aspect,  or  bear 
a  dangerous  character  ;  things  which  the  gene¬ 
rality  of  decorous  people  affirm,  (how  truly  we 
know  not)  to  be  safe  for  them ;  yet  if  we  find 
that  these  things  stir  up  in  us  improper  propen¬ 
sities  ;  if  they  awaken  thoughts  which  ought 
not  to  be  excited  ;  if  they  abate  our  love  for  re¬ 
ligious  exei^ises,  or  infringe  on  our  time  for 
performing  them  ;  if  they  make  spiritual  con¬ 
cerns  appear  insipid  ;  if  they  wind  our  heart  a 
little  more  about  the  world  :  in  short,  if  we  have 
formerly  found  them  injurious  to  our  own  souls, 
then  let  no  example  or  persuasion,  no  belief  of 
their  alleged  innocence,  no  plea  of  their  perfect 
safety,  tempt  us  to  indulge  in  them.  It  mat¬ 
ters  little  to  our  security  what  they  are  to  others. 
Our  business  is  with  ourselves.  Our  respon¬ 
sibility  is  on  our  own  heads. — Others  cannot 
know  the  side  on  which  we  are  assailable, 
our  own  unbiassed  judgment  determine  our 
on  ;  let  our  own  experience  decide  for  our 
own  conduct. 

In  speaking  of  books,  we  cannot  forbear  notic¬ 
ing  that  very  prevalent  sort  of  reading,  which 
is  little  less  productive  of  evil,  little  less  preju¬ 
dicial  to  moral  and  mental  improvement,  than 
that  which  carries  a  more  formidable  appear¬ 
ance.  We  cannot  confine  our  censure  to  those 
more  corrupt  writings  which  deprave  the  heart, 
debauch  the  imagination,  and  poison  the  prin¬ 
ciples.  Of  these  the  turpitude  is  so  obvious, 
that  no  caution  on  this  head,  it  is  presumed,  can 
be  necessary.  But  if  justice  forbids  us  to  con¬ 
found  the  insipid  with  the  mischievous,  the  idle 
with  the  vicious,  and  the  frivolous  with  the  pro¬ 
fligate,  still  we  can  only,  admit  of  shades,  deep 
shades  we  allow,  of  difference.  These  works, 
if  comparatively  harmless,  yet  debase  the  taste, 
slacken  the  intellectual  nerve,  let  down  the  un¬ 
derstanding,  sot  the  fancy  loose,  and  send  it 
gadding  among  low  and  mean  objects.  They 
not  only  run  away  with  the  time  which  should 


be  given  to  better  things,  but  gradually  destroy 
all  taste  for  better  things.  They  sink  the  mind 
to  their  own  standard,  and  give  it  a  sluggish 
reluctance,  we  had  araiost  said,  a  moral  incapa¬ 
city  for  every  thing  kbove  their  level.  The 
mind,  by  long  habit  of  stooping,  loses  its  erect 
ness,  and  yields  to  its  degradation.  It  becomes 
so  low  and  narrow  by  the  littleness  of  the  things 
which  engage  it,  that  it  requires  a  painful  effort 
to  lift  itself  high  enough,  or  to  open  itself  wide 
enough  to  embrace  great  and  noble  objects. 
The  appetite  is  vitiated.  Excess,  instead  of 
producing  a  surfeit,  by  weakening  the  digestion, 
only  induces  a  loathing  for  stronger  nourish 
ment.  The  faculties  which  might  have  been 
expanding  in  works  of  science,  or  soaring  in 
the  contemplation  of  genius,  become  satisfied 
with  the  impertinences  •f  the  most  ordinary 
fiction,  lose  their  relish  for  the  severity  of  truth, 
the  elegance  of  taste,  and  the  soberness  of  reli- 
gion.  Lulled  in  the  torpor  of  repose,  the  intel 
lect  doses,  and  enjoys  in  its  waking  dream. 

All  the  wild  trash  of  sleep,  without  the  rest. 

In  avoiding  books  which  excite  the  passions, 
it  would  seem  strange  to  include  even  some  de¬ 
votional  works.  Yet  such  as  merely  kindle 
warm  feelings,  are  not  always  the  safest.  Let 
us  rather  prefer  those,  which,  while  they  tend 
to  raise  a  devotional  spirit,  awaken  the  affections 
without  disordering  them  ;  which  while  they 
elevate  the  desires,  purify  them,  which  show  us 
our  own  nature,  and  lay  open  its  corruptions. 
Such  as  show  us  the  malignity  of  sin,  the  de¬ 
ceitfulness  of  our  hearts,  the  feebleness  of  our 
best  resolutions ;  such  as  teach  us  to  pull  off 
the  mask  from  the  fairest  appearances,  and  dis¬ 
cover  every  hiding  place,  where  some  lurking 
evil  would  conceal  itself ;  such  as  show  us  not 
what  we  appear  to  others,  but  what  we  really 
are ;  such  as  co-operating  with  our  interior  feel¬ 
ing,  and  showing  us  our  natural  state,  point  out 
our  absolute  need  of  a  Redeemer,  lead  us  to  seek 
to  him  for  pardom  from  a  conviction  that  thera 
is  no  other  refuge,  no  other  salvation.  Let  us 
be  conversant  witli.  such  writings  as  teach  us 
that  while  we  long  to  obtain  the  remission  of 
our  transgressions,  we  must  not  desire  the  re¬ 
mission  of  our  duties.  Let  us  seek  for  such  a 
Saviour  as  w'ill  not  only  deliver  us  from  the 
punishment  of  sin,  but  from  its  doffiinion  also. 

And  let  us  ever  bear  in  mind  that  the  end  of 
prayer  is  not  answ’ered  when  the  prayer  is 
finished.  We  should  regard  prayer  as  a  means 
to  a  farther  end.  The  act  of  prayer  is  not  suf¬ 
ficient,  we  must  cultivate  a  spirit  of  prayer. 
And  though  when  the  actual  devotion  is  over, 
we  cannot,  amid  the  distractions  of  company 
and  business,  always  be  thinking  of  heavenly 
things ;  yet  the  desire,  the  frame,  the  propen¬ 
sity,  the  willingness  to  return,  to  them  we  must, 
however  difficult,  endeavour  to  maintain. 

The  proper  temper  for  prayer  should  precede 
the  act.  The  disposition  should  bo  wrought  in 
the  mind  before  the  exercise  is  begun.  To  bring 
a  proud  temper  to  an  humble  prayer,  a  luxurious 
habit  to  a  self-denying  prayer,  or  a  worldly  dis¬ 
position  to  a  spiritually-minded  prayei,  is  a  po¬ 
sitive  anomaly.  A  habit  is  more  powerful  than 
an  act,  and  a  previously  indulged  tempoi  durip 


438 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


the  day  will  not,  it  is  to  be  feared,  be  fully  coun¬ 
teracted  by  the  exercise  of  a  few  minutes  devo¬ 
tion  at  night. 

Prayer  is  designed  for  a  perpetual  renovation 
of  the  motives  to  virtue ;  if  therefore  the  cause 
is  not  followed  by  its  consequence,  a  consequence 
inevitable  but  for  the  impediments  we  bring  to 
it,  we  rob  our  nature  of  its  highest  privilege,  and 
run  the  danger  of  incurring  a  penalty  where  we 
are  looking  for  a  blessing. 

That  the  habitual  tendency  of  the  life  should 
be  the  preparation  for  the  stated  prayer,  is  na¬ 
turally  suggested  to  us  by  our  blessed  Redeemer 
in  his  sermon  on  the  Mount.  He  announced 
the  precepts  of  holiness,  and  their  corresponding 
beatitudes  ;  he  gave  the  spiritual  exposition  of 
the  law,  the  direction  for  alms-giving,  the  ex¬ 
hortation  to  love  our  enemies,  nay  the  essence' 
and  spirit  of  the  whole  Decalogue,  previous  to 
his  delivering  his  own  divine  prayer  as  a  pattern 
for  ours.  Let  us  learn  from  this  that  the  prepa¬ 
ration  of  prayer  is  therefore  to  live  in  all  those 
pursuits  which  we  may  safely  beg  of  God  to 
bless,  and  in  a  conflict  with  all  those  temptations 
into  which  we  pray  not  to  be  led. 

If  God  bo  the  centre  to  which  our  hearts  are 
tending,  every  line  in  our  lives  must  meet  in 
Iiim.  With  this  point  in  view  there  will  be  a 
harmony  between  our  prayers  and  our  practice, 
a  consistency  between  devotion  and  conduct, 
which  will  make  every  part  turn  to  this  one  end, 
hear  upon  this  one  point.  For  the  beauty  of 
the  Cliristian  scheme  consists  not  in  parts  (how¬ 
ever  good  in  themselves)  which  tend  to  separate 
views,  and  lead  to  different  ends  ;  but  it  arises 
from  its  being  one  entire,  uniform,  connected 
plan,  ‘  compacted  of  that  which  every  joint,  sup- 
plietii,’  and  of  which  all  the  parts  terminate  in 
this  one  grand  ultimate  point. 

The  design  of  prayer  therefore  as  w’e  before 
observed,  is  not  merely  to  make  us  devout  while 
we  are  engaged  in  it,  but  that  its  odour  may, be 
diffused  through  all  the  intermediate  spaces  of 
the  day,  enter  into  all  its  occupations,  duties  and 
tempers..  Nor  must  its  results  be  partial,  or  li¬ 
mited  to  easy  and  pleasant  duties,  but  extend  to 
Buch  as  are  less  alluring.  When  we  pray,  for 
instance,  for  our  enemies,  the  prayer  must  be 
••endered  practical,  must  bo  made  a  means  of 
softening  our  spirit,  and  cooling  our  resentment 
toward  them.  If  we  deserve  their  enmity,  the 
true  spirit  of  prayer  will  put  us  upon  endeavour¬ 
ing  to  cure  the  fault  which  has  excited  it.  If 
we  do  not  deserve  it,  it  will  put  us  on  striving 
for  a  placable  temper,  and  we  shall  endeavour 
not  to  let  slip  so  favourable  an  occasion  of  culti¬ 
vating  it.  There  is  no  such  softener  of  animo¬ 
sity,  no  such  soother  of  resentment,  no  such  al- 
layer  of  hatred,  as  sincere,  cordial  prayer. 

It  is  obvious,  that  the  precept  to  pray  without 
ceasing  can  never  mean  to  enjoin  a  continual 
course  of  actual  prayer.  But  while  it  more  di¬ 
rectly  enjoins  us  to  embrace  all  proper  occasions 
of  performing  tliis  sacred  duty,  or  rather  of 
claiming  this  valuable  privilege,  so  it  plainly 
implies  that  we  aliould  try  to  keep  up  constantly 
that  sense  of  the  divine  presence  which  shall 
maintain  the  disposition.  In  order  to  this,  we 
should  inure  our  minds  to  reflection  ;  wo  should 
encourage  serious  tlioughts.  A  good  thought 


barely  passing  through  the  mind  will  maKe  lit¬ 
tle  impression  on  it.  We  must  arrest  it,  con¬ 
strain  it  to  remain  with  us,  expand,  amplify,  and 
as  it  were,  take  it  to  pieces.  It  must  be  dis¬ 
tinctly  unfolded,  and  carefully  examined,  or  it 
will  leave  no  precise  idea :  it  must  be  fixed  and 
incorporated,  or  it  will  produce  no  practical  ef¬ 
fect.  We  must  not  dismiss  it  till  it  has  left 
some  trace  on  the  mind,  till  it  has  made  some 
impression  on  the  heart. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  we  give  the  reins  to  a 
loose  ungoverned  fancy,  at  other  times ;  if  wo 
abandon  our  minds  to  frivolous  thoughts ;  if  we 
fill  them  with  corrupt  images ;  if  we  cherish 
sensual  ideas  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  can 
they  expect  that  none  of  these  images  will  in 
trude,  that  none  of  these  impressions  will  be  re¬ 
vived,  but  that  ‘  the  temple  into  which  foul 
things’  have  been  invited,  will  be  cleansed  at  a 
given  moment ;  that  worldly  thoughts  will  re 
cede  and  give  place  at  once  to  pure  and  holy 
thoughts  ?  Will  that  Spirit  grieved  by  impurity, 
or  resisted  by  levity,  return  with  his  warm 
beams  and  cheering  influences,  to  the  contanft- 
nated  mansion  from  which  he  has  been  driven 
out  ?  Is  it  wonderful  if  finding  no  entrance  in¬ 
to  a  heart  filled  with  vanity  he  should  withdraw 
himself?  We  cannot,  in  retiring  into  pur  clo¬ 
sets,  change  our  natures  as  we  do  our  clothes. 
The  disposition  we  carry  thither  will  be  likely 
to  remain  with  us.  We  have  no  right  to  expect 
that  a  new  temper  will  meet  us  at  the  door. 
We  can  only  hope  that  the  spirit  we  bring  thither 
will  be  cherished  and  improved.  It  is  not  easy, 
rather  it  is  not  possible,  to  graft  genuine  devo¬ 
tion  on  a  life  of  an  opposite  tendenty  ;  nor  can 
we  delight  ourselves  regularly  for  a  few  stated 
moments,  in  that  God  whom  we  have  not  been 
serving  during  the  day.  We  may  indeed  to 
quiet  our  conscience,  take  up  the  employment 
of  prayer,  but  cannot  take  up  the  state  of  mind 
which  will  make  the  employment  beneficial  to 
ourselves,  or  the  prayer  acceptable  to  God,  if 
all  the  previous  day  wo  have  been  careless  of 
ourselves,  and  unmindful  of  our  Maker.  They 
will  not  pray  differently  from  the  rest  of  the 
world,  who  do  not  live  differently. 

What  a  contradiction  is  it  to  lament  the  weak- 
ness,  the  misery,  and  the  corruption  of  our  na¬ 
ture,  in  our  devotions,  and  then  to  rush  into  a 
life,  though  not  perhaps  of  vice,  yet  of  indul¬ 
gence,  calculated  to  increase  that  weakness,  to 
inflame  those  corruptions,  and  to  lead  to  that, 
misery !  There  is  either  no  meaning  to  our 
prayers,  or  no  sense  in  our  conduct.  In  the  one 
we  mock  God,  in  the  other  we  deceive  ourselves. 

Will  not  he  who  keeps  up  an  habitual  inter¬ 
course  with  his  Maker,  who  is  vigilant  in 
thought,  self-denying  in  action,  who  strives  to 
keep  his  heart  from  wrong  desires,  his  mind 
from  vain  imaginations,  and  his  lips  from  idle 
words,  bring  a  more  prepared  spirit,  a  more 
collected  mind,  be  more  engaged,  more  pene¬ 
trated,  more  present  to  the  occasion  ?  Will  he 
not  feel  more  delight  in  this  devout  exercise, 
reap  more  benefit  from  it,  than  he  who  lives  at 
random,  prays  from  custom,  and  who,  th»ougli 
he  dares  not  intermit  the  form,  is  a  stranger  to 
its  spirit  ?  ‘  O  God  my  heart  is  ready,’  cannot  be 
lawfully  uttered  by  him  who  is  no  more  prepared. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


439 


We  speak  not  here  to  the  self-sufficient  fortn- 
aiist,  or  the  careless  profligate.  Among  those 
whotn  we  now  take  the  liberty  to  address,  are 
to  be  found,  especially  in  the  higher  class  of  fe¬ 
males,  the  amiable  and  the  interesting,  and  in 
many  respects  the  virtuous  and  correct;  charac¬ 
ters  so  engaging,  so  evidently  made  for  belter 
things,  so  capable  of  reaching  high  degrees  of 
excellence,  so  formed  to  give  the  tone  to  Chris¬ 
tian  practice,  as  well  as  to  fashion ;  so  calculated 
to  giv^  a  beautiful  impression  on  that  religion 
■which  they  profess  without  sufficiently  adoring; 
which  they  believe  without  faitly  exemplifying; 
that  wo  cannot  forbear  taking  a  tender  interest 
in  their  welfare ;  we  cannot  forbear  breathing  a 
fervent  prayer  that  they  may  yet  reach  the 
'  elevation  for  which  they  were  intended ;  that 
they  may  hold  out  a  uniform  and  consistent  pat- 
'icrn,  of  ‘whatsoever  things  are  pure,  honest, 
just,  lovely,  and  of  good  report !’  This  the  Apos¬ 
tle  goes  on  to  intimate  can  only  be  done  by 
THINKING  ON  THESE  THINGS.  Things  Can  only 
influence  our  practice  as  they  engage  our  atten¬ 
tion.  Would  not  then  a  confirmed  habit  of  se¬ 
rious  thought  tend  to  correct  that  inconsidera¬ 
tion,  which  we  are  willing  to  hope,  more  than 
want  of  principle,  lies  at  the  bottom  of  the  in¬ 
consistency  we  are  lamenting. 

If,  as  is  generally  allowed,  the  great  difficulty 
of  our  spiritual  life  is  to  make  the  future  pre- 
donvinate  over  the  present,  do  we  not  by  the 
conduct  we  are  regretting,  aggravate  what  it  is 
Jp  o'jr  power  to  diminish  ?  Miscalculation  of 
P'  c  relative  value  of  things  is  one  of  the  greatest 
*i‘r/ors  of  our  moral  life.  We  estimate  them  in 
ixb  inverse  proportion  to  their  value,  as  well  as 
to  their  duration  :  we  lavish  earnest  and  dura¬ 
ble  thoughts  o«  things  so  trifling,  that  they  de¬ 
serve  little  regard,  so  brief,  that  they  ‘  perish 
with  the  using,’  while  we  bestow  only  slight 
attention  on  things  of  infinite  worth,  only  tran¬ 
sient  thoughts  on  things  of  eternal  duration. 

Those  who  are  so  far  conscientious  as  not  to 
intermit  a  regular  course  of  devotion,  and  who 
yet  allow  themselves  at  the  same  time  to  go  on 
in  a  course  of  amusements,  which  excite  a  di¬ 
rectly  opposite  spirit,  are  inconceivably  aug¬ 
menting  their  own  difficulties. — They  are  eager¬ 
ly  heaping  up  fuel  in  the  day,  on  the  fire  which 
they  intend  to  extinguish  in  the  evening  ;  they 
are  voluntarily  adding  to  the  temptations, 
against  which  they  mean  to  request  grace  to 
struggle.  To  acknowledge  at  the  same  time, 
that  we  find  it  hard  to  serve  God  as  we  ought, 
and  yet  to  be  systematically  indulging  habits, 
which  must  naturally  increase  the  difficulty, 
makes  our  characters  almost  ridiculous,  while 
it  rem^rs  our  duty  almost  impracticable. 

While  we  make  our  way  more  difficult  by 
those  very  indulgences  with  which  we  think  to 
cheer  and  refresh  it,  the  determined  Christian 
becomes  his  own  pioneer :  he  makes  his  path 
easy  by  voluntarily  clearing  it  of  the  obstacles 
which  impede  his  progress. 

These  habitual  indulgences  seem  a  contradic¬ 
tion  to  that  obvious  law,  that  one  virtue  always 
involves  another  ;  for  we  cannot  labour  after  any 
•grace,  that  of  prayer  for  instance,  without  re- 
cisting  whatever  is  opposite  to  it.  If  then  wc 
iament,  that  it  is  so  hard  to  serve  God,  let  us 


not  by  our  conduct  furnish  arguments  against 
ourselves  ;  for,  as  if  the  difficulty  were  not  great 
enough  in  itself,  we  are  continually  heaping  up 
mountains  in  our  way,  by  indulging  in  such 
pursuits  and  passions,  as  make  a  small  labour 
ai>  insurmountable  one. 

V.'.t  we  may  often  judge  better  of  our  state  by 
the  losult,  than  by  the  act  of  prayer.  Our  very 
def'n‘is,our  coldness,  deadness,  wanderings,  may 
leave  more  contrition  on  the  soul  than  the  hap¬ 
piest  turn  of  thought.  The  feeling  of  our  wants, 
the  confession  of  our  sins,  the  acknowledgment 
of  our  dependence,  the  renunciation  of  ourselves, 
the  supplication  for  mercy,  the  application  to 
‘  the  fountain  opened  for  sin,’  the  cordial  entrea¬ 
ty  for  the  aid  of  the  Spirit,  the  relinquishment  of 
our  own  will,  resolutions  of  better  obedience, 
petitions  that  these  resolutions  may  be  directed 
and  sanctified ;  these  are  the  subjects  in  which 
the  suppliant  should  be  engaged,  by  which  his 
thoughts  should  be  absorbed.  Can  they  be  so 
absorbed,  if  many  of  the  intervening  hours  are 
passed  in  pursuits  of  a  totally  difi'erent  com¬ 
plexion  ;  pursuits  which  raise  the  passions  which 
we  are  seeking  to  allay?  Will  the  cherished  va¬ 
nities  goat  our  bidding?  Will  the  required  dis. 
positions  come  at  our  calling  ?  Do  we  find  our 
tempers  so  obedient,  our  passions  so  obsequious 
in  the  other  concerns  of  life  ?  If  not,  what  rea¬ 
son  have  we  to  expect  their  obsequiousness  in 
this  grand  concern.  We  should  therefore  en¬ 
deavour  to  believe  as  we  pray,  to  think  as  we 
pray,  to  feel  as  we  pray,  and  to  act  as  we  pray. 
Prayer  must  not  be  a  solitary,  independent  ex¬ 
ercise  ;  but  an  exercise  interwoven  with  many, 
and  inseparably  connected  with  that  golden 
chain  of  Christian  duties,  of  which,  when  so 
connected,  it  forms  one  of  the  most  important 
links. 

Business  however  must  have  its  period  as 
well  as  devotion.  We  were  sent  into  this  world 
to  act  as  well  as  to  pray ;  active  duties  must  be 
performed  as  well  as  devout  exercises.  Even 
relaxation  must  have  its  interval,  only  let  us  be 
careful  that  the  indulgence  of  the  one  do  not  de¬ 
stroy  the  effect  of  the  other ;  that  our  pleasures 
do  not  encroach  on  the  time  or  deaden  the  spi¬ 
rit  of  our  devotions  :  let  us  be  careful  that  our 
cares,  occupations,  and  amusements  may  be 
always  such  that  we  may  not  be  afraid  to  im¬ 
plore  the  divine  blessing  on  them ;  this  is  the 
criterion  of  their  safety  and  of  our  duty.  Let 
us  endeavour  that  in  each,  in  all,  one  continu¬ 
ally  growing  sentiment  and  feeling,  of  loving, 
serving,  and  pleasing  God,  maintain  its  predo. 
minant  station  in  the  heart. 

An  additional  reason  why  we  should  live  in 
the  perpetual  use  of  prayer,  seems  to  be,  that 
our  blessed  Redeemer  after  having  given  both 
the  example  and  the  command,  while  on  earth, 
condescends  still  to  be  our  unceasing  interces. 
sor  in  heaven.  Can  wq  ever  cease  petitioning 
for  ourselves,  when  we  believe  that  he  never 
ceases  interceding  for  us  ? 

If  we  are  so  unhappy  as  now  to  find  littlo 
pleasure  in  this  holy  exercise,  that  however  is 
so  far  from  Being  a  reason  for  discontinuing  it, 
that  it  affords  the  strongest  argument  for  per 
severance.  That  which  was  at  first  a  form,  will 
become  a  pleasure ;  that  whicli  was  a  burden 


440 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


will  become  a  privilege ;  that  which  we  impose 
upon  ourselves  as  a  medicine,  will  become  ne¬ 
cessary  as  an  aliment,  and  desirable  as  a  grati¬ 
fication.  That  which  is  now  short  and  super¬ 
ficial,  will  become  copious  and  solid.  The  cha¬ 
riot  wheel  is  warmed  by  its  own  motion.  Use 
will  make  that  easy  which  was  at  first  painful. 
That  which  is  once  become  easy  will  soon  be 
rendered  pleasant ;  instead  of  repining  at  the 
performance,  we  shall  be  unhappy  at  the  omis¬ 
sion.  When  a  man  recovering  from  sickness  at¬ 
tempts  to  walk,  he  does  not  discontinue  the  ex¬ 
ercise  because  he  feels  himself  weak,  nor  even 
because  the  effort  is  painful.  He  rather  redou¬ 
bles  his  exertion.  It  is  from  his  perseverance 
that  he  looks  for  strength.  An  additional  turn 
every  day  diminishes  his  repugnance,  augments 
his  vigour,  improves  his  spirits.  That  effort 
which  was  submitted  to  because  it  was  salutary, 
is  continued  because  the  feeling  of  renovated 
strength  renders  it  delightful. 


CHAP.  VII. 

The  Love  of  God, 

Our  love  to  God  arises  out  of  want.  God’s 
love  to  us  out  of  fulness.  Our  indigence  draws 
us  to  that  power  which  can  relieve,  and  to  that 
goodness  which  can  bless  us. — His  overflowing 
love  delights  to  make  us  partakers  of  the  boun¬ 
ties  he  graciously  imparts,  not  only  in  the  gifts 
of  his  Providence,  but  in  the  richer  communica¬ 
tions  of  his  grace.  We  can  only  be  said  to  love 
God  when  we  endeavour  to  glorify  him,  when 
we  desire  a  participation  of  his  nature,  when  we 
study  to  imitate  his  perfections. 

We  are  sometimes  inclined  to  suspect  the  love 
of  God  to  us.  We  are  too  little  suspicious  of  our 
want  of  love  to  him.  Yet  if  we  examine  the 
case  by  evidenc  ,  as  we  should  examine  any 
common  question,  what  real  instances  can  we 
produce  of  our  love  to  him  ?’  What  imaginable 
instance  can  we  not  produce  of  his  love  to  us  ? 
If  neglect,  forgetfulness,  ingratitude,  disobedi¬ 
ence,  coldness  in  our  affections,  deadness  in  our 
duty,  be  evidences  of  our  love  to  him,  such  evi¬ 
dences,  but  such  only,  we  can  abundantly  allege. 
If  life  and  all  the  countless  catalogue  of  mercies 
that  make  life  pleasant,  be  proofs  of  his  love  to 
us,  these  he  has  given  us  in  hand  ;  if  life  eter¬ 
nal,  if  blessedness  that  knows  no  measure  and 
no  end,  be  proofs  of  love,  these  he  has  given  us 
in  promise — to  the  Christian  we  had  almost 
said,  he  has  given  them  in  possession. 

It  must  be  an  irksome  thing  to  serve  a  master 
whom  we  do  not  love ;  a  master  whom  we  are 
compelled  to  obey,  though  we  think  his  requisi¬ 
tions  hard,  and  his  commands  unreasonable ; 
under  whose  eye  we  know  that  we  continually 
live,  though  his  presence  is  not  only  undelight¬ 
ful  but  formidable. 

Now  every  Christian  must  obey  God  whether 
he  love  him  or  not;  he  must  act  always  in  his 
sight,  whether  he  delight  him  or  not;  and  to  a 
heart  of  any  feeling,  to  a  spirit  of  any  liberality, 
nothing  is  so  grating  os  constrained  obedience. 
To  lore  God,  to  serve  him  because  we  love  him, 


is  therefore  no  less  our  highest  happiness,  than 
our  most  bounden  duty.  Love  makes  all  labour 
light.  We  serve  with  alaeriiy,  where  we  love 
with  cordiality. 

When  the  heart  is  devoted  to  an  object,  we 
require  not  to  be  perpetually  reminded  of  our 
obligations  to  obey  him  ;  they  present  themselves 
spontaneously,  we  fulfil  them  readily,  I  had  al¬ 
most  Said,  involuntarily  ;  we  think  not  so  much 
of  the  service  as  of  the  object.  The  principle 
w’hich  suggests  the  work  inspires  the  pleasure  ; 
to  neglect  it  would  be  an  injury  to  our  feelings. 
The  performance  is  the  gratification.  The 
omission  is  not  more  a  pain  to  the  conscience, 
than  a  wound  to  the  affections.  The  implanta- 
tion  of  this  vital  root  perpetuates  virtuous  prac¬ 
tice,  and  secures  internal  peace. 

Though  we  cannot  be  always  thinking  of  God, 
we  may  be  always  employed  in  his  service. 
There  must  be  intervals  of  our  communion  with 
him,  but  there  must  be  no  intermission  of  our 
attachment  to  him.  The  tender  father  who  la¬ 
bours  for  his  children,  does  not  always  employ 
his  thoughts  about  them  ;  he  cannot  be  always 
conversing  with  them,  or  concerning  them,  yet 
he  is  always  engaged  in  promoting  their  inter¬ 
ests.  His  affection  for  them  is  an  inwoven 
principle,  of  which  he  gives  the  most  unequivo¬ 
cal  evidence,  by  the  assiduousness  of  his  appli¬ 
cation  in  their  service. 

‘  Thou  shouldst  love  the  Lord  thy  God  with 
all  thy  heart,’  is  the  primary  law  of  our  religion. 
Yet  how  apt  are  we  to  complain  that  we  cannot 
love  God,  that  we  cannot  maintain  a  devout  in¬ 
tercourse  with  him.  But  would  God,  who  is  all 
justice,  have  commanded  that  of  which  he  knew 
we  were  incapable  ?  Would  he  who  is  all  mercy 
have  made  our  eternal  happiness  to  depend  on 
soBnething  which  he  knew  was  out  of  our  power 
to  perform,  capriciously  disqualifying  us  for  the 
duty  he  had  prescribed?  Would  he  have  given 
the  exhortation,  and  withheld  the  capacity  ? 
This  would  be  to  charge  Omniscience  with  folly, 
and  infinite  goodness  with  injustice; — no,  when 
he  made  duty  and  happiness  inseparable,  he  nei¬ 
ther  made  our  duty  impracticable,  nor  our  hap¬ 
piness  unattainable.  But  we  are  continually 
flying  to  false  refuges,  clinging  to  false  holds, 
resting  on  false  supports ;  as  they  are  uncertain 
they  disappoint  us,  as  they  are  w'eak  they  fail 
us;  but  as  they  are  numerous,  when  one  fails 
another  presents  itself.  Till  they  slip  from  un¬ 
der  us,  we  never  suspect  how  much  we  rested 
upon  them.  Life  glides  away  in  a  perpetual 
succession  of  these  false  dependences  and  suc¬ 
cessive  privations. 

There  is,  as  we  have  elsewhere  observed,  a 
striking  analogy  between  the  natural  ajid  spi¬ 
ritual  life  ;  the  weakness  and  helplessness  of  the 
Christian  resemble  those  of  the  infant ;  neither 
of  them  becomes  strong,  vigorous,  and  full 
grown  at  once,  but  through  a  long  and  often 
painful  course.  This  keeps  up  a  sense  of  de- 
pendance,  and  accustoms  us  to  lean  on  the  hand 
which  fosters  us.  There  is  in  both  conditions, 
an  imperceptible  chain  of  depending  events,  by 
which  we  are  carried  on  insensibly  to  the  vigour 
of  maturity.  The  operation  which  is  not  always 
obvious,  is  always  progressive.  By  attempting 
to  walk  alone  we  discover  our  weakness,  the  ex 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


441 


perience  of  that  weakness  humbles  us,  and  every 
fall  drives  us  back  to  the  sustaining’  hand,  whose 
assistance  we  vainly  flattered  ourselves  we  no 
longer  needed. 

In  some  halcyon  moments  we  are  willing  to 
persuade  ourselves  that  religion  has  made  an 
entire  conquest  over  our  heart;  that  we  have 
renounced  the  dominion  of  the  world,  have  con¬ 
quered  our  attachment  to  earthly  things.  We 
flatter  ourselves  that  nothing  can  now  again  ob¬ 
struct  our  entire  submission.  But  we  know  not 
what  spirit  we  are  of.  We  say  this  in  the  calm 
of  repose  and  in  the  stillness  of  the  passions  : 
when  our  path  is  smooth,  our  prospect  smiling, 
danger  distant,  temptation  absent,  when  we  have 
many  comforts  and  no  trials.  Suddenly,  some 
loss,  some  disappointment,  some  privation  tears 
off  the  mask,  reveals  us  to  ourselves.  We  at 
once  discover  that  though  the  smaller  fibres  and 
lesser  roots  which  fasten  us  down  to  earth  may 
have  been  loosened  by  preceding  storms,  yet  our 
substantial  hold  on  earjh  is  not  shaken,  the  tap¬ 
root  is  not  cut,  we  are  yet  fast  rooted  to  the 
soil,  and  still  stronger  tempests  must  be  sent  to 
make  us  let  go  our  hold. 

It  might  be  useful  to  cultivate  the  habit  of 
stating  our  own  case  as  strongly  to  ourselves  as 
if  it  were  the  case  of  another ;  to  express  in  so 
many  words,  thoughts  which  are  not  apt  to  as¬ 
sume  any  specific  or  palpable  form ;  thoughts 
which  we  avoid  shaping  into  language,  but 
slur  over,  generalize,  soften,  and  do  away.  How 
indignant,  for  instance,  should  we  feel,  though 
we  ourselves  make  the  complaint,  to  be  told  by 
others,  that  we  do  not  love  our  Maker  and  Pre¬ 
server.  But  let  us  put  the  question  fairly  to 
ourselves.  Do  we  really  love  him  ?  Do  we  love 
him  with  a  supreme,  nay  even  with  an  equal 
affection  ?  Is  there  no  friend,  no  child,  no  re¬ 
putation,  no  pleasure,  no  society,  no  possession 
which  we  do  not  prefer  to  him  ?  It  is  easy  to 
aflirm  in  a  general  way  that  there  is  not.  But 
let  us  particularize,  individualize  the  question — 
bring  it  home  to  our  own  hearts  in  some  actual 
instance,  in  some  tangible  shape.  Let  us  com¬ 
mune  with  our  own  consciences,  with  our  own 
feelings,  with  our  own  experience  ;  let  us  ques¬ 
tion  pointedly  and  answer  honestly.  Let  us  not 
be  more  ashamed  to  detect  the  fault,  than  to  have 
been  guilty  of  it. 

This  then  will  commonly  be  the  result..  Let 
the  friend,  child,  reputation,  possession,  pleasure 
bo  endangered,  but  especially  let  it  be  taken 
away  by  some  stroke  of  Providence.  The  scales 
fall  from  our  eyes  ;  we  see,  we  feel,  we  acknow¬ 
ledge,  with  brokenness  of  heart,  not  only  for  our 
loss  but  for  our  sin,  that  though  we  did  love 
God,  yet  we  loved  him  not  superlatively,  and 
that  wo  loved  the  blessing,  .threatened  or  re¬ 
sumed,  still  more.  But  this  is  one  of  the  cases 
in  which  the  goodness  of  God  bringeth  us  to  re¬ 
pentance.  By  the  operation  of  his  grace  the  re¬ 
sumption  of  the  gift  brings  back  the  heart  to 
the  giver.  The  Almighty  by  his  Spirit  fakes 
possession  of  the  temple  from  which  the  idol  is 
driven  out.  God  is  re-instated  in  his  rights,  and 
becomes  the  supreme  and  undisputed  Lord  of 
our  reverential  affection. 

There  are  three  requisites  to  our  proper  en¬ 
joyment  of  every  earthly  blessing  which  God 
VoL.  I 


bestows  on  us; — a  thankful  reflection  on  the 
goodness  of  the  giver,  a  deep  sense  of  the  un¬ 
worthiness  of  the  receiver,  and  a  sober  recollec¬ 
tion  of  the  precarious  tenure  by  which  we  hold 
it.  The  first  would  make  us  grateful,  the  second 
humble,  the  last  moderate. 

But  how  seldom  do  we  receive  his  favours  in 
this  spirit !  As  if  religious  gratitude  were  to  be 
confined  to  the  appointed  days  of  public  thanks¬ 
giving,  how  rarely  in  common  society  do  we 
hear  any  recognition  of  Omnipotence  even  on 
those  striking  and  heart-rejoicing  occasions, 
when,  ‘  with  his  own  right  hand,  and  with  his 
glorious  arm  he  has  gotten  himself  the  victory!’ 
Let  us  never  detract  from  the  merit  of  our  va¬ 
liant  leaders,  but  rather  honour  them  the  more 
for  this  ,  manifestation  of  divine  power  in  their 
favour  ;  but  let  us  never  lose  sight  of  him  ‘  who 
teacheth  their  hands  to  war,  and  their  fingers 
to  fight.’  Let  us  never  forget  that  ‘  He  is  the 
Rock,  that  his  work  is  perfect,  and  all  his  ways 
are  judgment.’ 

How  many  seem  to  show  not  only  their  want 
of  affiance  in  God,  but  that' ‘he  is  not  in  all 
their  thoughts,’  by  their  appearing  to  leave  him 
entirely  out  of  their  concerns,  by  projecting 
their  affairs  without  any  reference  to  him,  by 
setting  out  on  the  stock  of  their  own  unassisted 
wisdom,  contriving  and  acting  independently  of 
God ;  expecting  prosperity  in  the  event,  without, 
seeking  his  direction  in  the  outset,  and  taking 
to  themselves  the  whole  honour  of  the  success 
without  any  recognition  of  his  hand !  do  they 
not  thus  virtually  imitate  what  Sophocles  makes 
his  blustering  Atheist*  boast :  ‘  Let  other  men 
expect  to  conquer  with  the  assistance  of  the 
gods,  I  intend  to  gain  honour  without  them.’ 

The  Christian  will  rather  rejoice  to  ascribe 
the  glory  of  his  prosperity  to  the  same  hand 
to  which  our  own  manly  queen  gladly  ascribed 
her  signal  victory.  When  after  the  defeat  of 
the  Armada,  impiously  termed  invincible,  her 
enemies,  in  order  to  lower  the  value  of  her 
agency,  alleged  that  the  victory  was  not  owing 
to  her,  but  to  God  who  had  raised  the  storm,  she 
heroically  declared  that  the  visible  interference 
of  God  in  her  favour  was  that  part  of  the  suc¬ 
cess  from  which  she  derived  the  truest  honour. 

Incidents  and  occasions  every  day  arise,  which 
not  only  call  on  us  to  trust  in  God,  but  which 
furnish  us  with  suitable  occasion  of  vindicating, 
if  I  may  presume  to  use  the  expression,  the 
character  and  conduct  of  the  Almighty  in  the 
government  of  human  affairs ;  yet  there  is  no 
duty  which  we  perform  with  less  alacrity 
Strange,  that  we  should  treat  the  Lord  of  hea¬ 
ven  and  earth  with  less  confidence  than  we  ex¬ 
ercise  towards  each  other  !  That  we  shoirld  vin¬ 
dicate  the  honour  of  a  common  acquaintance 
with  more  zeal  than  that  of  our  insulted  Maker 
and  Preserver  ! 

If  we  hear  a  friend  accused  of  any  act  of  in¬ 
justice,  though  wo  cannot  bring  any  positive 
proof  why  ho  should  be  acquitted  of  this  specific 
charge,  yet  we  resent  the  injury  offered  to  his 
character  ;  we  clear  him  of  the  individual  alle¬ 
gation  on  the  ground  of  his  general  conduct,  in¬ 
ferring  that  from  the  numerous  instances  we 

* 


442 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


can  produce  of  his  rectitude  on  ottier  occasions, 
he  cannot  be  guilty  of  the  alleged  injustice.  We 
reason  from  analog}',  and  in  general  we  reason 
fairly.  But  when  we  presume  to  judge  of  the 
Most  High,  instead  of  vindicating  his  rectitude 
on  the  same  grotinds,  under  a  providence  seem- 
ingly  severe  ;  instead  of  reverting,  as  in  the  case 
of  our  friend,  to  the  thousand  instances  we  have 
formerly  tasted  of  his  kindness;  instead  of  giving 
God  the  same  credit  we  give  to  his  erring  crea¬ 
ture,  and  inferring  from  his  past  goodness,  that 
the  present  inexplicable  dispensation  must  be 
consistent,  though  we  cannot  explain  how,  with 
his  general  character,  we  mutinously  accuse 
him  of  inconsistency,  nay  of  injustice.  We  ad¬ 
mit  virtually  the  most  monstrous  anomaly  in  the 
character  of  the  perfect  God. 

But  what  a  eitie  has  revelation  furnished  to 
the  intricate  labyrinth  wnich  seems  to  involve 
the  conduct  which  we  impiously  question  !  It 
unrols  the  votume  of  divine  Providence,  lays 
open  the  mysterious  map  of  infinite  wisdom, 
throws  a  bright  light  on  the  darkest  dispensa¬ 
tions,  vindicates  the  inequality  of  appearances, 
and  points  to  that  blessed  region,  where  to  all 
who  have  truly  loved  ana  served  God,  every  ap- 
>jarent  wrong  shall  be  approved  to  have  been  un¬ 
impeachably  right,  every  affliction  a  mercy,  and 
the  severest  trials  the  shortest  blessings. 

So  blind  has  sin  made  us,  that  the  glory  of 
tlod  is  concealed  from  us,  by  the  very  means 
^hich,  could  we  discern  aright,  would  display 
''t.  That  train  of  second  causes,  which  he  has 
tio  marvellously  disposed,  obstructs  our  view  of 
himself.  We  are  so  filled  with  wonder  at  the 
Immediate  elfect,  that  our  short  sight  penetrates 
not  to  the  first  cause.  To  see  him  as  he  is,  is 
reserved  to  be  the  happiness  of  a  better  world. 
We  shall  then  indeed  ‘  admire  him  in  his  saints, 
and  in  all  them  that  believe  we  shall  see  how 
necessary  it  was  for  those  whose  bliss  is  now  so 
perfect,  to  have  been  poor,  and  despised,  and  op¬ 
pressed.  We  shall  see  why  the  ‘ungodly  were 
in  such  prosperity.’  Let  us  give  God  credit 
here  for  what  we  shall  then  fully  know  ;  let  us 
adore  now,  what  we  shall  understand  hereafter. 

They  who  take  up  religion  on  a  false  ground 
•will  never  adhere  to  it.  If  they  adopt  it  merely 
for  the  peace  and  pleasantness  it  brings,  they 
will  desert  it  as  soon  as  they  find  their  adherence 
to  it  will  bring  them  into  difficulty,  distress,  or 
discredit.  It  seldom  answers  therefore  to  at¬ 
tempt  making  proselytes  by  hanging  out  false 
colours.  The  Christian  ‘  endures  as  seeing  him 
who  is  invisible.’  He  who  adopts  religion  for 
the  sake  of  immediate  enjoyment,  will  not  do  a 
virtuous  action  that  is  disagreeable  to  himself; 
nor  resist  a  temptation  that  is  alluring,  present 
pleasure  being  his  motive.  There  is^  no  sure 
basis  for  virtue  but  the  love  of  God  in  Christ 
Jesus,  and  the  bright  reversion  for  which  that 
love  is  pleaged.  Without  this,  as  soon  as  the 
paths  of  piety  become  rough  and  thorny,  we 
shall  stray  into  pleasant  pastures. 

Religion,  however,  has  her  own  peculiar  ad¬ 
vantages.  In  the  transaction  of  all  worldly  af¬ 
fairs,  there  are  many  and  groat  difficulties. 
There  may  be  several  ways  out  of  which  to 
choose.  Men  of  the  first  understanding  are  not 
e-#/jys  certain  which  of  these  ways  is  the  best. 


Persons  of  the  deepest  penetration  arc  full  of 
doubt  and  perplexity  ;  their  minds  are  undecided 
how  to  act,  lest  while  they  pursue  one  road, 
they  may  be  neglecting  another  which  might 
better  have  conducted  them  to  their  proposed 
end. 

In  religion  the  case  is  different,  and,  in  this 
respect,  easy.  As  a  Christian  can  have  but  one 
object  in  view,  he  is  also  certain  there  is  but  one 
way  of  attaining  it.  Where  there  is  but  one 
end,  it  prevents  all  possibility  of  choosing  wropg 
— where  there  is  but  one  road,  it  takes  away  all 
perplexity  as  to  the  course  of  pursuit.  That  we 
so  often  wander  wide  of  the  mark,  is  not  from 
any  want  of  plainness  in  the  path,  but  from  the 
perverseness  of  our  will  in  not  choosing  it, 
from  the  indolence  of  our  mind  in  not  following 
it  up. 

In  our  attachments  to  earthly  things,  even  the 
most  innocent,  there  is  always  a  danger  of  ex¬ 
cess  ;  but  from  this  danger  we  are  here  perfectly 
exempt,  for  there  is  no  possibility  of  excess  in 
our  love  to  that  Being  who  has  demanded  t/ie 
whole  heart.  This  peremptory  requisition  cuts 
off  all  debate.  Had  God  required  only  a  portion, 
even  were  it  a  large  portion,  we  might  be  puzzled 
in  settling  the  quantum.  We  might  be  plotting 
flow  large  a  part  we  might  venture  to  keep  back 
without  absolutely  forfeiting  our  safety ;  we 
might  be  haggling  for  deductions,  bargaining 
for  abatements,  and  be  perpetually  compromising 
with  our  Maker.  But  the  injunction  is  entire, 
the  command  is  definitive,  the  portion  is  unequi- 
vocal.  Though  it  is  so  compressed  in  the  ex- 
pression,  yet  it  is  so  expansive  and  ample  in  the 
measure  :  it  is  so  distinct  a  claim,  so  imperative 
a  requisition  of  all  the  faculties  of  the  mind  and 
strength ;  all  the  affections  of  the  heart  and 
soul :  that  there  is  not  the  least  opening  left  for 
litigation  ;  no  place  for  any  thing  but  absolute 
unreserved  compliance. 

Every  thing  which  relates  to  God  is  infinite. 
We  must  therefore  while  we  keep  our  hearts 
humble,  keep  our  aims  high.  Our  highest  ser¬ 
vices  indeed  are  but  finite,  imperfect.  But  as 
God  is  unlimited  in  goodness,  he  should  have 
our  unlimited  love.  The  best  we  can  offer  is 
poor,  but  let  us  not  withhold  that  best.  He  de¬ 
serves  incomparably  more  than  we  have  to  give. 
Let  us  not  give  him  less  than  all.  If  be  has  en¬ 
nobled  our  corrupt  nature  with  spiritual  affec¬ 
tions,  let  us  not  refuse  their  noblest  aspirations, 
to  their  noblest  object.  Let  him  not  behold  us 
so  prodigally  lavishing  our  affections  on  the 
meanest  of  his  bounties,  as  to  have  nothirig  loft 
for  himself.  As  the  standard  of  every  thing  in 
religion  is  high,  let  us  endeavour  to  act  in  it  with 
the  highest  intention  of  mind,  with  the  largest 
use  of  our  faculties.  Let  us  obey  him  with  the 
most  intense  love,  adore  him  with  the  most  fer¬ 
vent  gratitude.  Let  us  ‘  praise  him  according 
to  his  excellent  greatness.’  Let  us  serve  him 
with  all  the  strength  of  our  capacity,  with  all 
the  devotion  of  our  will. 

Grace  being  a  new  principle  added  to  our  na¬ 
tural  powers,  as  it  determines  the  desires  to  a 
higher  object,  so  it  adds  vigour  to  their  activity. 
We  shall  best  prove  its  dominion  over  us  by  de- 
I  siring  to  exert  ourselves  in  the  cause  of  heaven 
1  with  the  same  energy  with  which  wo  once  ex 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


443 


erted  ourselves  in  the  cause  of  the  world.  The 
world  was  too  little  to  fill  our  whole  capacity. 
Scaliger  lamented  how  much  was  lost  because 
so  fine  a  poet  as  Claudian,  in  his  choice  of  a  sub¬ 
ject,  wanted  matter  worthy  of  his  talent;  but  it 
is  the  felicity  of  the  Christian  to  have  chosen  a 
theme  to  which  all  the  powers  of  his  heart  and 
of  his  undersj^nding  will  be  found  inadequate. 
It  is  the  glory  of  religion  to  supply  an  object 
worthy  of  the  entire  consecration  of  every  power, 
faculty  and  affection  of  an  immaterial,  immoral 
being. 

•  _ 

CHAP.  VIII. 

The  Hand  of  God  to  be  acknowledged  in  the 
daily  circumstances  of  life. 

If  we  would  indeed  love  Goy,  let  us  ‘  acquaint 
ourselves  with  him.’  The  word  of  inspiration 
has  assured  us  that  there  is  no  other  way  to  ‘  be 
at  peace.’  As  we  cannot  love  an  unknown  God, 
so  neither  can  we  know  him,  or  even  approach 
toward  that  knowledge,  but  on  the  terms  which 
he  himself  holds  out  to  us ;  neither  will  he  save 
us  but  in  the  method  which  he  himself  has  pre¬ 
scribed.  His  very  perfections,  the  just  objects 
of  our  adoration,  all  stand  in  the  way  of  crea¬ 
tures  so  guilty.  His  justice  is  the  flaming 
sword  which  excludes  us  from  the  Paradise  we 
have  forfeited.  His  purity  is  so  opposed  to  our 
corruptions,  his  omnipotence  to  our  infirmity, 
his  wisdom  to  our  folly,  that  had  we  not  to  plead 
the  great  propitiation,  those  very  attributes  which 
are  now  our  trust,  would  be  our  terror.  The 
most  opposite  images  of  human  conception,  the 
widest  extremes  of  human  language,  are  used 
for  the  purpose  of  showing  what  God  is  to  us  in 
our  natural  state,  and  what  he  is  under  the 
Christian  dispensation.  The  ‘  consuming  fire’ 
is  transformed  into  essential  love. 

But  as  we  cannot  find  out  the  Almighty  to 
perfection,  so  we  cannot  love  him  with  that  pure 
flame,  which  animates  glorified  spirits.  But 
there  is  a  preliminary  acquaintance  with  him, 
an  initial  love  of  him,  for  which  he  has  furnish¬ 
ed  us  with  means  by  his  works,  by  his  word, 
and  by  his  Spirit.  Even  in  this  weak  and  bar¬ 
ren  soil  some  germs  will  shoot,  some  blossoms 
will  open,  of  that  celestial  plant,  which,  watered 
by  the  dews  of  heaven,  and  ripened  by  the  Sun 
of  righteousness,  will,  in  a  more  genial  clime, 
expand  into  the  fulness  of  perfection,  and  bear 
immortal  fruits  in  the  Paradise  of  God. 

A  person  of  a  cold  phlegmatic  temper,  who 
laments  that  he  wants  that  fervor  in  his  love  of 
the  Supreme  Being,  which  is  apparent  in  more 
ardent  characters,  may  take  comfort,  if  he  find 
the  same  indifference  respecting  his  worldly  at¬ 
tachments.  But  if  his  affections  are  intense  to¬ 
wards  the  perishable  things  of  earth,  while  they 
are  dead  to  such  as  are  spiritual,  it  does  not 
prove  that  he  is  destitute  of  passions,  but  only 
that  they  are  not  directed  to  the  proper  object. 
If,  however,  he  love  God  with  that  measure  of 
feeling  with  which  God  has  endowed  him,  he 
will  not  be  punished  or  rewarded  because  the 
Btoek  is  greater  or  smaller  than  that  of  some 
other  of  his  fellow  creatures. 


In  those  intervals  when  our  sense  of  divine 
things  is  weak  and  low,  we  must  not  give  way 
to  distrust,  but  warm  our  hearts  with  the  recol¬ 
lection  of  our  best  moments.  Our  motives  to 
love  and  gratitude  are  not  now  diminished,  but 
our  spiritual  frame  is  lower,  our  natural  spirits 
are  weaker.  Where  there  is  languor  there  will 
be  discouragements.  But  we  must  not  desist. 
‘  Faint  yet  pursuing,’  must  be  the  Christian  s 
motto.  • 

There  is  more  merit  (if  ever  we  dare  apply  so 
arrogant  a  word  to  our  worthless  efforts)  in  per¬ 
severing  under  depression  and  discomfort,  than 
in  the  happiest  flow  of  devotion,  when  the  tide 
of  health  and  spirits  runs  high.  Where  there 
is  less  gratification  there  is  more  disinterested¬ 
ness.  We  ought  to  consider  it  as  a  cheering 
evidence,  that  our  love  may  be  equally  pure 
though  it  is  not  equally  fervent,  when  we  persist 
in  serving  our  heavenly  Father  with  the  same 
constancy,  though  it  may  please  him  to  with¬ 
draw  from  us  the  same  consolations.  Perse¬ 
verance  may  bring  us  to  the  very  dispositions 
the  absence  of  which  we  are  lamenting — ‘O 
tarry  thou  the  Lord’s  leisure,  be  strong  and  he 
shall  comfort  thy  heart.’ 

We  are  too  ready  to  imagine  that  we  are  reli¬ 
gious,  because  we  know  something  of  religion. 
We  appropriate  to  ourselves  the  pious  sentiments 
we  read,  and  we  talk  as  if  the  thoughts  of  other 
men’s  heads  were  really  the  feelings  of  our  own 
hearts.  But  piety  has  not  its  seat  in  the  memo¬ 
ry,  but  in  the  affections,  for  which  however  the 
memory  is  an  excellent  purveyor,  though  a  bad 
substitute.  Instead  of  an  undue  elation  of  heart 
when  we  peruse  some  of  the  psalmist’s  beautiful 
effusions,  we  should  feel  a  deep  self-abasement 
at  the  reflection,  that  however  our  case  may 
sometimes  resemble  his,  yet  how  inapplicable  to 
our  hearts  are  the  ardent  expressions  of  his  re¬ 
pentance,  the  overflowing  of  his  gratitude,  the 
depth  of  his  submission,  the  entireness  of  his 
self-dedication,  the  fervour  of  his  love.  But  he 
who  indeed  can  once  say  with  him,  ‘  Thou  art 
my  portion,’  will,  like  him,  surrender  himself 
unreservedly  to  his  service. 

It  is  important  that  we  never  suffer  our  faith, 
any  more  than  our  love,  to  be  depressed  or  ele¬ 
vated,  by  mistaking  for  its  own  operations,  the 
ramblings  of  a  busy  imagination.  The  steady 
principle  of  faith  must  not  look  for  its  character 
to  the  vagaries  of  a  mutable  and  fantastic  fancy 
— La  foils  de  la  Maison,  as  she  has  been  well 
denominated.  Faith  which  has  once  fi.xed  her 
foot  on  the  immutable  Rock  of  Ages,  fastened 
her  firm  eye  on  the  Cross,  and  stretched  out  her 
triumphant  hand  to  seize  the  promised  crown, 
will  not  suffer  her  stability  to  depend  on  this 
ever-shifting  faculty  ;  she  will  not  be  driven  to 
despair  by  the  blackest  shades  of  its  pencil,  nor 
be  betrayed  into  a  careless  security,  by  its  most 
flattering  and  vivid  colours. 

One  cause  of  the  fluctuations  of  our  faith  is, 
that  we  are  too  ready  to  judge  the  Almighty  by 
our  own  low  standard.  We  judge  him  not  by 
his  own  declarations  of  what  he  is,  and  what  he 
will  do,  but  by  our  own  feelings  and  practices. 
We  ourselves  arc  too  little  disposed  to  forgive 
those  who  have  offended  us.  We  therefore 
conclude  that  God  cannot  pardon  our  offences 


444 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


We  suspect  him  to  be  implacable,  because  we  , 
are  apt  to  be  so,  and  we  are  unwilling  to  believe  | 
that  he  can  pass  by  injuries,  because  we  find 
it  so  hard  to  do  it.  When  we  do  forgive,  it  is 
grudgingly  and  superficially  ;  we  therefore  infer 
that  God  cannot  forgive  freely  and  fully.  We 
make  a  hypocritical  distinction  between  for¬ 
giving  and  forgetting  injuries.  God  clears  away 
Sie  score  when  he  grants  the  pardon.  He  does 
not  only  say,  ‘  thy  sins  and  thy  iniquities  will 
I  forgive,’  but  ‘  I  will  remeptiber  them  no  more.’ 

We  are  disposed  to  urge  the  smallness  of  our 
offences,  as  a  plea  for  their  forgiveness  ;  whereas 
God  to  exhibit  the  boundlessness  of  his  own 
mercy,  has  taught  us  to  allege  a  plea  directly 
contrary — ‘  Lord,  pardon  my  iniquity,  for  it  is 
great.'  To  natural  reason  this  argument  of 
David  is  most  extraordinary.  But  white  he 
felt  that  the  greatness  of  his  pwn  iniquity  left 
him  no  resource,  but  in  the  mercy  of  God,  he 
felt  that  God’s  mercy  was  greater  even  than  his 
own  sin.  What  a  large,  what  a  magnificent 
idea  does  it  give  us  of  the  divine  power  and  good¬ 
ness,  that  the  believer,  instead  of  pleading  the 
smallness  of  his  own  offences  as  a  motive  for 
pardon,  pleads  only  the  abundance  of  the  divine 
compassion  ! 

We  are  told  that  it  is  the  duty  of  the  Christian 
to  ‘  seek  God.’  We  assent  to  the  truth  of  the 
proposition.  Yet  it  would  be  less  irksome  to 
corrupt  nature,  in  pursuit  of  this  knowledge,  to 
go  a  pilgrimage  to  distant  lands,  than  to  seek 
him  within  our  own  hearts.  Our  own  heart  is 
the  true  terra  incognitia  :  a  land  more  foreign 
and  unknown  to  us,  then  the  regions  of  the  polar 
circle.  Yet  that  heart  is  the  place,  in  which  an 
acquaintance  with  God  must  be  sought.  It  is 
there  we  must  worship  him,  if  we  would  wor¬ 
ship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

But,  alas !  the  heart  is  not  the  home  of  a 
worldly  man,  it  is  scarcely  the  home  of  a  Chris¬ 
tian.  If  business  and  pleasure  are  the  natural 
element  of  the  generality — a  dreary  vacuity, 
sloth  and  insensibility,  too  often  worse  than  both, 
disincline,  disqualify  too  many  Christians  for 
the  pursuit. 

I  have  observed,  and  I  think  I  have  heard 
others  observe,  that  a  common  beggar  had 
rather  screen  himself  under  the  wall  of  a  church¬ 
yard,  if  overtaken  by  a  shower  of  rain,  though 
the  church  door  stand  invitingly  open,  than  take 
shelter  within  it,  while  divine  service  is  per¬ 
forming.  It  is  a  less  annoyance  to  him  to  be 
drenched  with  the  storm,  than  to  enjoy  the  con¬ 
venience  of  a  shelter  and  a  seat,  if  he  must  en¬ 
joy  them  at  the  heavy  price  of  listening  to  the 
sermon. 

While  we  condemn  the  beggar,  let  us  look 
into  our  own  hearts  ;  happy  if  we  cannot  there 
detect  somewhat  of  the  same  indolence,  indis¬ 
posedness,  and  distaste  to  serious  things  !  Hap¬ 
py,  if  we  do  not  find,  that  we  prefer  not  only 
our  pleasures  and  enjoyments,  but,  I  had  almost 
said,  our  very  pains,  and  vexations,  and  incon¬ 
veniences,  to  communing  with  our  Maker  ! 
Happy,  if  we  had  not  ratiier  be  absorbed  in  our 
petty  cares,  and  little  disturbances,  provided  we 
can  contrive  to  make  them  the  means  of  occupy¬ 
ing  our  thoughts,  filling  up  our  minds,  and 
drawing  them  away  from  that  devout  inter¬ 


course,  which  demands  the  liveliest  exercise  of 
our  rational  powers,  the  highest  elevation  of  our 
spiritual  affections  !  Is  it  not  to  be  apprehended, 
that  the  dread  of  being  driven  to  this  sacred  in¬ 
tercourse  is  one  grand  cause  of  that  activity  and 
restlessness,  which  sets  the  world  in  such  per¬ 
petual  motion  ? 

Though  we  are  ready  to  express  a  general 
sense  of  our  confidence  in  Almighty  goodness, 
yet  what  definite  meaning  do  we  annex  to  the 
expression  ?  What  practical  evidences  have  we 
to  produce,  that  we  really  do  trust  him  ?  Does 
this  trust  deliver  us  from  worldly  anxiety  ?  Does 
it  exonerate  us  from  the  same  perturbatiop  of 
spirits,  which  those  endure  who  make  no  such 
profession  ?  Does  it  relieve  the  mind  from  doubt 
and  distrust  ?  Does  it  tranquillize  the  troubled 
heart,  does  it  regulate  its  disorders,  and  com¬ 
pose  its  fluctuations  ?  Does  it  sooth  us  under 
irritation  ?  Does  it  support  under  trials  ?  Does 
it  fortify  us  against  temptations  ?  Does  it  lead 
us  to  repose  a  full  confidence  in  that  Being 
whom  we  profess  to  trust  ?  Does  it  produce  in 
us,  ‘  that  work  of  righteousness,  which  is  peace,’ 
that  effect  of  righteousness,  which  is  ‘  quietness 
and  assurance  for  ever  V  Do  we  commit  our¬ 
selves  and  our  concerns  to  God  in  word,  or  in 
reality  ?  Does  this  implicit  reliance  simplify 
our  desires  ?  Does  it  induce  us  to  credit  the 
testimony  of  his  word  and  the  promises  of  bis 
Gospel  ?  Do  we  not  even  entertain  some  secret 
suspicions  of  his  faithfulness  and  truth  in  our 
hearts,  when  we  persuade  others  and  try  to  per¬ 
suade  ourselves  that  we  unreservedly  trust  him. 

In  the  preceding  chapter  we  endeavoured  to 
illustrate  our  want  of  love  to  God,  by  our  not 
being  as  forward  to  vindicate  the  divine  conduct 
as  to  justify  that  of  an  acquaintance.  The  same 
illustration  may  express  our  reluctance  to  trust 
in  God.  If  a  tried  friend  engage  to  do  us  a 
kindness,  though  he  may  not  think  it  necesssary 
to  explain  the  particular  manner  in  which  he 
intends  to  do  it,  we  repose  on  his  word.  Assur¬ 
ed  of  the  result,  we  are  neither  very  inquisitive 
about  the  mode  nor  the  detail.  But  do  we  treat 
our  Almighty  friend  with  the  same  liberal  con¬ 
fidence  ?  Are  we  not  murmuring  because  we 
cannot  see  all  the  process  of  his  administration, 
and  follow  his  movements  step  by  step  ?  Do  we 
wait  the  development  of  his  plan,  in  full  assur¬ 
ance  that  the  issue  will  !>e  ultimately  good  ? 
Do  we  trust  that  he  is  as  abundantly  willing  as 
able,  to  do  more  for  us  than  we  can  ask  or  think, 
if  by  our  suspicions  we  do  not  offend  him,  if  by 
our  infidelity  we  do  not  provoke  him  1  In  short, 
do  we  not  think  ourselves  utterly  undone,  when 
we  have  only  but  Providence  to  trust  to  ? 

We  are  perhaps  ready  enough  to  acknowledge 
God  in  our  mercies,  nay,  we  confess  him  in  the 
ordinary  enjoyments  of  life.  In  some  of  these 
common  mercies,  as  in  a  bright  clay,  a  refresh¬ 
ing  shower,  a  delightful  scenery,  a  kind  of  sen¬ 
sitive  pleasure,  an  hilarity  of  spirits,  a  sort  of 
animal  enjoyment,  though  of  a  refined  nature, 
mixes  itself  with  our  devotional  feelings  ;  and 
though  we  confess  and  adore  the  bountiful 
Giver,  we  do  it  with  a  little  mixture  of  self-com¬ 
placency,  and  of  human  gratification,  which  he 
pardons  and  accepts. 

But  we  must  look  for  him  in  scenes  less  aiu 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


445 


mating,  we  must  acknowledge  him  on  occa¬ 
sions  less  exhilarating,  less  sensibly  gratifying. 
It  is  not  only  in  his  promises  that  God  manifests 
his  mercy.  His  threatenings  are  proofs  of  the 
same  compassionate  love.  He  threatens,  not  to 
punish,  but  by  the  warning,  to  snatch  from  the 
punishment. 

We  may  also  trace  marks  of  his  hand,  not 
only  in  the  awful  visitations  of  life,  not  only  in 
the  severer  dispensations  of  his  providence,  but 
in  vexations  so  trivial  that  we  should  liesitate  to 
suspect  that  they  are  providential  appointments, 
did  we  not  know  that  our  daily  life  is  made  up 
of  unimportant  circumstances  rather  than  of 
great  events.  As  they  are,  however,  of  suffi¬ 
cient  importance  to  exercise  the  Christian  tem¬ 
pers  and  affections,  we  may  trace  the  hand  of 
our  heavenly  Father  in  those  daily  little  disap¬ 
pointments  and  hourly  vexations,  which  occur 
even  in  the  most  prosperous  state,  and  which 
are  inseparable  from  the  condition  of  humanity. 
— We  must  trace  that  same  beneficent  hand, 
secretly  at  work  for  our  purification,  our  cor¬ 
rection,  our  weaning  from  life  ;  in  the  imper¬ 
fections  and  disagreeableness  of  those  who  may 
be  about  us ;  in  the  perverseness  of  those  with 
whom  we  transact  business,  and  in  those  inter¬ 
ruptions  which  break  in  upon  our  favourite  en¬ 
gagements. 

We  are  perhaps  too  much  addicted  to  our  in¬ 
nocent  deligiits,  or  we  are  too  fond  of  our  leisure, 
of  our  learned,  even  of  our  religious  leisure. 
But  while  we  say  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here, 
the  divine  vision  is  withdrawn,  and  we  are  com¬ 
pelled  to  come  down  from  the  mount.  Or,  per¬ 
haps,  we  do  not  improve  our  retirement  to  the 
purposes  for  which  it  was  granted,  and  to  which 
we  had  resolved  to  devote  it,  and  our  time  is 
broken  in  upon  to  make  us  more  sensible  of  its 
value.  Or  we  feel  a  complacency  in  our  leisure, 
a  pride  in  our  books ;  perhaps  we  feel  proud  of 
the  good  things  we  are  intending  to  say,  or  me¬ 
ditating  to  write,  or  preparing  to  do.  A  check 
is  necessary,  yet  it  is  given  in  a  way  almost  im¬ 
perceptible.  The  hand  that  gives  it  is  unseen, 
is  unsuspected,  yet  it  is  the  same  gracious  hand 
which  directs  t  e  more  important  events  of  life. 
An  importunate  application,  a  disqualifying, 
though  not  severe  indisposition,  a  family  avoca- 
tion,  a  letter  important  to  the  writer,  but  un¬ 
seasonable  to  us,  breaks  in  on  our  projected 
privacy  ;  calls  us  to  a  sacrifice  of  our  inclination, 
to  a  renunciation  of  our  own  will.  These  inces¬ 
sant  trials  of  temper,  if  well  improved,  may  be 
more  salutary  to  the  mind,  than  the  finest  pas¬ 
sage  wo  had  intended  to  read,  or  the  sublimcst 
sentiment  wo  had  fancied  we  should  write. 

Instead  then  of  going  in  search  of  great  mor¬ 
tifications,  as  a  certain  class  of  pious  writers 
recommend,  let  us  cheerfully  bear  and  diligently 
improve  these  inferior  trials  which  God  pre¬ 
pares  for  us.  Submission  to  a  cross  which  he 
inflicts,  to  a  disappointment  which  he  sends,  to  a 
contradiction  of  our  self-love,  which  he  appoints, 
is  a  iiir  lielter  exercise  than  great  penances  of 
our  own  choosing.  Perpetual  conquests  over  im¬ 
patience,  ill-temper,  and  self-will,  indicate  a  bet¬ 
ter  spiiit  than  any  self-imposed  mortification. 
We  may  traverse  oceans,  and  scale  mountains 
on  uncommanded  pilgrimages,  without  pleasing 


God  ;  w4  may  please  him  without  any  other  ex¬ 
ertion  than  by  crossing  our  own  will. 

Perhaps  you  had  been  busying  your  imagina¬ 
tion  with  some  projected  scheme,  not  only  law¬ 
ful,  but  laudable.  The  design  was  radically 
good,  but  the  supposed  value  of  your  own 
agency,  might  too  much  interfere,  might  a  little 
taint  the  purity  of  your  best  intentions.  The 
motives  were  so  mixed  that  it  was  difficult  to 
separate  them.  Sudden  sickness  obstructed  the 
design.  You  naturally  lament  the  failure,  not 
perceiving  that,  however  good  the  work  might 
be  for  others,  the  sickness  was  better  for  your¬ 
self.  An  act  of  charity  was  in  your  intention, 
but  God  saw  that  your  soul  required  the  exercise 
of  a  more  difficult  virtue  ;  that  humility  and  re¬ 
signation,  that  the  patience,  acquiescence,  and 
contrition  of  a  sick  bed,  were  more  necessary 
for  you.  He  accepts  the  meditated  work  as  far 
as  it  was  designed  for  his  glory,  but  he  calls 
his  servant  to  other  duties,  which  were  more 
salutary  for  him,  and  of  which  the  master  was 
the  better  judge.  He  sets  aside  his  work,  and 
orders  him  to  wait,  the  more  difficult  part  of 
his  task.  As  far  as  your  motive  was  pure,  you 
will  receive  the  reward  of  your  unperformed 
charity,  though  not  the  gratification  of  the  per¬ 
formance.  If  it  was  not  pure,  you  are  rescued 
from  the  danger  attending  a  right  action  per¬ 
formed  on  a  worldly  principle.  You  may  be 
the  better  Christian  though  one  good  deed  is 
subtracted  from  your  catalogue. 

By  a  life  of  activity  and  usefulness,  you  had 
perhaps  attracted  the  public  esteem. — An  ani¬ 
mal  activity  had  partly  stimulated  your  exer¬ 
tions.  The  love  of  reputation  begins*  to  mix 
itself  with  your  better  motives.  You  do  not,  it 
is  presumed,  act  entirely  or  chiefly  for  human 
applause  ;  but  you  are  too  sensible  to  it.  It  is  a 
delicious  poison  which  begins  to  infuse  itself 
into  your  purest  cup.  You  acknowledge  indeed 
the  sublimity  of  highbr  motives,  but  do  you 
never  feel  that,  separated  from  this  accompani¬ 
ment  of  self,  they  would  be  too  abstracted,  too 
speculative,  and  might  become  too  little  produc¬ 
tive  both  of  activity  and  of  sensible  gratifica¬ 
tion  ?  You  begin  to  feel  the  human  incentive 
necessary,  and  your  spirits  would  flag  if  it  w'cre 
withdrawn. 

Tills  sensibility  to  praise  would  gradually 
tarnish  the  purity  of  your  best  actions.  He 
who  sees  your  heart,  as  well  as  your  works, 
mercifully  snatches  you  from  the  perils  of  pros¬ 
perity.  Malice  is  awakened.  Your  most  meri¬ 
torious  actions  are  ascribed  to  the  most  corrupt 
motives.  You  are  attacked  just  where  your 
character  is  least  vulnerable.  The  enemies 
whom  your  success  raised  up,  aVo  raised  up  by 
God,  less  to  punish  than  to  save  you.  We  are 
far  from  meaning  that  he  can  ever  be  the  author 
of  evil;  he  does  not  excite  or  approve  the  ca¬ 
lumny,  but  ho  uses  your  calumniators  asinstru 
ments  of  your  purification.  Your  fame  was  too 
dear  to  you.  It  is  a  costly  sacrifice,  but  God 
requires  it.  It  must  be  oflered  up.  You  would 
gladly  compound  for  any,  for  every  other  offer¬ 
ing,  but  this  is  the  offering  he  chooses :  and 
while  he  graciously  continues  to  employ  you 
for  his  glory,  he  tlius  teaches  you  to  renounce 
your  own.  Ho  sends  this  trial  as  a  tost,  b* 


446 


THE  WORKS  OF 

■which  you  are  to  try  yourself.  He  thus  Instructs 
you  not  to  abandon  your  Christian  exertions,  but 
to  elevate  the  principle  which  inspired  them,  to 
defecate  it  from  all  irApure  admixtures. 

By  thus  stripping  the  most  engaging  employ¬ 
ments  of  this  dangerous  delight,  by  infusing 
some  drops  of  salutary  bitterness  into  our  sweet¬ 
est  draught,  by  some  of  these  ill-tasted  but  whole¬ 
some  mercies,  he  graciously  compels  us  to  re¬ 
turn  to  himself.  By  taking  away  the  stays  by 
which  we  are  perpetually  propping  up  our  frail 
delights,  they  fall  to  the  ground.  We  are  as  it 
were  driven  back  to  Him,  who  condescends  to 
receive  us,  after  we  have  tried  every  thing  else, 
and  after  every  thing  else  has  failed  us,  and 
though  he  knows  we  should  not  have  returned 
to  Him  if  every  thing  else  had  not  failed  us.  He 
makes  us  feel  our  weakness,  that  we  may  have 
recourse  to  his  strength  ;  he  makes  us  sensible 
of  our  hitherto  unperceived  sins,  that  we  may 
take  refuge  in  his  everlasting  compassion 


CHAP.  IX. 

Christianity  Universal  in  its  Requisitions. 

It  is  not  unusual  to  see  people  get  rid  of  some 
of  the  most  awful  injunctions,  and  emancipate 
themselves  from  some  of  the  most  solemn  re¬ 
quisitions  of  Scripture,  by  affecting  to  believe 
that  they  do  not  apply  to  them.  They  consider 
them  as  belonging  exclusively  to  the  first  age 
of  the  Gospel,  and  to  the  individuals  to  whom 
they  were  immediately  addressed  ;  consequently 
the  necessity  to  observe  them  does  not  extend  to 
persons  under  an  established  Christianity,  to 
hereditary  Christians. 

These  exceptions  are  particularly  applied  to 
some  of  the  leading  doctrines,  so  forcibly  and 
repeatedly  pressed  in  the  Epistles.  The  reason- 
ers  endeavour  to  persuade  themselves  that  it  was 
only  the  Ephesians,  ‘  who  are  dead  in  trespasses 
and  sins’ — that  it  was  only  the  Galatians  who 
are  enjoined  ‘  not  to  fulfil  the  lusts  of  the  flesh’ — 
that  it  was  only  the  Philippians  who  were  ‘ene¬ 
mies  to  the  cross  of  Christ.’  They  shelter  them¬ 
selves  under  the  comfortable  assurances  of  a 
geographical  security.  As  they  know  that  they 
are  neither  Ephesians,  Galatians,  nor  Philippi, 
ans,  they  have  of  course  little  or  nothing  to  do 
with  the  reproofs, expostulations,  or  threatenings 
which  were  originally  directed  to  the  converts 
among  those  people.  They  console  themselves 
with  the  belief  that  it  was  only  these  pagans 
■who  ‘  walked  according  to  the  course  of  this 
world’ — who  were  ‘strangers  from  the  covenants 
of  promise’ — and  who  were  ‘  without  God  in  the 
world.’ 

But  these  self-satisfied  critics  would  do  well 
to  learn  that  not  only  ‘  circumcision  or  uncir¬ 
cumcision,’ — but  baptism  or  no  baptism  ‘  avail- 
cth  nothing,’  (I  mean  as  a  mere  form)  ‘  but  a 
new  creature.’  An  irreligious  professor  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  is  as  much  ‘  a  stranger  and  foreigner,  as 
a  heathen  ;  he  is  no  more  ‘  a  fellow  citizen  of 
the  saints,’  and  of  the  household  of  God  than  a 
Colosian  or  Galatian  was,  before  the  Christian 
dispensation  had  reached  them. 

But  the  persons  to  whom  the  Apostles  preach¬ 


HANNAH  MORE. 

ed  had,  before  their  conversion  no  vices  to  which 
we  are  not  liable,  they  had  certainly  difiiculties 
afterwards  from  which  we  are  happily  exempt 
There  were  indeed  differences  between  them 
and  us  in  external  situation,  in  local  circum¬ 
stances,  references  which  we  ought  certainly  to 
take  into  the  account  in  perusing  the  epistles? 
We  allow  that  they  were  immediately,  but  we 
do  not  allow  that  they  were  exclusively,  appli¬ 
cable  to  them.  It  would  have  been  too  limited- 
an  object  for  inspiration  to  have  confined  its  in¬ 
structions  to  any  one  period,  when  its  purpose 
was  the  conversion  and  instruction  of  the  whole 
unborn  world.  That  these  converts  were  mira¬ 
culously  ‘called  out  of  darkness  into  the  mavel- 
lous  light  of  the  gospel’ — that  they  were  changed 
from  gross  blindness  to  a  rapid  illumination — 
that  the  embracing  the  new  faith  exposed  them, 
to  persecution,  reproach  and  ignominy — that  the 
few  had  to  struggle  against  the  world — that 
laws,  principalities  and  powers  which  support 
our  faith  opposed  theirs — these  are  distinctions 
of  which  we  ought  not  to  lose  sight :  nor  should 
we  forget  that  not  only  all  the  disadvantages  lay 
on  their  side  in  this  antecedent  condition,  but 
that  also  all  the  superiority  lies  on  ours  in  that 
which  is  subsequent. 

But  however  the  condition  of  the  external 
state  of  the  Church  might  differ,  there  can  be  no 
necessity  for  any  difference  in  the  interior  state 
of  the  individual  Christian.  On  whatever  high 
principles  of  devotedness  to  God  and  love  to  man 
they  were  called  to  act,  we  are  called  to  act  on 
precisely  the  same.  If  their  faith  was  called  to 
more  painful  exertions,  if  their  self-denial  to 
harder  sacrifices,  if  their  renunciation  of  earthly 
things  to  severer  trials,  let  us  thankfully  remem¬ 
ber  this  would  naturally  be  the  case  at  the  first 
introduction  of  a  religion  which  had  to  combat 
with  the  pride,  prejudices  and  enmity  of  corrupt 
nature,  invested  with  temporal  power : — That 
the  hostile  party  would  not  fail  to  perceive  how 
much  the  new  religion  opposed  itself  to  their 
corruptions,  and  that  it  was  introducing  a  spirit 
which  was  in  direct  and  avowed  hostility  to  the 
spirit  of  the  world. 

But  while  we  are  deeply  thankful  for  the  di¬ 
minished  difficulties  of  an  established  faith,  let 
us  never  forget  that  Christianity  allows  of  no  di¬ 
minution  in  the  temper,  of  no  abatement  in  the 
spirit,  which  constituted  a  Christian  in  the  first 
ages  of  the  church. 

Christianity  is  precisely  the  same  religion 
now  as  it  was'when  our  Saviour  was  upon  earth. 
The  spirit  of  the  world  is  exactly  the  same  now 
as  it  was  then.  And  if  the  most  eminent  of  the 
apostles,  under  the  immediate  guidance  of  in- 
spiration  were  driven  to  lament  their  conflicts 
with  their  own  corrupt  nature,  the  power  of 
temptation,  combining  with  their  natural  pro¬ 
pensities  to  evil,  how  can  we  expect  that  a  lower 
faith,  a  slackened  zeal,  an  abated  diligence,  and 
an  inferior  holiness  will  be  accepted  in  us  ?  Be¬ 
lievers  then  were  not  called  to  higher  degress  of 
purity,  to  a  more  elevated  devotion,  to  a  dee|)er 
humility,  to  greater  rectitude,  patience  and  sin¬ 
cerity,  than  they  are  called  to  in  the  age  in 
which  we  live.  The  promises  are  not  limited 
to  the  period  in  which  they  were  made,  the  aid 
of  the  Spirit  is  not  confined  to  those  on  whom  it 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


was  first  poured  out.  It  was  expressly  declared 
by  St.  Peter  on  its  first  effusion,  to  be  promised 
not  only  ‘  to  them  and  their  children,  but  to  all 
who  were  afar  off,  even  to  as  many  as  the  Lord 
their  God  should  call.’ 

If  then  the  same  salvation  be  now  offered  as 
was  offered  at  first,  is  it  not  obvious  that  it  must 
be  worked  out  in  the  same  way  ?  And  as  the 
same  Gospel  retains  the  same  authority  in  all 
ages,  so  does  it  maintain  the  same  universality 
among  all  ranks.  Christianity  has  no  by-laws, 
no  particular  exemptions,  no  individual  immu¬ 
nities.  That  there  is  no  appropriate  way  of  at¬ 
taining  salvation  for  a  prince  or  a  philosopher, 
is  probably  one  reason  why  greatness  anft  wis¬ 
dom  have  so  often  rejected  it.  But  if  rank  can¬ 
not  plead  its  privileges,  genius  cannot  claim  its 
distinctions.  That  Christianity  does  not  owe 
its  success  to  the  arts  of  rhetoric  or  the  sophistry 
of  the  schools,  but  that  God  intended  by  it  ‘  to 
make  foolish  the  wisdom  of  this  world,’  actually 
explains  why  ‘  the  disputers  of  this  world’  have 
always  been  its  enemies. 

It  would  have  been  unworthy  of  the  infinite 
God  to  have  imparted  a  partial  religion.  There 
is  but  one  ‘  gate,’  and  that  a  ‘  strait’  one  ;  but 
one  ‘  way,’ and  that  a  ‘  narrow’ one  ;  there  is 
but  one  salvation  and  that  a  common  one.  The 
Gospel  enjoins  the  same  principles  of  love  and 
obedienca^n  all  of  every  condition ;  offers  the 
same  aids  under  the  same  exigencies  ;  the  same 
supports  under  all  trials  ;  the  same  pardon  to  all 
penitents ;  the  same  Saviour  to  all  believers  ; 
tbe  same  rewards  to  all  who  ‘  endure  to  the  end.’ 
The  temptations  of  one  condition  and  the  trials 
of  another  may  call  for  tlie  exercise  of  different 
qualities,  for  the  performance  of  different  duties, 
but  the  same  personal  holiness  is  enjoined  on 
all.  External  acts  of  virtue  may  be  promoted 
by  some  circumstances,  and  impeded  by  others, 
but  the  graces  of  inward  piety  are  of  universal 
force,  are  of  eternal  obligation. 

The  universality  of  its  requisitions  is  one  of 
its  most  distinguishing  characteristics.  In  the 
pagan  world  it  seemed  sufficient  that  a  few  ex¬ 
alted  spirits,  a  few  fine  geniuses  should  soar  to 
a  vast  superiority  above  the  mass  ;  but  it  was 
never  expected  that  the  mob  of  Rome  or  Athens, 
should  aspire  to  any  rtfiigious  sentiments  or  feel¬ 
ings  in  common  with  Socrates  or  Epictetus.  I 
say  religious  sentiments,  because  in  matters  of 
taste  the  distinetions  were  less  striking,  for  the 
mob  of  Athens  were  competent  critics  in  the 
dramatic  art,  while  they  were  sunk  in  the  most 
stupid  and  degrading  idolatry.  As  to  those  of  a 
liigher  class,  while  no  subject  in  science,  arts  or 
learning  was  too  lofty  or  too  abstruse  for  their 
acquisition,  no  object  in  nature  was  too  low,  no 
conception  of  a  depraved  imagination  was  too 
impure  for  their  worship.  While  the  civil  and 
pr)litical  wisdom  of  the  Romans  was  carried  to 
such  perfection  that  their  code  of  laws  has  still 
a  place  in  tlie  most  enlightened  countries,  their 
deplorably  gross  superstitions,  rank  them  in 
point  of  religion  with  the  savages  of  Africa.  It 
shows  how  little  a  way  that  reason,  which  ma¬ 
nifested  itself  with  such  unrivalled  vigour  in 
tlieir  poets,  orators  and  historians,  as  to  make 
tliem  still  models  to  ours,  could  go  in  what  re¬ 
lated  to  religion,  when  those  polished  people,  in 


UT 

the  objects  of  their  worship,  arc  only  on  a  par 
with  the  inhabitants  of  Otaheite. 

It  furnishes  the  most  incontrovertible  proof 
that  the  world  by  wisdom  knew  not  God,  that  it 
was  at  the  very  time,  and  in  the  very  country, 
in  which  knowledge  and  taste  has  attained  their 
utmost  perfection,  when  the  porch  and  the  aca- 
demy  had  given  laws  to  human  intellect,  that 
atheism  first  assumed  a  shape,  and  established 
itself  into  a  school  of  philosophy.  It  was  at  the 
moment  when  the  mental  powers  were  carried 
to  the  highest  pitch  in  Greece,  that  it  was  settled 
as  an  infallible  truth  in  this  philosophy,  that  tho 
senses  were  the  highest  natural  light  of  mankind. 
It  was  in  the  most  enlightened  age  of  Rome  that 
this  atheistical  philosophy  was  transplanted 
thither,  and  that  one  of  her  most  elegant  poets 
adopted  it,  and  rendered  popular  by  the  bewitch¬ 
ing  graces  of  his  verse. 

It  seems  as  if  the  most  accomplished  nations 
stood  in  the  most  pressing  need  of  the  light  of 
Revelation  ;  for  it  was  not  to  the  dark  and  stupid 
corners  of  the  earth  that  the  apostles  had  their 
earliest  missions.  One  of  St.  Paul’s  first  and 
noblest  expositions  of  Christian  truth  was  made 
before  the  most  august  deliberative  assembly  in 
the  world,  though,  by  tbe  way,  it  does  not  ap¬ 
pear  that  more  than  one  member  of  the  Areopa¬ 
gus  was  converted.  In  Rome,  some  of  the  apos¬ 
tle’s  earliest  converts  belonged  to  the  imperial 
palace.  It  was  to  the  metropolis  of  cultivated 
Italy,  it  was  to  the  ‘  regions  of  Achaia,’  to  tho 
opulent  and  luxurious  city  of  Corinth,  in  pre¬ 
ference  to  the  barbarous  countries  of  the  unci¬ 
vilized  world,  that  some  of  his  first  epistles  were 
addressed. 

Even  natural  religion  was  little  understood  by^ 
those  who  professed  it ;  it  was  full  of  obscurity 
till  viewed  by  the  clear  light  of  the  Gospel.  Not 
only  natural  religion  remained  to  be  clearly 
comprehended,  but  reason  itself  remained  to  be 
carried  to  its  highest  pitch  in  the  countries 
where  Revelation  is  professed.  Natural  Reli- 
gion  could  not  see  itself  by  its  own  light.  Reason 
could  not  extricate  itself  from  the  labyrinth  of 
error  and  ignorance  in  which  false  religion  had 
involved  the  world.  Grace  has  raised  Nature. 
Revelation  has  given  a  lift  to  Reason,  and  taught 
her  to  despise  the  follies  and  corruptions  which 
obscured  her  brightness.  If  nature  is  now  deli¬ 
vered  from  darkness,  it  was  the  helping  hand 
of  Revelation  which  raised  her  from  the  rubbish 
in  which  she  lay  buried. 

Christianity  has  not  only  given  us  right  con¬ 
ceptions  of  God,  of  his  holiness,  of  the  way  in 
which  he  will  be  worshipped  ;  it  has  not  only 
given  us  ])rinciples  to  promote  our  happineso 
here,  and  to  insure  it  hereafter  ;  but  it  has  really 
taught  us  what  a  proud  philosophy  arr()gates  to 
itself,  the  right  use  of  reason.  It  has  given  us 
those  principles  of  examining  and  judging,  by 
which  we  are  enabled  to  determine  on  the  ab¬ 
surdity  of  false  religions.  ‘  For  to  what  else 
can  it  be  ascribed,’  says  the  sagacious  bishop 
Sherlock,  ‘  that  in  every  nation  that  names  the 
name  of  Christ,  even  reason  and  nature  see  and 
condemn  the  follies,  to  which  others  are  still, 
for  want  of  the  same  help,  held  in  subjection  ?’ 

Allowin'!  however  that  Plato  and  Antonius 
seemed  to  have  been  taught  of  heaven,  yet  the 


448 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


object  for  which  we  contend  is,  that  no  provi¬ 
sion  was  made  for  the  vulgar.  While  a  feint 
ray  shone  on  the  page  of  philosophy,  the  people 
were  involved  in  darkness  which  might  be  felt. 
The  million  were  left  to  live  without  knowledge, 
and  to  die  without  hope-  For  what  knowledge 
or  what  hope  would  be  acquired  from  the  pre¬ 
posterous,  thdugh  amusing,  and  in  many  re- 
spects  elegant  mythology,  which  they  might 
pick  up  in  their  poets,  the  belief  of  which  seem¬ 
ed  to  be  confined  to  the  populace. 

But  there  was  no  common  principle  of  hope 
or  fear,  of  faith  or  practice ;  no  motive  of  conso¬ 
lation,  no  bond  of  charity,  no  communion  of 
everlasting  interest,  no  reversionary  equality 
between  the  wise  and  the  ignorant,  the  master 
and  che  slave,  the  Greek  and  the  barbarian. 

A  religion  was  wanted  which  should  Jbe  of 
general  application.  Christianity  happily  ac¬ 
commodated  itself  to  the  common  exigencies.  It 
furnished  an  adequate  supply  to  the  universal 
want.  Instead  of  perpetual  but  unexpiating  sa¬ 
crifices  to  appease  imaginary  deities, 

Gods,  such  as  guilt  malres  welcome, 

It  presents  ‘one  oblation  once  offered,  sa  full, 
perfect,  and  sufficient  sacrifice,  oblation,  and 
satisfaction  for  the  sins  of  the  whole  world.’  It 
presents  one  consistent  scheme  of  morals  grow¬ 
ing  out  of  one  uniform  system  of  doctrines ;  one 
perfect  rule  of  practice,  depending  on  one  prin- 
ciple  of  faith;  it  ofiers  grace  to  direct  the  one 
and  to  assist  the  other.  It  encircles  the  whole 
sphere  of  duty  with  the  broad  and  golden  zone 
of  coalescing  charity,  stamped  with  the  inscrip¬ 
tion  ‘  a  new  commandment  give  I  unto  you, 
that  you  love  one  another.’  Christianity  instead 
of  destroying  the  distinctions  of  rank,  or  break¬ 
ing  in  on  the  regulations  of  society,  by  this  uni¬ 
versal  precept,  furnishes  new  fences  to  its  order, 
additional  security  to  its  repose,  and  fresh 
strength  to  its  subordinations. 

Were  this  command,  so  inevitably  productive 
of  that  peculiarly  Christian  injunction  of  ‘  doing 
to  others  as  we  would  they  should  do  unto  us,’ 
uniformly  observed,  the  whole  frame  of  society 
would  be  cemented  and  consolidated  into  one 
indissoluble  bond  of  universal  brotherhood.  This 
divinely  enacted  law  is  the  seminal  principle  of 
justice,  charity,  patience,  forbearance,  in  short, 
of  all  social  virtue.  That  it  does  not  produce 
these  excellent  effects,  is  not  owing  to  any  de¬ 
fect  in  the  principle,  but  in  our  corrupt  nature, 
which  so  reluctantly,  so  imperfectly  obeys  it. 
If  it  were  conscientiously  adopted,  and  substan¬ 
tially  acted  upon,  received  in  its  very  spirit,  and 
obeyed  from  the  ground  of  the  heart,  human 
laws  might  be  abrogated,  courts  of  justice  abo¬ 
lished,  and  treaties  of  morality  burnt ;  war 
would  be  no  longer  an  art,  nor  military  tactics 
a  science.  We  should  suffer  long  and  be  kind, 
and  so  far  from  ‘seeking  that  which  is  ano¬ 
ther’s.’  wo  should  not  even  ‘  seek  our  own.’ 

But  let  not  the  soldier  or  the  lawyer  be  alarm¬ 
ed. — Their  craft  is  in  no  danger.  The  world 
does  not  intend  to  act  upon  the  divine  principle 
which  would  injure  their  professions ;  and  till 
this  only  revolution  which  good  men  desire  ac¬ 
tually  takes  place,  our  fortunes  will  not  be  se¬ 


cure  without  the  exertions  of  the  one,  nor  our 
lives  without  the  protection  of  the  other. 

All  the  virtues  have  their  appropriate  place 
and  rank  in  Scripture.  T  hey  are  introduced  as 
individually,  beautifully,  and  as  reciprocally  con¬ 
nected,  like  the  graces  in  the  mythologic  dance. 
But  perhaps  no  Christian  grace  ever  sat  to  the 
hand  of  a  more  consummate  master  than  Cha¬ 
rity.  Her  incomparable  painter,  St.  Paul,  has 
drawn  her  at  full  length  in  all  her  fair  propor¬ 
tions.  Every  attitude  is  full  of  grace,  every  line¬ 
ament  of  beauty.  The  whole  delineation  is  per¬ 
fect  and  entire,  wanting  nothing. 

Who  can  look  at  this  finished  piece  without 
bluslfing  at  his  own  wunt  of  likeness  to  it  ?  Yet 
if  this  conscious  dissimilitude  induce  a  cordial 
desire  of  resemblance,  the  humiliation  will  be 
salutary.  Perhaps  a  more  frequent  contempla 
tion  of  this  exquisite  figure,  accompanied  with 
earnest  endeavours  for  a  growing  resemblance, 
would  gradually  lead  us,  not  barely  to  admire 
the  portrait,  but  would  at  length  assimilate  us 
to  the  divine  original. 


CHAP.  X. 

Christian  Holiness. 

* 

Chrtstianity  then,  as  we  have  attempted  to 
show  in  the  preceding  chapter,  exhibits  no  dif¬ 
ferent  standards  of  goodness  applicable  to  dif¬ 
ferent  stations  or  characters.  No  one  can  be 
allowed  to  rest  in  a  low  degree,  and  plead  his 
exemption  for  aiming  no  higher.  No  one  can 
be  secure  in  any  state  of  piety  below  that  slate 
which  would  not  have  been  enjoined  on  all,  had 
not  all  been  entitled  to  the  means  of  attaining  it. 

Those  who  keep  their  pattern  in  their  eye, 
though  they  may  fail  of  the  highest  attainments, 
will  not  be  satisfied  with  such  as  are  low.  The 
striking  inferiority  will  excite  compunction ; 
compunction  will  stimulate  them  to  press  on, 
which  those  never  do,  who  losing  sight  of  their 
standard,  are  satisfied  with  the  height  they  have 
reached 

He  is  not  likely  to  be  the  object  of  God’s  fa¬ 
vour,  who  takes  his  determined  stand  on  the 
very  lowest  step  in  the  scale  of  perfection ;  who 
does  not  even  aspire  above  it ;  whose  aitn  seems 
to  be,  not  so  much  to  please  God  as  to  escape 
punishment.  Many  however  will  doubtless  be 
accepted,  though  their  progress  has  been  small,*' 
their  difficulties  may  have  been  great,  their  na¬ 
tural  capacity  weak,  their  temptation  strong, 
and  their  instruction  defective. 

Revelation  has  not  only  furnished  injunctions 
but  motives  to  holiness;  not  only  motives,  but 
examples  and  authorities.  ‘  Be  ye  tlierelbre 
perfect’  (according  to  your  measure  and  degree,) 
‘as  your  Father  which  is  in  heaven  is  perfect.’ 
And  what  says  the  Old  Testament  ?  It  accords 
with  the  New — ‘  Be  ye  holy,  for  1  the  Lord  your 
God  am  holy.’ 

This  was  the  injunction  of  God  himself,  not 
given  exclusively  to  Moses,  to  the  leader  and 
legislator,  or  to  a  few  distinguished  officers,  or 
to  a  selection  of  eminent  men,  but  to  an  im 
mense  body  of  people  even  to  the  whole  assem 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


449 


bled  host  of  Israel ;  to  men  of  all  ranks,  profes- 
■Bions,  capacities,  and  characters,  to  the  minister 
of  religion,  and  to  the  uninstructed,  to  enlight- 
■ened  rulers,  and  to  feeble  women.  ‘  God,’  says 
an  excellent  writer,*  ‘  had  antecedently  given  to 
diis  people  particular  laws,  suited  to  their  several 
exigencies  and  various  conditions  ;  but  the  com¬ 
mand  to  be  holy  was  a  general  (might  he  not 
-have  said  a  universal)  law.’ 

‘  Who  is  like  unto  thee,  O  Lord,  among  the 
gods  ?  Who  is  like  unto  thee,  glorious  in  holi¬ 
ness,  fearful  in  praises,  doing  wonders  V  This 
s  perhaps  the  sublimest  apostrophe  of  the 
praise  (rendered  more  striking  by  its  inter¬ 
rogatory  form,)  which  the  Scriptures  have  re¬ 
corded.  It  makes  a  part  of  the  first  song  of 
■gratulation  which  is. to  be  found  in  the  treasury 
of  sacred  poetry.  The  epithet  of  holy  is  more 
■frequently  affixed  to  the  name  of  God  than  any 
■other.  His  mighty  name  is  less  often  invoked, 
than  his  holy  name.  To  offend  against  this  at¬ 
tribute  is  represented  as  more  heinous  than  to 
■oppose  any  other.  It  has  been  remarked  that 
the  impiety  of  the  Assyrian  monarch  is  not  de- 
•scribed  by  his  hostility  against  the  great,  the 
Almighty  God,  but  it  is  made  an  aggravation 
■of  his  crime  that  he  had  committed  it  against 
<he  Holy  One  of  Israel. 

When  God  condescended  to  give  a  pledge  for 
the  performance  of  his  promise,  he  swears  by 
his  holiness,  as  if  it  were  the  distinguishing  qua¬ 
lity  which  was  more  especially  binding.  It 
■seems  connected  and  interwoven  with  all  the 
•divine  perfections.  Which  of  his  excellences 
■can  we  contemplate  as  separated  from  this  ?  Is 
not  his  justice  stamped  with  sanctity !  It  is  free 
from  any  tincture  of  vindictiveness,  and  is  there¬ 
fore  a  holy  justice.  His  mercy  has  none  of  the 
-partiality  of  favouritism,  or  capricious  fondness 
of  human  kindness,  but  is  a  holy  mercy.  His 
lioliness  is  not  more  the  source  of  his  mercies 
than  of  his  punishments.  If  his  holiness  in  his 
-severities  to  us  wanted  a  justification,  there  can¬ 
not  be  at  once  a  more  substantial  and  more 
splendid  illustration  of  it  than  the  noble  passage 
already  quoted,  for  he  is  called  ‘  glorious  in  ho¬ 
liness’  immediately  after  he  had  vindicated  the 
honour  of  his  name,  by  the  miraculous  destruc¬ 
tion  of  the  army  of  Pharaoh. 

Is  it  not  then  a  necessary  consequence  grow¬ 
ing  out  of  his  perfections,  ‘  that  a  righteous  God 
loveth  righteousness,’  that  he  will  of  course  re- 
■quirc  in  his  creatures  a  desire  to  imitate  as  well 
as  to  adore  that  attribute  by  which  He  himself 
-loves  to  bo  distinguished  ?  We  cannot  indeed, 
like  God,  be  essentially  holy.  In  an  infinite  be¬ 
ing  it  is  a  substance,  in  a  created  being  it  is 
■only  an  accident :  God  is  the  essence  of  holiness, 
hut  we  can  have  no  holiness,  nor  any  other  good 
thing,  but  what  we  derive  from  him — It  is  his 
-prerogative,  but  our  privilege. 

If  God  loves  holiness  because  it  is  his  image, 
he  must  consequently  hate  sin  because  it  de¬ 
faces  his  image.  If  he  glorifies  his  own  mercy 
^nd  goodness  in  rewarding,  virtue,  ho  no  less 
-vindicates  the  honour  of  his  holiness  in  the 
punishment  of  vice.  A  perfect  God  can  no  more 
^approve  of  sin  in  his  creatures  than  he  can  com. 

Saurin. 

F  2 


mit  it  himself.  He  may  forgive  sin  on  his  own 
conditions,  but  there  are  no  conditions  on  which 
he  can  be  reconciled  to  it.  The  infinite  good¬ 
ness  of  God  may  delight  in  the  beneficial  pur¬ 
poses  to  which  his  infinite  wisdom  has  made 
the  sins  of  his  creatures  subservient,  but  sin  it¬ 
self  will  always  be  abhorrent  to  his  nature.  His 
wisdom  may  turn  it  to  a  merciful  end,  but  his 
indignation  at  the  offence  cannot  be  diminished. 
He  loves  man,  for  he  cannot  but  love  his  own 
work  ;  he  hates  sin,  for  that  was  man’s  own  in¬ 
vention,  and  no  part  of  the  work  which  God  had 
made.  Even  in  the  imperfect  administration 
of  human  laws  impunity  of  crimes  would  be 
construed  into  approbation  of  them.* 

The  law  of  holiness  then,  is  a  law  binding  on 
all  persons  without  distinction,  not  limited  to 
the  period  nor  to  the  people  to  whom  it  was 
given.  It  reaches  through  the  whole  Jewish 
dispensation,  and  extends  with  wider  demands 
and  higher  sanctions  to  every  Christian,  of 
every  denomination,  of  every  age,  and  every 
country. 

A  more  sublime  motive  cannot  be  assigned 
why  we  should  be  holy,  than  because  ‘  the  Lord 
our  God  is  holy.’  Men  of  the  world  have  no  ob¬ 
jection  to  the  terms  virtue,  morality,  integrity, 
rectitude ;  but  they  associate  something  over¬ 
acted,  not  to  say  hypocritical,  with  the  term 
holiness,  and  neither  use  it  in  a  good  sense  when 
applied  to  others,  nor  would  wish  to  have  it  ap¬ 
plied  to  themselves ;  but  make  it  over,  with  a 
little  suspicion,  and  not  a  little  derision,  to  puri¬ 
tans  and  enthusiasts. 

This  suspected  epithet,  however,  is  surely 
rescued  from  every  injurious  association,  if  we 
consider  it  as  the  chosen  attribute  of  the  Most 
High.  We  do  not  presume  to  apply  the  terms 
virtue,  probity,  morality,  to  God  ;  but  we  ascribe 
holiness  to  him  because  he  first  ascribed  it  to 
himself  as  the  aggregate  and  consummation  of 
all  his  perfections. 

Shall  so  imperfect  a  being  as  man  then,  ridi¬ 
cule  the  application  of  this  term  to  others,  or  be 
ashamed  of  it  himself?  There  is  a  cause  indeed 
which  should  make  him  ashamed  of  the  appro¬ 
priation  ;  that  of  not  deserving  it.  This  com¬ 
prehensive  appellation  includes  all  the  Christian 
graces;  all  the  virtues  in  their  just  proportion, 
order,  and  harmony  ;  in  all  their  bearings,  rela¬ 
tions,  and  dependences.  And  as  in  God  glory 
and  holiness  are  united,  so  the  apostle  combines 
‘  sanctification  and  honour’  as  the  glory  of  man. 

Traces  more  or  less  of  the  holiness  of  God 
may  be  found  in  his  works,  to  those  who  view 
them  with  the  eye  of  faith.  They  are  more 
plainly  visible  in  his  providences ;  but  it  is  in 
his  word  that  we  must  chiefly  look  for  the  ma¬ 
nifestations  of  his  holiness.  He  is  every  where 
described  as  perfectly  holy  in  himself,  as  a  mo¬ 
del  to  bo  imitated  by  his  creatures,  and,  thougii 
with  an  interval  immeasurable,  as  imituble  by 
them. 

The  great  doctrine  of  redemption  is  insepara¬ 
bly  connected  with  the  doctrine  of  sanctification. 
As  an  admirable  writer  has  observed,  ‘  If  the 
blood  of  Christ  reconcile  us  to  the  justice  of 
God,  the  Spirit  of  Christ  is  to  reconcile  us  to  the 

*  See  Charnock  on  the  Attributes. 


VoL.  I. 


450 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Holiness  of  God.’ — When  we  are  told  therefore 
that  Christ  is  made  unto  us  ‘  righteousness,’  we 
are  in  the  same  place  taught  that  he  is  made 
unto  us  sanctification  ;  that  is,  he  is  both  justi- 
fier  and  sanctifier.  In  vain  shall  we  deceive 
ourselves  by  resting  on  his  sacrifice,  while  we 
neglect  to  imitate  his  example. 

The  glorious  spirits  which  surrounded  the 
throne  of  God  are  not  represented  as  singing 
hallelujahs  to  his  omnipotence,  nor  even  to  his 
mercy,  but  to  that  attribute  which,  as  with  a 
glory,  encircles  all  the  rest.  They  perpetually 
cry,  holy,  holy,  holy.  Lord  God  of  Hosts ;  and 
it  is  observable,  that  the  angels  which  adore  him 
for  his  holiness  are  the  ininisteis  of  his  justice. 
Those  pure  intelligences  perceive,  no  doubt,  that 
this  union  of  attributes  constitutes  the  divine 
perfection. 

This  infinitely  blessed  Being  then,  to  whom 
angels  and  archangels,  and  all  the  hosts  of 
heaven  are  continually  ascribing  holiness,  has 
commanded  us  to  be  holy.  To  be  holy  because 
God  is  holy,  is  both  an  argument  and  a  com¬ 
mand.  An  argument  founded  on  the  perfec¬ 
tions  of  God,  and  a  command  to  imitate  him. 
This  command  is  given  to  creatures,  fallen  in¬ 
deed,  but  to  whom  God  graciously  promises 
strength  for  the  imitation.  If  in  God  holiness 
implies  an  aggregate  of  perfections  ;  in  man, 
even  in  his  low  degree,  it  is  an  incorporation  of 
the  Christian  graces. 

The  holiness  of  God  indeed  is  confined  by  no 
limitation ;  ours  is  bounded,  finite,  imperfect. 
Yet  let  us  be  sedulous  to  extend  our  little  sphere. 
Let  our  desires  be  large,  though  our  capacities 
are  contracted.  Let  our  aims  be  lofty,  though 
our  attainments  are  low.  Let  us  be  solicitous 
that  no  day  pass  without  some  augmentation  of 
our  holiness,  some  added  height  in  our  aspira¬ 
tions,  some  wider  expansion  in  the  compass  of 
our  virtues.  Let  us  strive  every  day  for  some 
superiority  to  the  preceding  day  ;  something 
that  shall  distinctly  mark  the  passing  scene  with 
progress  ;  something  that  shall  inspire  an  hum¬ 
ble  hope  that  .we  are  rather  less  unfit  for  heaven 
to-day  than  we  were  yesterday. 

The  celebrated  artist  who  has  recorded  that 
he  passed  no  day  without  drawing  a  line,  drew 
it,  not  for  repetition,  but  for  progress  ;  not  to 
produce  a  given  number  of  strokes,  but  to  for¬ 
ward  his  work,  to  complete  his  design.  The 
Christian,  like  the  painter,  does  not  draw  his 
lines  at  random  ;  he  has  a  model  to  imitate,  as 
well  as  an  outline  to  fill  Every  touch  conforms 
him  more  and  more  to  the  great  original.  He 
who  has  transfused  most  of  the  life  of  God  into 
his  soul,  has  copied  it  most  successfully. 

‘To  seek  happiness,’  says  one  of  the  fathers, 

*  is  to  desire  God,  and  to  find  him  is  that  hap¬ 
piness.’  Our  very  happiness  therefore  is  not 
our  independent  property ;  it  flows  from  that 
eternal  mind  which  is  the  source  and  sum  of 
happiness.  In  vain  we  look  for  felicity  in  all 
around  us.  It  can  only  be  found  in  that  origi¬ 
nal  fountain,  whence  we,  and  all  we  are  and 
have,  are  derived. — Where  then  is  the  imagi¬ 
nary  wise  man  of  the  school  of  Zeno  ?  what  is 
the  perfection  of  virtue  supposed  by  Aristotle? 
They  have  no  existence  but  in  the  romance  of 
philosophy.  Happiness  must  be  imperfect  in 


an  imperfect  state.  Religion,  it  is  true,  is  ini¬ 
tial  happiness,  and  points  to  its  perfection :  but 
as  the  best  men  possess  it  but  imperfectly,  they 
cannot  be  perfectly  happy.  Nothing  can  conJ 
fer  completeness  which  is  itself  incompletOc 
‘With  Thee,  O  Lord,  is  the  fountain  of  life,  and 
in  Thy  light  only  we  shall  see  light.’* 

Whatever  shall  still  remain  wanting  in  our 
attainments,  and  much  will  still  remain,  let 
this  last,  greatest,  highest  consideration  stimu¬ 
late  our  languid  exertions,  that  God  has  nega¬ 
tively  promised  the  beatific  vision,  the  enjoy¬ 
ment  of  his  presence,  to  this  attainment,  by 
specifically  proclaiming,  that  without  holiness 
no  man  shall  see  his  face.  To  know  God  is  the 
rudiments  of  that  eternal  life  which  will  here¬ 
after  be  perfected  by  seeing  him.  As  there  is 
no  stronger  reason  why  we  must  not  look  for 
perfect  happiness  in  this  life,  than  because  there 
is  no  perfect  holiness,  so  the  nearer  advances  we 
make  to  the  one,  the  greater  progress  we  shall 
make  towards  the  other ;  we  must  cultivate 
here  those  tendencies  and  tempers  which  must 
be  carried  to  perfection  in  a  happier  clime. — 
But  as  holiness  is  the  concomitant  of  happiness, 
so  must  it  be  its  precursor.  As  sin  has  destroy¬ 
ed  our  happiness,  so  sin  must  be  destroyed  be¬ 
fore  our  happiness  can  be  restored.  Our  na¬ 
ture  must  be  renovated  before  our  felicity  can 
be  established.  This  is  according  to  the  nature 
of  things,  as  well  as  agreeaole  to  the  law  and 
will  of  God.  Let  us  then  carefully  look  to  the 
subduing  in  our  inmost  hearts  all  those  dispo¬ 
sitions  that  are  unlike  God  ;  all  those  actions, 
thoughts,  and  tendencies  that  are  contrary  ta 
God. 

Independently  therefore  of  all  the  other  mo¬ 
tives  to  holiness  which  religion  suggests,  inde¬ 
pendently  of  the  fear  of  punishment;  indepen¬ 
dently  even  of  the  hope  of  glory,  let  us  be  holy 
from  this  ennobling,  elevating  motive,  because 
the  Lord  our  God  is  holy.  And  when  our  virtue 
flags,  let  it  be  renovated  by  this  imperative  in¬ 
junction,  backed  by  this  irresistible  argument. 
The  motive  for  imitation,  and  the  Being  to  be 
imitated,  seem  almost  to  identify  us  with  in¬ 
finity.  If  is  a  connexion  which  endears,  an  as¬ 
similation  which  dignifies,  a  resemblance  which 
elevates.  The  apostle  has  added  to  the  prophet 
an  assurance  which  makes  the  crown  and  con¬ 
summation  of  the  promise,  ‘that  though  we 
know  not  yet  what  we  shall  be,  yet  we  know 
that  when  he  shall  appear,  we  shall  be  like 
him,  for  we  shall  see  him  as  lie  is.’ 

In  what  a  beautiful  variety  of  glowing  ex¬ 
pressions,  and  admiring  strains,  do  the  Scrip¬ 
ture  worthies  delight  to  represent  God  ;  not 
only  in  relation  to  what  he  is  to  them,  but  to 
the  supreme  excellence  of  his  own  transcendent 
perfections  !  They  expatiate,  they  amplify,  they 
dwell  with  unwearied  iteration  on  the  adorable 
theme  :  they  ransack  language,  they  exhaust 
all  the  expressions  of  praise,  and  wonder,  and 
admiration;  all  the  images  of  astonishment  and 
delight,  to  laud  and  magnify  his  glorious  name. 
They  praise  him,  they  bless  him,  they  worship 
him,  they  glorify  him,  they  give  thanks  to  him 
for  his  great  glory,  saying  ‘  Holy,  holy,  holy, 

•  Sec  Leighton  on  Happiness. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAI^NAH  MORE. 


451 


Lord  God  of  hosts,  heaven  and  earth  are  full  of 
the  majesty  of  thy  glory.’ 

They  glorify  him  relatively  to  themselves 
‘  I  will  magnify  Thee,  O  Lord  my  strength — 
My  help  cometh  of  God — The  Lord  himself  is 
the  portion  of  my  inheritance.’  At  another 
time  soaring  with  a  noble  disinterestedness,  and 
quite  losing  sight  of  self  and  all  created  glories, 
they  adore  him  for  his  own  incommunicable  ex¬ 
cellences.  ‘  Be  thou  exalted,  O  God,  in  thine 
own  strength.’ — ‘  Oh  the  depth  of  the  riches, 
both  of  the  wisdom  and  knowledge  of  God.’ 
Then  bursting  to  a  rapture  of  adoration,  and  burn¬ 
ing  with  a  more  intense  flame,  they  cluster  his 
attributes — ‘  To  the  King  eternal,  immortal,  in¬ 
visible,  be  honour  and  glory  for  ever  and  ever.’ 
One  is  lost  in  admiration  of  his  wisdom — his 
ascription  is  ‘  to  the  only  wise  God.’  Another  in 
triumphant  strains  overflows  with  transport  at 
the  consideration  of  the  attribute  on  which  we 
have  been  descanting :  ‘  O  Lord,  who  is  like 
unto  Thee,  there  is  none  holy  as  the  Lord.’ — 
‘  Sing  praises  unto  the  Lord,  oh  ye  saints  of  his, 
and  give  thanks  unto  him  for  a  remembrance  of 
his  holiness.’ 

The  prophets  and  apostles  were  not  deterred 
from  pouriiijg  out  the  overflowings  of  their  fer¬ 
vent  spirits,  they  were  not  restrained  from  cele¬ 
brating  the  perfections  of  their  Creator,  through 
the  cold-hearted  fear  of  being  reckoned  enthu¬ 
siasts.  The  saints  of  old  were  not  prevented 
from  breathing  out  their  rapturous  hosannahs  to 
the  King  of  Saints,  through  the  coward  dread 
of  being  branded  as  fanatical.  The  conceptions 
of  their  minds  dilating  with  the  view  of  the 
glorious  constellation  of  the  Divine  attributes; 
and  the  affections  of  their  hearts  warming  with 
the  thought,  that  those  attributes  were  all  con¬ 
centrated  in  mercy — they  display  a  sublime 
oblivion  of  themselves — they  forget  every  thing 
but  God.  Their  own  wants  dwindled  to  a  point. 
Their  own  concerns,  nay  the  universe  itself, 
shrinks  into  nothing.  They  seem  absorbed  in 
the  effulgence  of  Deity,  lost  in  the  radient  beams 
of  infinite  glory. 


CHAP.  XL 

On  the  comparatively  small  faults  and  virtues. 

The  ‘  Fishers  of  men,  as  if  exclusively  bent 
on  catching  the  greater  sinners,  often  make  the 
interstices  of  the  moral  net  so  wide,  that  it  can¬ 
not  retain  those  of  more  ordinary  size,  which 
every  where  abound.  Their  draught  might  be 
more  abundant,  were  not  the  meshes  so  large 
that  the  smaller  sort,  aided  by  their  own  lubri¬ 
city,  escape  the  toils  and  slip  through.  Happy 
to  find  themselves  not  bulky  enough  to  be  en¬ 
tangled,  they  plunge  back  again  into  their  na¬ 
tive  element,  enjoy  their  escape,  and  hope  they 
may  safely  wait  to  grow  bigger  before  they  are 
in  danger  of  being  caught. 

It  is  of  more  importance  than  we  are  aware, 
or  are  willing  to  allow,  that  we  take  care  dili- 
gently  to  practice  the  smaller  virtues,  avoid 
scrupulously  the  lesser  sins,  and  bear  patiently 


inferior  trials  ;  for  the  sin  of  habitually  yielding, 
or  the  grace  of  habitually  resisting  in  compa 
ratively  small  points,  tends  in  no  inconsiderable 
degree  to  produce  that  vigour  or  that  debility  of 
mind  on  which  hangs  victory  or  defeat. 

Conscience  is  moral  sensation.  It  is  the  hasty 
perception  of  good  and  evil,  the  peremptory  de- 
cision  of  the  mind  to  adopt  the  one  or  avoid  the 
other.  Providence  has  furnished  the  body  with 
senses,  and  the  soul  with  conscience,  as  a  tact 
by  which  to  shrink  from  the  approach  of  danger  ; 
as  a  prompt  feeling  to  supply  the  deductions  of 
reasoning ;  as  a  spontaneous  impulse  to  precede 
a  train  of  reflections  for  which  the  suddenness 
and  surprise  of  the  attack  allow  no  time.  An 
enlightened  conscience  if  kept  tenderly  alive  by 
a  continual  attention  to  its  admonitions,  would 
especially  preserve  us  from  those  smaller  sins, 
and  stimulate  us  to  those  lesser  duties  which 
we  are  falsely  apt  to  think  are  too  insig>nificant 
to  be  brought  to  the  bar  of  religion,  too  trivial 
to  be  weighed  by  the  standard  of  Scripture. 

By  cherishing  this  quick  feeling  of  rectitude, 
light  and  sudden  as  the  flash  from  heaven,  and 
which  is  in  fact  the  motion  of  the  spirit,  we 
intuitively  reject  what  is  wrong  before  we  have 
time  to  examine  why  it  is  wrong,  and  seize  on 
what  is  right  before  we  have  time  to  examine 
why  it  is  right.  Should  we  not  then  be  careful 
how  we  extinguish  this  sacred  spark  ?  Will  any 
thing  be  more  likely  to  extinguish  it  than  to  ne¬ 
glect  its  hourly  momentoes  to  perform  the 
smaller  duties,  and  to  avoid  the  lesser  faults, 
which,  as  they  in  a  good  measure  make  up  the 
sum  of  human  life,  will  naturally  fix  and  deter¬ 
mine  our  character,  that  creature  of  habits  ? 
Will  not  our  neglect  or  observance  of  it,  incline 
or  indispose  us  tor  those  more  important  duties 
of  which  these  smaller  ones  are  connecting 
links  ? 

The  vices  derive  their  existence  from  wild¬ 
ness,  confusion,  disorganization.  The  discord 
of  the  passions  isowing  to  their  having  different 
views,  conflicting  aims,  and  opposite  ends.  The 
rebellious  vices  have  no  common  head  ;  each  is 
all  to  Itself.  They  promote  their  own  operations 
by  disturbing  those  of  others,  but  in  disturb 
ing  they  do  not  destroy  them.  Though  they 
are  all  of  one  family,  they  live  on  no  friendly 
terms.  Profligacy  hates  covetousness  as  much 
as  if  it  were  a  virtue.  The  life  of  every  sin 
is  a  life  of  conflict,  \vhich  occasions  the  torment, 
but  not  the  death  of  its  opposite.  Like  the  fa¬ 
bled  brood  of  the  serpent,  the  passions  spring 
up,  armed  against  each  other,  but  they  fail  to 
complete  the  resemblance,  for  they  do  not  effect 
their  mutual  destruction. 

But  without  union  the  Christian  graces  could 
not  be  perfected,  and  the  smaller  virtbes  are  the 
threads  and  filaments  which  gently  but  firmly 
tie  them  together.  There  is  an  attractive  power 
in  goodness  which  draws  each  part  to  the  other. 
This  concord  of  the  virtues  is  derived  from  their 
having  one  common  centre  in  which  nil  meet. 
In  vice  there  is  a  strong  repulsion.  Though 
bad  men  seek  each  other,  they  do  not  love  each 
other.  Each  seeks  the  other  in  order  to  promote 
his  own  purposes,  while  ho  hates  him  by  whom 
his  purposes  are  promoted. 

The  lesser  qualities  of  the  human  character 


452 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


are  like  the  lov/er  people  in  a  country  ;  they  are 
numerically,  if  not  individually  important.  If 
well  regulated  they  become  valuable  from  that 
very  circumstance  of  numbers,  which,  under  a 
negligent  administration,  renders  them  formi¬ 
dable.  The  peace  of  the  individual  mind  and 
of  the  nation,  is  materially  affected  by  the  disci¬ 
pline  in  which  these  inferior  orders  are  main¬ 
tained.  Laxity  and  neglect  in  both  cases  are 
subversive  of  all  good  government. 

But  if  we  may  be  allowed  to  glance  from  earth 
to  heaven,  perhaps  the  beauty  of  the  lesser  virtues 
may  be  still  better  illustrated  by  that  long  and 
luminous  track  made  up  of  minute  and  almost 
imperceptible  stars,  which  though  separately 
too  inconsiderable  to  attract  attention,  yet  from 
their  number  and  confluence,  form  that  soft  and 
shining  stream  of  light  every  where  discernable, 
and  which  always  corresponds  to  the  same  fixed 
stars,  as  the  smaller  virtues  do  to  their  concomi¬ 
tant  great  ones. — Without  pursuing  the  meta¬ 
phor  to  the  classic  fiction  that  the  Galaxy  was 
the  road  through  which  the  ancient  heroes  went 
to  heaven,  may  we  not  venture  to  say  that  Chris¬ 
tians  will  make  their  way  thither  more  pleasant 
by  the  consistent  practice  of  the  minuter  vir¬ 
tues  ? 

Every  Christian  should  consider  religion  as 
a  fort  which  he  is  called  to  defend.  The  mean¬ 
est  soldier  in  the  army  if  he  add  patriotism  to 
valour,  will  fight  as  earnestly  as  if  the  glory  of 
the  contest  depended  on  his  single  arm.  But 
he  brings  his  watchfulness  as  well  as  his  cou¬ 
rage  into  action.  He  strenuously  defends  every 
pass  he  is  appointed  to  guard,  without  inquiring 
whether  it  be  great  or  small.  There  is  not  any 
defect  in  religion  or  morals  so  little  as  to  be  of 
no  consequence.  Worldly  things  may  be  little 
because  their  aim  and  end  may  be  little.  Things 
are  great  or  small,  not  according  to  their  osten¬ 
sible  importance,  but  according  to  the  magni¬ 
tude  of  their  object,  and  the  importance  of  their 
consequences. 

The  acquisition  of  even  the  smallest  virtue 
being,  as  has  been  before  observed,  an  actual 
conquest  over  the  opposite  vice,  doubles  our  mo¬ 
ral  strength.  The  spiritual  enemy  has  one  ob¬ 
ject  less,  and  the  conqueror  one  virtue  more. 

By  allowed  negligence  in  small  things,  we 
are  not  aware  how  much  we  injure  religion  in 
the  eye  of  the  world.  How  can  we  expect  peo¬ 
ple  to  believe  that  we  are  in  earnest  in  great 
points,  when  they  see  that  we  cannot  withstand 
a  trivial  temptation,  against  which  resistance 
would  have  been  comparatively  easy  ?  At  a 
distance  they  hear  with  respect  our  general  cha¬ 
racters.  They  become  domesticated  with  us, 
and  discover  the  same  failings,  littleness,  and 
bad  tempers,  as  they  have  been  accustomed  to 
meet  with  in  the  most  ordinary  persons. 

If  Milton,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  a  learned 
foreigner  who  had  visited  him,  could  congratu¬ 
late  himself  on  the  consciousness  that  in  that 
visit  ho  had  been  found  equal  to  his  reputation, 
and  had  supported  in  private  conversation  his 
high  character  as  an  author ;  shall  not  the 
Christian  be  equally  anxious  to  support  the  cre¬ 
dit  of  holy  profession,  by  not  betraying  in  fa¬ 
miliar  life  any  temper  inconsistent  with  reli¬ 
gion? 


It  is  not  difficult  to  attract  respect  on  great 
occasions,  where  we  are  kept  in  order  oy  know¬ 
ing  that  the  public  eye  is  fixed  upon  us.  It  is 
easy  to  maintain  a  regard  to  our  dignity  in  a 
‘  Symposiack,  or  an  academical  dinner  but  to 
labour  to  maintain  it  in  the  recesses  of  domestic 
privacy  requires  more  watchfulness,  and  is  no 
less  the  duty,  than  it  will  be  the  habitual  prac¬ 
tice,  of  the  consistent  Christian. 

Our  neglect  of  inferior  duties  is  particularly 
injurious  to  the  mind  of  our  dependants  and  ser¬ 
vants.  If  they  see  us  ‘  weak  and  infirm  of  pur¬ 
pose,’  peevish,  irresolute,  capricious,  passionate, 
or  inconsistent,  in  our  daily  conduct,  which 
comes  under  their  immediate  observation,  and 
which  comes  also  within  their  power  of  judging, 
they  will  not  give  us  credit  for  those  higher 
qualities  which  we  may  possess,  and  those  su¬ 
perior  duties  which  we  may  be  more  careful  to 
fulfil.  Neither  their  capacity  nor  their  opportu¬ 
nities,  may  enable  them  to  judge  of  the  ortho¬ 
doxy  of  the  head  ;  but  there  will  be  obvious  and 
decisive  proofs  to  the  meanest  capacity,  of  the 
state  and  temper  of  the  heart.  Our  greater 
qualities  will  do  them  little  good,  while  our  les¬ 
ser  but  incessant  faults  do  them  much  injury. 
Seeing  us  so  defective  in  the  daily  course  ot  do¬ 
mestic  conduct,  though  they  will  obey  us  be 
cause  they  are  obliged  to  it,  they  will  neither 
lo'*e  nor  esteem  us  enough  to  be  influenced  by 
our  advice,  nor  to  be  governed  by  our  instruc¬ 
tions,  on  those  great  points  which  every  con¬ 
scientious  head  of  a  family  will  be  careful  to  in¬ 
culcate  on  all  about  him.  It  demands  no  less 
circumspection  to  be  a  Christian  than  to  be  a 
‘  hero,  to  one’s  valet  de  chambre.’ 

In  all  that  relates  to  God  and  to  himself  the 
Christian  knows  of  no  small  faults.  He  consi¬ 
ders  all  allowed  and  wilful  sins,  whatever  be 
their  magnitude,  as  an  offence  against  his  Ma¬ 
ker.  Nothing  that  ofi’ends  him  can  be  insignifi¬ 
cant.  Nothing  that  contributes  to  fasten  on 
ourselves  a  wrong  habit  can  be  trifling.  Faults 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  consider  as  small 
are  repeated  without  compunction.  The  habit 
of  committing  them  is  confirmed  by  the  repeti¬ 
tion.  Frequency  renders  us  at  first  indifferent, 
then  insensible.  The  hopelessness  attending  a 
long  indulged  custom  generates  carelessness, 
till  for  want  of  exercise  the  power  of  resistance 
is  first  weakened,  then  destroyed. 

But  there  is  a  still  more  serious  point  of  view 
in  whieh  the  subject  may  be  considered.  Do 
small  faults,  continually  repeated,  always  retain 
their  original  diminutiveness  ?  Is  any  axiom 
more  established  than  that  all  evil  is  of  a  pro¬ 
gressive  nature  ?  Is  a  bad  temper  which  is  ne¬ 
ver  repressed,  no  worse  after  years  of  indul¬ 
gence,  than  when  wo  at  first  gave  the  reins  to 
it  ?  Does  that  which  we  first  allowed  ourselves 
under  the  name  of  harmless  levity  on  serious 
subjects,  never  proceed  to  profaneness  ?  Does 
what  was  once  admired  as  proj^r  spirit,  never 
grow  into  pride,  never  swell  into  insolence  ? 
Does  the  habit  of  incorrect  narrative,  or  loose 
talking,  or  allowed  hyperbole,  never  lead  to 
falsehood  ;  never  settle  in  deceit  ?  Before  wo 
positively  determine  that  small  faults  are  inno¬ 
cent,  we  must  undertake  to  prove  that  they  shall 
never  outgrow  their  primitive  dimensions  ;  wo 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


453 


must  ascertain  that  the  infant  shall  never  be¬ 
come  a  giant. 

Procrastination  is  reckoned  among  the  most 
venial  of  our  faults,  and  sits  so  lightly  on  our 
minds  that  we  scarcely  apologize  for  it.  But 
who  can  assure  us,  that  had  not  the  assistance 
we  had  resolved  to  give  to  one  friend  under  dis¬ 
tress,  or  the  advice  to  another  under  temptation, 
to-day,  been  delayed,  and  from  mere  sloth  and 
indolence  been  put  off  till  to-morrow,  it  might 
not  have  preserved  the  fortunes  of  the  one,  or 
saved  the  soul  of  the  other  ? 

It  is  not  enough  that  we  perform  duties ;  we 
must  perform  them  at  the  right  time. — We  must 
do  the  duty  of  every  day  in  its  own  season. 
Every  day  has  its  own  imperious  duties ;  we 
must  not  depend  upon  to-day  for  fulfilling  those 
which  we  neglected  yesterday,  for  to-day  might 
not  have  been  granted  us.  To-morrow  will  be 
equally  peremptory  in  its  demands ;  and  the 
succeeding  day,  if  we  live  to  see  it,  will  be  ready 
with  its  proper  claims. 

Indecision,  though  it  is  not  so  often  caused 
by  reflection  as  by  the  want  of  it,  yet  may  be 
as  mischievous  ;  for  if  we  spend  too  much  time 
in  balancing  probabilities,  the  period  for  action 
is  lost.  While  we  are  ruminating  on  difficulties 
which  may  never  occur,  reconciling  differences 
which  perhaps  do  not  exist,  and  poising  in  op¬ 
posite  scales  things  of  nearly  the  same  weight, 
the  opportunity  is  lost  of  producing  that  good 
which  a  firm  -and  manly  decision  would  have 
effected. 

Idleness,  though  itself  ‘  the  most  unperform¬ 
ing  of  all  the  vices,’  is  however  the  pass  through 
which  they  all  enter,  the  stage  on  which  they 
all  act.  Though  supremely  passive  itself,  it  lends 
a  willing  hand  to  all  evil,  practical  as  well  as 
speculative.  It  is  the  abettor  of  every  sin  who¬ 
ever  commits  it,  the  receiver  of  all  booty,  who¬ 
ever  is  the  thief.  If  it  does  nothing  itself,  it  con¬ 
nives  at  all  the  mischief  that  is  done  by  others. 

Vanity  is  exceedingly  misplaced  when  ranked 
as  she  commonly  is,  in  the  catalogue  of  small 
faults.  It  is  under  her  character  of  harmless¬ 
ness  that  she  does  all  her  mischief.  She  is  in¬ 
deed  often  found  in  the  society  of  great  virtues. 
She  does  not  follow  in  the  train,  but  mixes  her¬ 
self  with  the  company,  and  by  mixing  mars  it. 
The  use  our  spiritual  enemy  makes  of  her  is  a 
master  stroke.  When  he  cannot  prevent  us  from 
doing  right  actions,  he  can  accomplish  his  pur¬ 
pose  almost  as  well  ‘  by  making  us  vain  of 
them.’  When  he  cannot  deprive  the  public  of 
our  benevolence,  he  can  defeat  the  effect  to  our¬ 
selves  by  poisoning  the  principle.  When  he 
cannot  roh  others  of  the  good  effect  of  the  deed, 
he  can  gain  his  point  by  robbing  the  doer  of  his 
reward. 

Peevishness  is  another  of  the  minor  miseries. 
Hunian  life,  though  sufficiently  unhappy,  can¬ 
not  contrive  to  furnish  misfortunes  so  often  as 
the  passionate  and  the  peevish  can  supply  im¬ 
patience.  To  commit  our  reason  and  temper 
to  the  mercy  of  every  acquaintance,  and  of  every 
servant,  is  not  making  the  wisest  use  of  them. 
If  we  recollect  that  violence  and  peevishness  are 
the  common  resource  of  those  whose  knowledge 
is  small,  and  whose  arguments  are  weak,  our 
Tery  pride  might  lead  us  to  subdue  our  passion, 


if  we  had  not  a  better  principle  to  resort  tOr 
Anger  is  the  common  refuge  of  insignificance. 
People  who  feel  their  character  to  be  slight,  hope 
to  give  it  weight  by  inflation  :  but  the  blown 
bladder  at  its  fullest  distention  is  still  empty 
Sluggish  characters,  above  all,  have  no  right  to 
be  passionate.  They  should  be  contented  with 
their  own  congenial  faults.  Dullnes.s  however 
has  its  impetuosities  and  ^  fluctuations  as  well 
as  genius.  It  is  on  the  cikst  of  heavy  Bceotia 
that  the  Euripus  exhibits  its  unparalleled  rest¬ 
lessness  and  agitation. 

Trifling  is  ranked  among  the  venial  faults. 
But  if  time  be  one  grand  talent  given  us  in  or¬ 
der  to  our  securing  eternal  life ;  if  we  trifle 
away  that  time  so  as  to  lose  that  eternal  life,  on 
which  by  not  trifling  we  might  have  laid  hold, 
then  will  it  answer  the  end  of  sin.  A  life  de¬ 
voted  to  trifles  not  only  takes  away  the  inclina¬ 
tion,  but  the  capacity  for  higher  pursuits.  The 
truths  of  Christianity  have  scarcely  more  influ¬ 
ence  on  a  frivolous  than  on  a  profligate  charac¬ 
ter.  If  the  mind  be  so  absorbed,  not  merely 
with  what  is  vicious,  but  with  what  is  useless, 
as  to  be  thoroughly  disinclined  to  the  activities 
of  a  life  of  piety,  it  matters  little  what  the  cause 
is  which  so  disinclines  it.  If  these  habits  can¬ 
not  be  accused  of  great  moral  evil,  yet  it  argues 
a  low  state  of  mind  ;  that  a  being  who  has  an 
eternity  at  stake  can  abandon  itself  to  trivial 
pursuits.  If  the  great  concern  of  life  cannot  bo 
secured  without  habitual  watchfulness,  how  is  it 
to  be  secured  by  habitual  carelessness  ?  It  will 
afford  little  comfort  to  the  trifler,  when  at  the 
last  reckoning  he  gives  in  his  long  negative  ca¬ 
talogue,  that  the  more  ostensible  offender  was 
worse  employed.  The  trifler  will  not  be  weigh¬ 
ed  in  the  scale  with  the  profligate,  but  in  the 
balance  of  the  sanctuary. 

Some  men  make  for  themselves  a  sort  of  code 
of  the  lesser  morals,  of  which  they  settle  both 
the  laws  and  the  chronology.  They  fix  ‘the 
climacterics  of  the  mind  determine  at  what 
period  such  a  vice  may  be  adopted  without  dis¬ 
credit,  at  what  age  one  bad  habit  may  give  way 
to  another  more  in  character.  Having  settled 
it  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  to  a  certain  age 
certain  faults  are  natural,  they  proceed  to  act  as 
if  they  thought  them  necessary. 

But  let  us  not  practice  on  ourselves  the  gross 
imposition  to  believe  that  any  failing,  much  less 
any  vice,  is  necessarily  appended  to  any  state  or 
any  age,  or  that  it  is  irresistible  at  any.  '  We 
may  accustom  ourselves  to  talk  of  vanity  and 
extravagance  as  belonging  to  the  young ;  and 
avarice  and  peevishness  to  the  old,  till  the  next 
step  will  be  that  we  shall  think  ourselves  justi¬ 
fied  in  adopting  them.  Whoever  is  eager  to 
find  excuses  for  vice  and  folly,  will  feel  his 
own  backwardness  to  practise  them  much  di¬ 
minished. 

C'  est  le  premier  pas  qui  coute.  It  is  only  to 
make  out  an  imaginary  necessity,  and  then  we 
easily  fall  into  the  necessity  we  have  imagined. 
Providence  has  established  no  such  association. 
There  is,  it  is  true,  more  danger  of  certain  faults 
under  certain  circumstances  ;  and  some  tempta¬ 
tions  are  stronger  at  some  periods  :  but  it  is  a 

*  Dr.  Johnson. 


454 


THE  WORKS  0¥  HANNAH  MORE. 


proof  that  they  are  not  irresistible  because  nil 
do  not  fall  into  them.  The  evil  is  in  ourselves, 
who  mitigate  the  discredit  by  the  supposed  ne¬ 
cessity.  The  prediction,  like  the  dream  of 
the  astrologer,  creates  the  event  instead  of  fore¬ 
telling  it.  But  there  is  no  supposition  can  be 
made  of  a  bad  case  which  will  justify  the  ma¬ 
king  it  our  own :  Nor  will  general  positions  ever 
serve  for  individual  ^pologies. — Who  has  not 
known  persons  w  hir  though  they  retain  the 
sound  health  and  vigour  of  active  life,  sink  pre¬ 
maturely  into  sloth  and  inactivity,  solely  on  the 
ground  that  these  dispositions  are  fancied  to 
be  unavoidably  incident  to  advancing  years. 
They  demand  the  indulgence  before  they  feel 
the  infirmity.  Indolence  thus  forges  a  dismis¬ 
sion  from  duty  before  the  discharge  is  issued 
out  by  Providence.  No. — Let  us  endeavour  to 
meet  the  evils  of  the  several  conditions  and  pe¬ 
riods  of  life  with  submission,  but  it  is  an  offence 
to  their  divine  dispenser  to  forestall  them. 

But  we  have  still  a  saving  clause  for  ourselves, 
whether  the  evil  be  of  greater  or  lesser  magni¬ 
tude.  If  the  fault  be  great,  we  lament  the  in¬ 
ability  to  resist  it ;  if  small,  we  deny  the  impor¬ 
tance  of  so  doing,  we  plead  that  we  cannot  with¬ 
stand  a  great  temptation,  and  that  a  small  one 
is  not  worth  withstanding.  But  if  the  tempta¬ 
tion  or  the  fault  be  great,  we  should  resist  it  on 
account  of  that  very  magnitude ;  if  small,  the 
giving  it  up  can  cost  but  little  ;  and  the  con¬ 
scientious  habit  of  conquering  the  less  will  con¬ 
fer  considerable  strength  towards  subduing  the 
greater. 

There  is  again,  a  sort  of  splendid  character, 
which,  winding  itself  up  occasionally  to  certain 
shining  actions,  thinks  itself  fully  justified  in 
breaking*  loose  from  the  shackles  of  restraint  in 
smaller  things  :  it  makes  no  scruple  to  indem¬ 
nify  itself  for  these  popular  deeds  by  indulgences 
which,  though  allowed,  are  far  from  innocent. 
It  thus  secures  to  itself  praise  and  popularity  by 
what  is  sure  to  gain  it,  and  immunity  from  cen¬ 
sure  in  indulging  the  fkvourite  fault,  practically 
exclaiming,  ‘  Is  it  not  a  little  one  ?’ 

Vanity  is  at  the  bottom  of  almost  all,  may  we 
not  say,  of  all  our  sins  ?  We  think  more  of 
signalizing  than  of  saving  ourselves.  We  over¬ 
look  the  hourly  occasions  which  occur  of  serving, 
of  obliging,  of  comforting  those  around  us,  while 
we  sometimes,  not  unwillingly  perform  an  act 
of  notorious  generosity.  The  habit,  however,  in 
the  former  case,  better  indicates  the  disposition 
and  bent  of  the  mind,  than  the  solitary  act  of 
•plendor.  The  apostle  does  not  say  whatsoever 
great  things  ye  do,  but  ‘  whatsoever  things  ye 
do,  do  all  to  the  glory  of  God.’  Actions  are  less 
weighed  by  their  bulk  than  their  motive.  Vir¬ 
tues  are  less  measured  by  their  splendor  than 
their  principle.  The  racer  proceeds  in  his 
course  more  effectually  by  a  steady  unslackened 
pace,  than  by  starts  of  violent  but  unequal  ex- 
ertion. 

'Phat  great  abstract  of  moral  law,  of  which 
we  have  elsewhere  spoken,*  that  rule  of  the 
highest  court  of  appeal,  set  up  in  his  own  bosom, 
to  which  every  man  can  always  resort,  ‘  all 
things  that  ye  would  that  men  should  do  unto 

*  Chapter  ii. 


you,  do  ye  also  unto  them  — This  law,  if  faith 
fully  obeyed,  operating  as  an  infallible  remedy 
for  all  the  disorders  of  self-love,  would,  by  throw 
ing  its  partiality  into  the  right  scale,  establish 
the  right  exercise  of  all  the  smaller  virtues.  Its 
strict  observance  would  not  only  put  a  stop  to 
all  injustice,  but  to  all  unkindness :  not  only  to 
oppressive  acts,  but  to  unfeeling  language.  Even 
haughty  looks  and  supercilious  gestures  would 
be  banished  from  the  face  of  society,  did  we  ask 
ourselves  how  we  should  like  to  receive  what 
we  are  not  ashamed  to  give. 

Till  we  thus  morally  transmute  place,  person, 
and  circumstance  with  those  of  our  brother,  we 
shall  never  treat  him  with  the  tenderness  this 
gracious  law  enjoins.  Small  virtues  and  small 
offences  are  only  so  by  comparison.  To  treat  a 
fellow-creature  with  harsh  language,  is  not  in¬ 
deed  a  crime  like  robbing  him  of  his  estate  or 
destroying  his  reputation.  They  are,  however, 
all  the  offspring  of  the  same  family. — They  are 
the  same  in  quality  though  not  in  degree.  All 
flow,  though  in  streams  of  different  magnitude, 
from  the  same  fountain ;  all  are  indications  of  a 
departure  from  that  principle  which  is  included 
in  the  law  of  love.  The  consequences  they  in¬ 
volve  are  not  less  certain ;  though  they  are  less 
important. 

The  reason  why  what  are  called  religious  peo¬ 
ple  often  differ  so  little  from  others  in  small 
trials  is,  that  instead  of  bringing  religion  to 
their  aid  in  their  lesser  vexations,  they  either 
leave  the  disturbance  to  prey  upon  their  minds, 
or  apply  to  false  reliefs  for  its  removal.  Those 
who  are  rendered  unhappy  by  frivolous  troubles, 
seek  comfort  in  frivolous  enjoyments.  But, we 
should  apply  the  same  remedy  to  ordinary  trials, 
as  to  great  ones;  for  as  small  disquietudes  spring 
from  the  same  cause  as  great  trials,  namely,  the 
uncertain  and  imperfect  condition  of  human  life, 
so  they  require  the  same  remedy.  Meeting 
common  cares  with  a  right  spirit  would  impart 
a  smoothness  to  the  temper,  a  spirit  of  cheerful¬ 
ness  to  the  heart,  which  would  mightily  break 
the  force  of  heavier  trials. 

You  apply  to  the  power  of  religion  in  great 
evils. — Why  does  it  not  occur  to  you  to  apply 
to  it  in  the  less  ?  Is  it  that  you  think  the  in¬ 
strument  greater  than  the  occasion  demands  ? 
It  is  not  too  great  if  the  lesser  one  will  not  pro¬ 
duce  the  effect,  or  if  it  produce  it  in  the  wrong 
way  ;  for  there  is  such  a  thing  as  putting  an 
evil  out  of  sight  without  curing  iL  You  would 
apply  to  religion  on  the  loss  of  your  child — ap¬ 
ply  to  it  on  the  loss  of  your  temper.  Throw  in 
this  wholesome  tree  to  sweeten  the  bitter  waters. 
As  no  calamity  is  too  great  for  the  power  of 
Christianity  to  mitigate,  so  none  is  too  small  to 
experience  its  beneficial  results.  Our  behaviour 
under  the  ordinary  accidents  of  life  forms  a  cha¬ 
racteristic  distinction  between  different  classes 
of  Christians.  The  least  advanced,  resort  to  re¬ 
ligion  on  great  occasions  ;  the  deeper  proficient 
resorts  to  it  on  all,  What  makes  it  appear  of 
so  little  comparative  value  is,  that  the  medicine 
prepared  by  the  Great  Ply^sician  is  thrown  by 
instead  of  being  taken.  The  patient  thinks  not 
of  it  but  in  extreme  cases.  A  remedy,  however 
potent,  not  applied,  can  produce  no  effect.  But 
be  who  has  adopted  one  fixed  principle  for  the 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


455 


government  of  his  life,  will  try  to  keep  it  in  per¬ 
petual  exercise.  An  acquaintance  with  the  na¬ 
ture  of  human  evils  and  of  their  remedy,  would 
check  that  spirit  of  complaint  which  so  much 
abounds,  and  which  often  makes  so  little  differ¬ 
ence  between  people  professing  religion  and 
those  who  profess  it  not. 

If  the  duties  in  question  are  not  great  they 
become  important  by  the  constant  demand  that 
is  made  for  them.  They  have  been  called  ‘  the 
small  coin  of  human  life,’  and  on  their  perpetual 
and  unobstructed  circulation  depends  much  of 
the  comfort,  as  well  as  convenience  of  its  transac¬ 
tions.  They  make  up  in  frequency  what  they 
■want  in  magnitude.  How  few  of  us  are  called 
to  carry  the  doctrines  of  Christianity  into  dis- 
tant  lands  !  But  which  of  us  is  not  called  every 
day  to  adorn  those  doctrines,  by  gentleness  in 
our  own  carriage,  by  kindness  and  forbearance 
to  all  about  us  ? 

In  performing  the  unostensible  duties,  there 
is  no  incentive  from  vanity.  No  love  of  fame 
inspires  that  virtue,  of  which  fame  will  never 
bear.  There  can  be  but  one  motive,  and  that 
the  purest,  for  the  exercise  of  virtues,  the  report 
of  which  will  never  reach  beyond  the  little  cir¬ 
cle  whose  happiness  they  promote.  They  do 
not  fill  the  world  with  our  renown,  but  they  fill 
our  own  family  with  comfort,  and  if  they  have' 
the  love  of  God  for  their  principle,  they  will  have 
bis  favour  for  their  reward. 

In  this  enumeration  of  faults,  w^e  include  not 
sins  of  infirmity,  inadvertency,  and  surprise,  to 
which  even  the  most  sincere  Christians  are  but 
too  liable.  What  are  here  adverted  to  are  allow¬ 
ed,  habitual,  and  unresisted  faults :  Habitual, 
because  unresisted,  and  allowed  from  the  notion 
that  they  are  too  inconsiderable  to  call  for  re- 
sistance.  Faults  into  which  wo  are  betrayed 
through  surprise  and  inadvertency,  though  that 
is  no  reason  for  committing  them,  may  not  be 
without  their  uses ;  they  renew  the  salutary 
conviction  of  our  sinful  nature,  make  us  little  in 
our  own  eyes,  increase  our  sense  of  dependence, 
promote  watchfulness,  deepen  humility,  and 
quicken  repentance. 

We  must  however  be  careful  not  to  entangle 
the  conscience  or  embarrass  the  spirit  by  ground¬ 
less  apprehensions.  We  have  a  merciful  Father, 
not  a  hard  master  to  deal  with.  We  must  not 
harass  our  minds  with  a  suspicious  dread,  as  if 
by  a  needless  rigour  the  Almighty  w'ere  laying 
snares  to  entrap  us,  nor  be  terrified  with  imagi¬ 
nary  fears,  as  if  he  were  on  the  watch  to  punish 
every  casual  error  ! — To  be  immutable  and  ini- 
peceablo  belongs  not  to  humanity.  He,  who 
made  us,  best  knows  of  what  we  are  made.  Our 
compassionate  High  Priest  will  bear  with  much 
infirmity,  will  pardon  much  involuntary  weak¬ 
ness. 

But  knowing,  as  every  man  must  know,  who 
looks  into  his  own  heart,  the  difficulties  he  has 
from  the  intervention  of  his  evil  tempers,  in 
serving  God  faithfully,  and  still  however  earn¬ 
estly  desirous  of  serving  him,  is  it  not  to  be  la- 
niented  that  he  is  not  more  solicitous  to  remove 
his  hindrances  by  trying  to  avoid  those  inferior 
sins,  and  resisting  those  lesser  temptations,  and 
practising  those  smaller  virtues,  the  neglect  of 
which  obstructs  his  way,  and  keeps  him  back 


in  the  performance  of  higher  duties  Instead 
of  little  renunciations  being  grievous,  and  petty 
self-denials  a  hardship,  they  in  reality  soften 
grievances,  diminish  hardships.  They  are  the 
private  drill  which  trains  for  public  service. 

If,  as  we  have  repeatedly  observed,  the  prin 
ciple  is  the  test  of  the  action,  we  are  hourly  fur¬ 
nished  with  occasions  of  showing  our  piety  by 
the  spirit  in  which  the  quiet  unobserved  actions 
of  life  are  performed.  The  sacrifices  may  be 
too  little  to  be  observed,  except  by  Him  to  whom 
they  are  offered.  But  small  solicitudes,  and  de¬ 
monstrations  of  attachment,  scarcely  perceptible 
to  any  eye  but  his  for  whom  they  were  made, 
bear  the  true  character  of  love  to  God,  as  they 
are  the  infallible  marks  of  affection  to  our  fellow 
creatures. 

By  enjoining  small  duties,  the  spirit  of  which 
is  every  where  implied  in  the  gospel,  God,  as  it 
were,  seems  contriving  to  render  the  great  ones 
easy  to  us.  He  makes  the  light  yoke  of  Christ 
still  lighter,  not  by  abridging  duty,  but  by  in¬ 
creasing  its  facility  through  its  familiarity. 
These  little  habits  at  once  indicate  the  senti¬ 
ment  of  the  soul  and  improve  it. 

It  is  an  awful  consideration  and  one  which 
every  Christian  should  bring  home  to  his  own 
bosom,  whether,  small  faults  wilfully  persisted 
in,  may  not  in  time,  not  only  dim  the  light  of 
conscience,  but  extinguish  the  Spirit  of  grace  ; 
whether  the  power  of  resistance  against  great 
sins  may  not  be  finally  withdrawn  as  a  just 
punishment  for  having  neglected  to  exert  it 
against  small  ones. 

Let  us  endeavour  to  maintain  in  our  minds 
the  awful  impression  that  perhaps  among  the 
first  objects  which  may  meet  our  eyes  when  we 
open  them  on  the  eternal  world,  may  be  that 
tremendous  book,  in  which,  together  with  our 
great  and  actual  sins,  may  be  recorded  in  no  less 
prominent  characters,  the  ample  page  of  omis¬ 
sions,  of  neglected  opportunities,  and  even  of 
fruitless  good  intentions,  of  which  indolence,  in¬ 
decision,  thoughtlessness,  vanity,  trifling,  and 
procrastination  concurred  to  frustrate  the  exe¬ 
cution. 


CHAP.  XII. 

Self-Examination. 

'  In  this  stage  of  general  inquiry,  every  kind 
of  ignorance  is  esteemed  dishonourable.  In  al¬ 
most  every  sort  of  knowledge  there  is  a  compe- 
tion  for  superiority.  Intellectual  attainments 
are  never  to  be  undervalued.  Learning  is  the 
best  human  thing.  All  knowledge  is  excellent 
as  far  as  it  goes,  and  as  long  as  it  lasts.  But 
how  short  is  the  period  before  ‘  tongues  shajl 
cease,  and  knowledge  shall  vanish  away !’ 

Shall  we  then  esteem  it  dishonourable  to  be 
ignorant  in  any  thing  which  relates  to  life  and 
literature,  to  taste  and  science,  and  not  feel 
ashamed  to  live  in  ignorance  of  our  own  hearts? 

To  have  a  flourishing  estate  and  a  mind  in 
disorder;  to  keep  exact  accounts  witli  a  steward 
and  no  reckoning  with  our  Maker ;  to  have  on 
accurate  knowledge  of  loss  or  gain  in  our  bust 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


4t}6 

ness,  and  to  remain  utterly  ignorant  whether 
our  spiritual  concerns  are  improving  or  declin¬ 
ing  ;  to  be  cautious  in  ascertaining  at  the  end 
of  every  year,  how  much  we  have  increased  or 
diminished  our  fortune,  and  to  be  careless 
whether  we  have  incurred  profit  or  loss  in  faith 
and  holiness,  is  a  wretched  miscalculation  of 
the  comparative  value  of  things.  To  bestow 
our  attention  on  objects  in  an  inverse  proportion 
to  their  importance,  is  surely  no  proof  that  our 
learning  has  improved  our  judgment. 

That  deep  thinker  and  acute  reasoner.  Dr. 
Barrow,  has  remarked  that  ‘  it  is  a  peculiar  ex¬ 
cellency  of  human  nature,  and  which  distin¬ 
guishes  man  from  the  inferior  creatures  more 
than  bare  reason  itself,  that  he  can  reflect  upon 
all  that  is  done  within  him,  can  discern  the  ten¬ 
dencies  of  his  soul,  and  is  acquainted  with  his 
own  purposes.’ 

This  distinguishing  faculty  of  self-inspection 
would  not  have  been  conferred  on  man,  if  it  had 
not  been  intended  that  it  should.be  in  habitual 
operation.  It  is  surely,  as  we  before  observed, 
as  much  a  common  law  of  prudence,  to  look 
well  to  our  spiritual  as  to  our  worldly  posses¬ 
sions.  We  have  appetites  to  control,  imagina¬ 
tions  to  restrain,  tempers  to  regulate,  passions  to 
subdue  ;  and  how  can  this  internal  work  be 
effected,  how  can  our  thoughts  be  kept  within 
due  bounds,  how  can  a  proper  bias  be  given  to 
the  affections,  how  can  ‘  the  little  state  of  man’ 
be  preserved  from  continual  insurrection,  how 
can  this  restraining  power  be  maintained  if 
this  capacity  of  discerning,  if  this  faculty  of 
inspecting  be  not  kept  in  regular  exercise? 
Without  constant  discipline,  imagination  will 
become  an  outlaw,  conscience  an  attainted  rebel. 

This  inward  eye,  this  power  of  introversion, 
is  given  us  for  a  continual  watch  upon  the  soul. 
On  an  unremitted  vigilance  over  its  interior 
motions,  those  fruitful  seeds  of  action,  those 
prolific  principles  of  vice  and  virtue,  will  de¬ 
pend  both  the  formation  and  the  growth  of  our 
moral  and  religious  character.  A  superficial 
glance  is  not  enough  for  a  thing  so  deep,  an 
unsteady  view  will  not  suffice  for  a  thing  so 
wavering,  nor  a  casual  look  for  a  thing  so  de¬ 
ceitful  as  the  human  heart.  A  partial  inspec¬ 
tion  on  any  one  side,  will  not  be  enough  for  an 
object  which  must  be  observed  under  a  variety 
of  aspects,  because  it  is  always  shifting  its  po¬ 
sitions,  always  changing  its  appearances. 

We  should  examine  not  only  our  conduct  but 
our  opinions  ;  not  only  our  faults  but  our  preju¬ 
dices  ;  not  only  our  propensities  but  our  judg¬ 
ments.  Our  actions  themselves  will  be  obvious 
enough  ;  it  is  our  intentions  which  require  the 
scrutiny.  These  we  should  follow  up  to  their 
remotest  springs,  scrutinize  to  their  deepest 
recesses,  trace  through  their  most  perplex¬ 
ing  windings.  And  lest  we  should,  in  our 
pursuit,  wander  in  uncertainty  and  blindness, 
let  us  make  use  of  that  guiding  clue  which  the 
Almighty  has  furnished  by  his  word  and  by  his 
Spirit,  for  conducting  us  through  the  intrica¬ 
cies  of  this  labyrinth.  ‘  What  I  know  not, 
teach  thou  me,’  should  be  our  constant  petition 
in  all  our  researches. 

Did  we  turn  our  thoughts  inward,  it  would 
abate  much  of  the  self-complacer  cy  with  which 


we  swallow  the  flattery  of  others.  Flattery, 
hurts  not  him  who  flatters  not  himself.  If  wa 
examined  our  motives  keenly,  we  should  fre¬ 
quently  blush  at  the  praises  our  actions  receive- 
Let  us  then  conscientiously  inquire  not  only 
what  we  do,  but  whence  and  why  wo  do  it,  from 
what  motive  and  to  what  end. 

Self-inspection  is  the  only  means  to  preserve 
us  from  self-conceit.  We  could  not  surely  so 
very  extravagantly  value  a  being  whom  we  our- 
selves  should  not  only  see,  but  feel  to  be  so  full 
of  faults.  Self-acquaintance  will  give  us  a  far 
more  deep  and  intimate  knowledge  of  our  own 
errors  than  we  can  possibly  have,  with  all  the 
inquisitiveness  of  an  idle  curiosity,  of  the  error* 
of  others.  We  are  eager  enough  to  blame  them 
without  knowing  their  motives.  We  are  no' 
less  eager  to  vindicate  ourselves,  though  we  can¬ 
not  be  entirely  ignorant  of  our  own.  Thus  two 
virtues  will  be  acquired  by  the  same  act,  humi- 
I  lity  and  candour ;  an  impartial  review  of  our 
own  infirmities,  being  the  likeliest  way  to  mako 
us  tender  and  compassionate  to  those  of  others. 

Nor  shall  we  be  liable  so  to  overrate  our  own 
judgment  when  we  perceive  that  it  often  forms 
such  false  estimates,  is  so  captivated  with  trifles, 
so  elated  with  petty  successes,  so  dejected  with 
little  disappointments.  When  we  hear  others 
commend  our  charity  which  we  know  is  so  cold  ; . 
when  others  extol  our  piety  which  we  feel  to 
be  so  dead ;  when  they  applaud  the  energies  of 
our  faith,  which  we  must  know  to  be  so  faint 
and  feeble,  we  cannot  possibly  be  so  intoxicated 
with  the  applause  which  never  would  have 
been  given,  had  the  applauder  known  us  as  we 
know,  or  ought  to  know  ourselves.  If  we  con¬ 
tradict  him,  it  may  be  only  to  draw  on  ourselves 
the  imputation  of  a  fresh  virtue,  humility,  which 
perhaps  we  as  little  deserve  to  have  ascribed  to- 
us  as  that  which  we  have  been  renouncing.  If 
we  keep  a  sharp  look  out,  we  should  not  be 
proud  of  praises  which  cannot  apply  to  us,  but 
should  rather  grieve  at  the  involuntary  fraud  of 
imposing  on  others,  by  tacitly  accepting  a  cha¬ 
racter  to  which  we  have  so  little  real  pretension. 
To  be  delighted  at  finding  that  people  think  so 
much  better  of  us  than  we  are  conscious  of  de¬ 
serving,  is  in  effect  to  rejoice  in  the  success  of 
our  own  deceit. 

We  shall  also  become  more  patient,  more  for¬ 
bearing  and  forgiving,  shall  better  endure  the 
harsh  judgment  of  others  respecting  us,  when 
we  perceive  that  their  opinion  of  us  nearly  poin-- 
cides  with  our  own  real  though  unacknowledg¬ 
ed  sentiments.  There  is  much  less  injury  in¬ 
curred  by  others  thinking  too  ill  of  us,  than  in 
our  thinking  to  well  of  ourselves. 

It  is  evident  then,  that  to  live  at  random,  is 
not  the  life  of  a  rational,  much  less  of  an  im¬ 
mortal,  least  of  all,  of  an  accountable  being.  To 
pray  occasionally,  without  deliberate  course  of 
prayer;  to  be  generous  without  proportioning 
our  means  to  our  expenditure;  to  be  liberal 
without  a  principle  ;  to  let  the  mind  float  on  the 
current  of  public  opinion;  lie  at  the  mercy  of 
events,  for  the  probable  occurrence  of  which 
vye  have  made  no  provision ;  to  be  every  hour 
liable  to  death  without  any  habitual  preparation 
for  it;  to  carry  within  us  a  principle  which  wo 
believe  will  exist  through  all  the  countless  age» 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


457 


of  eternity,  and  yet  to  make  little  inquiry 
whether  that  eternity  is  likely  to  be  happy  or 
miserable — all  this  is  an  inconsiderateness  which, 
if  adopted  in  the  ordinary  concerns  of  life,  would 
bid  fair  to  ruin  a  man’s  reputation  for  common 
sense  :  yet  of  this  infatuation  he  who  dives  with¬ 
out  self-examination  is  absolutely  guilty. 

Nothing  more  plainly  shows  us  what  weak 
vacillating  creatures  we  are,  than  the  difficulty 
we  find  in  fixing  ourselves  down  to  the  very 
self-scrutiny  we  had  deliberately  resolved-  on. 
Like  the  worthless  Roman  emperor  we  retire  to 
our  closet  under  the  appearance  of  serious  oc¬ 
cupation,  but  might  now  and  then  be  surprised, 
if  not  in  catching  flies,  yet  in  pursuits  nearly 
as  contemptible.  Some  trifle  which  we  should 
be  ashamed  to  dwell  upon  at  any  lime,  intrudes 
itself  on  the  moments  dedicated  to  serious 
thought ;  recollection  is  interrupted  ;  the  whole 
chain  of  reflection  broken,  so  that  the  scattered 
links  cannot  again  be  united.  And  so  incon¬ 
sistent  are  we  that  we  are  sometimes  not  sorry 
to  have  a  plausible  pretence  for  interrupting  the 
very  employment  in  which  we  had  just  before 
made  it  a  duty  to  engage.  For  want  of  this 
home  acquaintance,  we  remain  in  utter  igno¬ 
rance  of'our  inability  to  meet  even  in  ordinary 
trials  of  life  with  cheerfulness  ;  indeed  by  this 
neglect  we  confirm  that  inability.  Nursed  in 
the  lap  of  luxury,  we  have  an  indefinite  notion 
that  we  have  but  a  loose  hold  on  the  things  of 
this  world,  and  of  the  world  itself.  But  let 
some  accident  take  away,  not  the  world,  but 
some  trifle  on  which  we  thought  we  set  no  value 
while  we  possessed  it,  and  we  find  to  our  aston¬ 
ishment  that  we  hold,  not  the  world  only,  but 
even  this  trivial  possession  with  a  pretty  tight 
grasp. — Such  detections  of  our  self  ignorance, 
if  they  do  not  serve  to  wean,  ought  at  least  to 
humble  us. 

There  is  a  spurious  sort  of  self-examination 
which  does  not  serve  to  enlighten  but  to  blind. 
A  person  who  has  left  off  some  notorious  vice, 
who  has  softened  some  shades  of  a  glaring  sin, 
or  substituted  some  outward  forms  in  the  place 
of  open  irreligion,  looks  on  this  change  of  cha¬ 
racter  with  pleasure. — He  compares  himself 
with  what  he  was,  and  views  the  alteration  with 
self  complacency.  He  deceives  himself  by  tak¬ 
ing  his  standard  from  his  former  conduct,  or 
from  the  character  of  still  worse  men,  instead 
of  taking  it  from  the  unerring  rule  of  Scrip¬ 
ture.  He  looks  rather  at  the  discredit  than 
the  sinfulness  of  his  former  life,  and  being 
more  ashamed  of  what  is  disreputable  than 
grieved  at  what  is  vicious,  he  is,  in  this  state 
of  shallow  reformation,  more  in  danger  in  pro¬ 
portion  as  he  is  more  in  credit.  He  is  not 
aware  that  it  is  not  having  a  fault  or  fwo  less 
that  will  carry  him  to  heaven,  while  his  heart 
is  still  glued  to  the  world  and  estranged  from 
Ctod. 

If  we  ever  look  into  our  hearts  at  all,  we  are 
naturally  most  inclined  to  it  when  we  think  we 
have  been  acting  right.  Here  inspection  grati¬ 
fies  self-love.  We  have  no  great  difficulty  in 
directing  our  attention  to  an  object,  when  that 
object  persents  us  with  pleasing  images.  But 
it  is  a  painful  effort  to  compel  the  mind  to  turn 
in  on  itself,  when  the  view  only  presents  sub- 
VoL.  r. 


jecls  for  regret  and  remorse  This  painful' 
duty  however  must  be  performed,  and  will  be 
more  salutary  in  proportion  as  it  is  less  plea 
sant. — Let  us  establish  it  into  a  habit  to  rumi 
nate  on  our  faults.  With  the  recollection  of 
our  virtues  we  need  not  feed  our  vanity.  They 
will,  if  that  vanity  does  not  obliterate  them,  be 
recorded  elsewhere. 

We  are  almost  disposed  to  look  at  those  parts 
of  our  character  which  will  best  bear  it,  and 
which  consequently  least  need  it:  at  those  parts- 
which  afford  most  self-gratulation.  If  a  cove¬ 
tous  man,  for  instance,  examines  himself,  instead 
of  turning  his  attention  to  the  peccant  part,  he 
applies  the  probe  where  he  knows  it  will  not  go- 
very  deep  ;  he  turns  from  his  avarice  to  that  so¬ 
briety  of  which  his  very  avarice  is  perhaps  the 
source.  Another,  who  is  the  slave  of  passion, 
fondly  rests  upon  some  act  of  generosity,  which 
he  considers  as  a  fair  commutation  for  some 
favourite  vice,  that  would  cost  him  more  to  re¬ 
nounce  than  he  is  willing  to  part  with.  We 
are  all  too  much  disposed  to  dwell  on  that 
smiling  side  of  the  prospect  which  pleases  and 
deceives  us,  and  to  shut  our  eyes  upon  that  part 
which  we  do  not  choose  to  see,  because  we  are- 
resolved  not  to  quit.  Self-love  always  holds  a 
screen  between  the  superficial  self-examiner 
and  his  faults.  The  nominal  Christian  wraps 
himself  up  in  forms  which  he  makes  himself  be¬ 
lieve  are  Religion.  He  exults  in  what  he  does, 
overlooks  what  he  ought  to  do,  nor  ever  suspects 
that  what  is  done  at  all  can  be  done  amiss. 

As  we  are  so  indolent  that  we  seldom  ex¬ 
amine  a  truth  on  more  than  one  side,  so  we 
generally  take  care  that  it  shall  be  that  side- 
which  shall  contain  some  old  prejudices.  While 
we  will  not  take  pains  to  correct  those  preju¬ 
dices  and  to  rectify  our  judgment,  lest  it  should, 
oblige  us  to  discard  a  favourite  opinion,  we  are 
yet  as  eager  to  judge,  and  as  forward  to  decide,, 
as  if  we  were  fully  possessed  of  the  grounds  on 
which  a  sound  judgment  may  be  made,  and  a 
just  decision  formed. 

W e  should  watch  ourselves  whether  we  ob¬ 
serve  a  simple  rule  of  truth  ahd  justice,  as  well 
in  our  conversation,  as  in  our  ordinary  transac¬ 
tions;  whether  we  are  exact  in  our  measures 
of  commendation  and  censure;  whether  we  do 
not  bestow  extravagant  praise  where  simple  ap¬ 
probation  alone  is  due  ;  whether  we  do  not  with¬ 
hold  eommendation,  where,  if  given,  it  would 
support  modesty  and  eneourge  merit;  whether 
what  deserves  only  a  slight  censure  as  impru¬ 
dent,  we  do  not  reprobate  as  immoral ;  whether 
we  do  not  sometimes  affect  to  overrate  ordinary 
merit,  in  the  hope  of  securing  to  ourselves  the 
reputation  of  candour,  that  we  may  on  other  oc¬ 
casions,  with  less  suspicion,  depreciate  estab¬ 
lished  excellence.  We  extol  the  first  because 
we  fancy  that  it  can  come  into  no  competition 
with  us,  and  we  derogate  from  the  last  because 
it  obviously  eclipses  us. 

Let  us  ask  ourselves  if  we  are  conscientiously 
upright  in  our  estimation  of  benefits  ;  whether 
when  we  have  a  favour  to  ask,  we  do  not  depre¬ 
ciate  its  value,  when  we  have  one  to  grant  we 
do  not  aggravate  it. 

It  is-only  by  scrutinizing  the  heart  that  we 
can  know  it.  It  is  only  by  knowing  the  heart 


458 


THE 'WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


that  we  can  reform  the  life.  Any  careless  ob¬ 
server,  indeed,  when  his  watch  goes  wrong,  may 
eee  that  it  does  so,  by  casting  an  eye  on  the  dial 
plate ;  but  it  is  only  the  artist  who  takes  it  to 
pieces  and  examines  every  spring  and  every 
wheel  separately,  and  who,  by  ascertaining  the 
precise  causes  of  the  irregularity,  can  set  the 
machine  right,  and  restore  the  obstructed  move¬ 
ments. 

The  illusions  of  intellectual  vision  Would  be 
materially  corrected  by  a  close  habit  of  culti- 
Tating  an  acquaintance  with  our  hearts.  We 
fill  much  too  large  a  space  in  our  own  imagina¬ 
tions  ;  we  fancy  we  take  up  more  room  in  the 
World  than  Providence  assigns  to  an  individual 
who  has  to  divide  his  allotment  with  so  many 
millions,  who  are  all  of  equal  importance  in 
their  own  eyes;  and  who,  like  us,  are  elbowing 
others  to  make  room  for  themselves.  Just  as  in 
the  natural  world,  where  every  particle  of  mat¬ 
ter  would  stretch  itself,  and  move  out  of  its 
place,  if  it  were  not  kept  in  order  by  surround¬ 
ing  particles  ;  the  pressure  of  other  parts  reduces 
this  to  remain  in  a  confinement  from  which  it 
would  escape,  if  it  were  not  thus  pressed  and 
acted  upon  on  all  sides.  The  conscientious 
practice  we  have  been  recommending,  would 
greatly  assist  in  reducing  us  tcTour  proper  di¬ 
mensions,  and  in  limiting  us  to  our  proper  place. 
We  should  be  astonished  if  we  could  see  our 
real  diminutiveness,  and  the  speck  we  actually 
occupy.  When  shall  we  learn  from  our  own 
feelings  of  how  much  consequence  every  man  is 
to  himself? 

Nor  must  the  examination  be  occasional,  but 
regular.  Let  us  not  run  into  long  arrears,  but 
settle  our  accounts  frequently.  Little  articles 
will  run  up  to  a  large  amount,  if  they  are  not 
cleared  off.  Even  our  innocent  days,  as  we  may 
choose  to  call  them,  will  not  have  passed  without 
furnishing  their  contingent — our  deadness  in 
devotion — our  eagerness  for  human  applause — 
our  care  to  conceal  our  faults  rather  than  to 
correct  them — our  negligent  performance  of 
some  relative  duty — our  imprudence  in  conver¬ 
sation,  especially  at  table — our  inconsideration — 
our  driving  to  the  very  edge  of  permitted  in¬ 
dulgences — let  us  keep  these — let  us  keep  all 
our  numerous  items  in  small  sums.  Let  us  ex¬ 
amine  them  while  the  particulars  are  fresh  in 
our  memory  ;  otherwise,  however  we  may  flatter 
ourselves  that  lesser  evils  will  be  swallowed  up 
by  the  greater,  we  may  find  when  we  come  to 
settle  the  grand  account  that  they  will  not  be 
the  less  remembered  for  not  having  been  re¬ 
corded. 

And  let  it  be  one  subject  of  our  frequent  in¬ 
quiry,  whether  since  we  last  scrutinized  our 
hearts,  our  secular  affairs,  or  our  eternal  con¬ 
cerns  have  had  the  predominance  there.  We 
do  not  mean  which  of  them  has  occupied  most 
of  our  time,  the  largest  portion  of  which  must, 
necessarily,  to  the  generality,  be  absorbed  in 
the  cares  of  the  present  life;  but  on  which  our 
affections  have  been  most  bent ;  and  especially 
how  we  have  conducted  ourselves  when  there 
has  arisen  a  competition  between  the  interests 
of  both. 

That  general  burst  of  sins  which  so  frequently 
rushes  in  on  the  consciences  of  the  dying,  would 


be  much  moderated  by  previous  habitual  self- 
examination.  It  will  not  do  to  repent  in  the 
lump.  The  sorrow  must  be  as  circumstantial 
as  the  sin.  Indefinite  repentance  is  no  repen¬ 
tance.  And  it  is  one  grand  use  of  self-inquiry, 
to  remind  us,  that  all  unforsaken  sins  are  unre 
pented  sins. 

To  a  Christian  there  is  this  substantial  com¬ 
fort  attending  a  minute  self-inspection,  thdt  when 
he  finds  fewer  sins  to  be  noted,  and  more  victo¬ 
ries  over  temptation  obtained^he  has  a  solid  evi¬ 
dence  of  his  advancement,  which  well  repays  his 
trouble. 

The  faithful  searcher  into  his  own  heart,  that 
‘  chamber  of  imagery,’  feels  himself  in  the  situ¬ 
ation  of  the  prophet,*  who  being  conducted  in 
vision  from  one  idol  to  another,  the  spirit  at  sight 
of  each,  repeatedly  exclaims,  ‘here  is  another 
abomination  !’  The  prophet  being  commanded 
to  dig  deeper,  the  further  he  penetrated  the 
more  evils  he  found,  while  the  spirit  continued 
to  cry  out,  ‘  I  will  show  thee  yet  more  abomi¬ 
nation.’ 

Self-examination  by  detecting  self-love,  self- 
denial  by  weakening  its  power,  self-government 
by  reducing  its  despotism,  turns  the  temper  of 
the  soul  from  its  natural  bias,  controls  the  dis¬ 
orderly  appetite,  and,  under  the  influence  of 
Divine  Grace,  in  a  good  measure  restores  to  the 
man  that  dominion  over  himself  which  God  at 
first  gave  him  over  the  inferior  creatures.  De¬ 
sires,  passions,  and  appetites,  are  brought  to 
move  somewhat  more  in  their  appointed  order ; 
subjects  not  tyrants.  What  the  stoics,  vainly 
pretended  to,  Christianity  effects.  It  restores 
man  to  a  dominion  over  his  own  will,  and  in  a 
good  measure  enthrones  him  in  that  empire 
which  he  had  forfeited  by  sin. 

He  now  begins  to  survey  his  interior,  the  aw¬ 
ful  world  within  ;  not  indeed  with  self-compla¬ 
cency,  but  with  the  control  of  a  sovereign  ;  he 
still  finds  too  much  rebellion  to  indulge  security, 
he  therefore  continues  his  inspection  with  vigi¬ 
lance,  but  without  perturbation.  He  continues 
to  experience  a  remainder  of  insubordination 
and  disorder,  but  this  rather  solicits  to  a  stricter 
government  than  drives  him  to  relax  his  dis¬ 
cipline. 

This  self-inspection  somewhat  resembles  the 
correction  of  a  literary  performance.  After  ma¬ 
ny  and  careful  revisals,  though  some  grosser 
faults  may  be  done  away  ;  though  the  errors  are 
neither  quite  so  numerous,  nor  so  glaring  as  at 
first,  yet  the  critic  perpetually  perceives  faults 
which  he  had  not  perceived  before ;  negligetices 
appear  which  he  had  overlooked,  and  even  de¬ 
fects  start  up  which  had  passed  on  him  for  beau¬ 
ties.  He^  finds  much  to  amend,  and  even  to  ex¬ 
punge,  in  what  he  had  before  admired.  When 
by  rigorous  castigation  the  most  acknowledged 
faults  are  corrected,  his  critical  acumen,  im¬ 
proved  by  exercise,  and  a  more  habitual  ac¬ 
quaintance  with  his  subjects,  still  detect,  and 
will  forever  detect,  new  imperfections.  But  he 
neither  throws  aside  his  work,  nor  remits  his 
criticism,  which  if  it  do  not  make  the  work  per¬ 
fect,  will  at  least  make  the  author  humble. 
Conscious  that  if  it  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  'i  was, 

♦  Ezekiel. 


THE  WORKS  01? 

it  is  still  at  an  immeasurable  distance  from  the 
required  excellence. 

Is  it  not  astonishing  that  we  should  go  on  re¬ 
peating  periodically,  ‘  Try  me,  O  God,’  while 
we  are  yet  neglecting  to  try  ourselves?  Is  there 
not  something  more  like  defiance  than  devotion 
to  invite  the  inspection  of  Omniscience  to  that 
heart  which  we  ourselves  neglect  to  inspect  ? 
How  can  a  Christian  solemnly  cry  out  to  the 
Almighty,  ‘  seek  the  ground  of  my  heart,  prove 
me  and  examine  my  thoughts,  and  see  if  there 
be  any  ways  of  wickedness  in  ine,’  while  he 
himself  neglects  to  ‘  examine  his  heart,’  is  afraid 
of ‘proving  his  thoughts,’  and  dreads  to  inquire 
if  there  ‘  be  any  way  of  wickedness’  in  himself, 
knowing  that  the  inquiry  ought  to  lead  to  the 
expulsion. 

In  our  self-inquisition  let  us  fortify  our  virtue 
by  a  rigorous  exactness  in  calling  things  by  their 
proper  names.  Self-love  is  particularly  ingeni¬ 
ous  in  inventing  disguises  of  this  kind.  Let  us 
lay  them  open,  strip  them  bare,  face  them,  and 
give  them  as  little  quarter  as  if  they  were  the 
faults  of  another. — Let  us  not  call  wounded 
pride  delicacy. — Self-love  is  made  up  of  soft  and 
sickly  sensibilities.  Not  that  sensibility  which 
melts  at  the  sorrows  of  others,  but  that  which 
cannot  endure  the  least  suffering  itself.  It  is 
alive  in  every  pore  where  self  is  concerned.  A 
touch  is  a  wound.  It  is  careless  in  inflicting 
pain,  but  exquisitely  awake  in  feeling  it.-  It 
defends  itself  before  it  is  attacked,  revenges 
affronts  before  they  are  offered,  and  resents 
as  an  insult  the  very  suspicion  of  an  imperfec¬ 
tion. 

In  order  then  to  unmask  our  hejirts,  let  us 
not  be  contented  to  examine  oUr  vices,  let  us 
examine  our  virtues  also,  ‘  those  smaller  faults.’ 
Let  us  scrutinize  to  the  bottom  those  qualities 
and  actions  which  have  more  particularly  ob¬ 
tained  public  estimation. — Let  us  inquire  if  they 
were  genuine  in  the  principle,  simple  in  the  in- 
tention,  honest  in  the  prosecution.  Let  us  ask 
ourselves  if  in  some  admired  instances  our  ge¬ 
nerosity  had  no  tincture  of  vanity,  our  charity 
no  taint  of  ostentation  ?  Whether  when  we  did 
such  a  right  action  which  brought  us  credit,  we 
should  have  persisted  in  doing  it,  had  we  fore¬ 
seen  that  it  would  incur  censure.  Do  we  never 
deceive  ourselves  by  mistaking  a  constitutional 
indifference  of  temper  for  Christian  moderation? 
Do  we  never  construe  our  love  of  ease  into  dead¬ 
ness  of  the  world  ?  Our  animal  activity  into 
Christian  zeal  ?  Do  we  never  mistake  our  ob¬ 
stinacy  for  firmness,  our  pride  for  fortitude,  our 
selfishness  for  feeling,  our  love  of  controversy 
for  the  love  of  God,  our  indolence  of  temper  for 
superiority  to  human  applause? — When  we  have 
stripped  our  good  qualities  bare;  when  we  have 
made  all  due  deductions  for  natural  temper,  easi¬ 
ness  of  disposition,  self-interest ;  desire  of  admi¬ 
ration  ;  of  every  extrinsic  appendage,  every  ille¬ 
gitimate  motive,  let  us  fairly  cast  up  the  account, 
and  we  shall  be  mortified  to  see  how  little  there 
will  remain.  Pride  may  impose  itse.f  upon  us, 
oven  in  the  shape  of  repentance.  The  humble 
Christian  is  grieved  at  his  faults,  the  proud  man 
is  angry  at  them. — Ho  is  indignant  when  he 
discovers  he  has  done  wrong,  not  so  much  be¬ 
cause  his  sin  offends  God,  as  because  it  has  let 


HANNAH  MORE.  459 

him  see  that  he  is  not  quite  so  good  as  he  had 
tried  to  make  himself  believe. 

It  is  more  necessary  to  excite  us  to  the  hum¬ 
bling  of  our  pride,  than  to  the  performance  of 
eertain  good  actions  :  the  former  is  more  difii- 
cult  as  it  is  less  pleasant.  That  very  pride  will 
of  itself  stimulate  to  the  performance  of  many 
things  that  are  laudable.  These  performances 
will  reproduce  pride,  as  they  were  produced  by 
it;  whereas  humility  has  no  outward  stimulus. 
Divine  grace  alone  produces  it.  It  is  so  far 
from  being  actuated  by  the  love  of  fame,  that  it 
is  not  humility,  till  it  has  laid  the  desire  of  fame 
in  the  dust. 

If  an  actual  virtue  consists,  as  we  have  fre 
quently  had  occasion  to  observe,  in  the  dominion 
over  the  contrary  vice,  humility  is  the  conquest 
over  pride,  charity  over  selfishness  :  not  only  a 
victory  over  the  natural  temper,  but  a  substitu¬ 
tion  of  the  opposite  quality.  This  proves  that 
all  virtue  is  founded  in  self-denial,  self-denial  in 
self-knowledge,  and  self-knowledge  in  self-eX- 
amination.  Pride  so  insinuates  itself  in  all  we 
do,  and  say,  and  think,  that  our  apparent  humi¬ 
lity  has  not  seldom  its  origin  in  pride.  That 
very  impatience  which  we  feel  at  the  perception 
of  our  faults  is  produced  by  the  astonishment  at 
finding  that  we  are  not  perfect. — This  sense  of 
our  sins  should  make  us  humble  but  not  despe¬ 
rate.  It  should  teach  us  to  distrust  every  thing 
in  ourselves,  and  to  hope  for  every  thing  from 
God.  The  more  we  lay  open  the  wounds  which 
sin  has  made,  the  more  earnestly  shall  we  seek 
the  remedy  which  Christianity  has  provided. 

But  instead  of  seeking  for  self-knowledge,  we 
are  glancing  about  us  for  grounds  of  self-exulta¬ 
tion  !  We  almost  resemble  the  Pharisee,  who 
with  so  much  self-complacency  delivered  in  the 
catalogue  of  his  own  virtues  and  other  men’s 
sins,  and,  like  the  Tartars,  who  think  they  pos¬ 
sess  the  qualities  of  those  they  murder,  fancied 
that  the  sins  of  which  he  accused  the  publican 
would  swell  the  amount  of  his  own  good  deeds. 
Like  him  we  take  a  few  items  from  memory, 
and  a  few  more  from  imagination.  Instead  of 
pulling  down  the  edifice  which  pride  has  raised, 
we  are  looking  round  on  our  good  works  for 
buttresses  to  prop  it  up.  We  excuse  ourselves 
from  the  imputation  of  many  faults  by  alleging 
that  they  are  common,  and  by  no  means  peculiar 
to  ourselves.  This  is  one  of  the  weakest  of  our 
deceits.  Faults  are  not  less  personally  ours  be¬ 
cause  others  commit  them.  There  is  divisibili¬ 
ty  in  sin  as  well  as  in  matter.  Is  it  any  dimi¬ 
nution  of  our  error  that  others  are  ffuiltv  of  the 
same  7 

Self-love  being  a  very  industrious  principle, 
has  generally  two  concerns  in  hand  at  the  same 
time.  It  is  as  busy  in  concealing  our  own  de¬ 
fects,  as  in  detecting  those  of  others,  especially 
those  of  the  wise  and  good.  Wo  might  indeed 
direct  its  activity  in  the  latter  instance  to  our 
own  advantage,  for  if  the  faults  of  good  men  are 
injurious  to  themselves,  they  might  be  rendered 
profitable  to  us,  if  we  were  careful  to  convert 
them  to  their  true  use.  But  instead  of  turning 
them  into  a  means  of  promoting  our  own  watch¬ 
fulness,  we  employ  them  mischievously  in  two 
ways.  We  lessen  our  respect  for  pious  charac¬ 
ters  when  we  see  the  infirmities  which  are 


460 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


blended  with  their  fine  qualities,  and  we  turn 
their  failings  into  a  justification  of  our  own, 
which  are  not  like  theirs  overshadowed  with 
virtues.  To  admire  the  excellences  of  others 
without  imitating  them  is  fruitless  admiration  ; 
to  condemn  their  errors  without  avoiding  is  un¬ 
profitable  censoriousness. 

When  we  are  compelled  by  our  conscience  to 
acknowledge  and  regret  any  fault  we  have  re¬ 
cently  committed,  this  fault  so  presses  upon  our 
recollection,  that  we  seem  to  forget  that  we  have 
any  other.  This  single  error  fills  our  mind,  and 
we  look  at  it  as  through  a  telescope,  which, 
while  it  shows  an  object,  confines  the  sight  to 
that  one  object  exclusively.  Others  indeed  are 
more  effectually  shut  out,  than  if  we  were  not 
examining  this.  Thus  while  the  object  in  ques¬ 
tion  is  magnified,  the  others  are  as  if  they  did 
not  exist. 

It  seems  to  be  established  into  a  kind  of  sys¬ 
tem  not  to  profit  by  any  thing  without  us,  and 
not  to  cultivate  an  acquaintance  with  any  thing 
within  us.  Though  we  are  perpetually  remark¬ 
ing  on  the  defects  of  others,  yet  when  does  the 
remark  lead  us  to  study  and  to  root  out  the 
same  defects  in  our  own  hearts  ?  We  are  almost 
every  day  hearing  of  the  death  of  others,  but 
does  it  induce  us  to  reflect  on  death  as  a  thing 
in  which  we  have  an  individual  concern  ?  We 
consider  the  death  of  a  friend  as  a  loss,  but  sel¬ 
dom  appl}^  it  as  a  warning.  The  death  of  others 
we  lament,  the  faults  of  others  we  censure,  but 
how  seldom  do  we  make  use  of  the  one  for  our 
own  amendment,  or  of  the  other  for  our  own  pre¬ 
paration.* 

It  is  the  fashion  of  the  times  to  try  experi¬ 
ments  in  the  arts,  in  agriculture,  in  philosophy. 
In  every  science  the  diligent  professor  is  always 
afraid  there  may  be  some  secret  which  he  has 
not  yet  attained,  some  occult  principle  which 
would  reward  the  labour  of  discovery,  something 
even  which  the  assiduous  and  intelligent  have 
actually  found  out,  but  which  has  hitherto 
eluded  his  pursuit.  And  shall  the  Christian  stop 
short  in  his  scrutiny,  shall  he  not  examine  and 
inquire  till  he  lays  hold  on  the  very  heart  and 
core  of  religion  ? 

Why  should  experimental  philosophy  be  the 
prevailing  study,  and  experimental  religion  be 
branded  as  the  badge  of  enthusiasm,  the  cant  of 
a  hollow  profession  ?  Shall  we  never  labour  to 
establish  the  distinction  between  appearance 
and  reality,  between  studying  religion  critically, 
and  embracing  it  practically,  between  having 
our  conduct  creditable  and  our  hearts  sanctified? 
Shall  we  not  aspire  to  do  the  best  things  from 
the  highest  motives,  and  elevate  our  aims  with 
our  attainments  ?  Why  should  we  remain  in  the 
vestibule  when  the  sanctuary  is  open?  Why 
should  we  be  contented  to  dwell  in  the  outer 
courts  when  we  are  invited  to  enter  into  the  ho¬ 
liest  by  the  blood  of  Jesus? 

Natural  reason  is  not  likely  to  furnish  argu¬ 
ments  sufficiently  cogent,  nor  motives  sufiicient- 
ly  powerful  tn  drive  us  to  a  close  self-inspection. 
Our  corruptions  foster  this  ignorance.  To  this 
they  owe  their  undisputed  possession  of  our 

*  For  this  hint,  and  a  few  others  on  the  same  subject, 
the  aotlior  is  indebted  to  that  excellent  Christian  mo¬ 
ralist,  M.  Nicole. 


hearts.  No  principle  short  of  Christianity  is 
strong  enough  to  impel  us  to  a  study  so  disa¬ 
greeable  as  that  of  our  faults.  Of  Christianity 
humility  is  the  prime  grace,  and  this  grace  can 
never  take  root  and  flourish  in  a  heart  that  lives 
in  ignorance  of  itself.  If  we  do  not  know  the 
greatness  and  extent  of  our  sins,  if  we  do  not 
know  the  imperfections  of  our  virtues,  th?  falli¬ 
bility  of  our  best  resolutions,  the  infirmity  of 
our  purest  purposes,  we  cannot  be  humble ;  if 
we  are  not  humble,  we  cannot  be  Christians. 

But  it  may  be  asked,  is  there  to  be  no  end  to 
this  vigilance  ?  Is  there  no  assigned  period  when 
this  self-denial  may  become  unnecessary  ?  No 
given  point  when  we  may  be  emancipated  from 
the  vexatious  self-inspection  ?  Is  the  matured 
Christian  to  be  a  slave  to  the  same  drudgery  as 
the  novice?  The  true  answer  is-we  may  cease  to 
watch  when  our  spiritual  enemy  ceases  to  asaiL 
We  may  be  off  our  guard  when  there  is  no  longer 
any  temptation  without.  We  may  cease  our  self- 
denial  when  there  is  no  more  corruption  within- 
We  may  give  the  reins  to  our  imagination  when 
we  are  sure  its  tendencies  will  be  towards  hea¬ 
ven.  We  may  dismiss  repentance  when  sin  is 
abolished.  We  may  indulge  selfishness  whea 
we  can  do  it  without  danger  to  our  souls.  We 
may  neglect  prayer  when  we  no  longer  need 
the  favour  of  God.  We  may  cease  to  praise 
him  when  he  ceases  to  be  gracious  to  us. — Tc 
discontinue  our  vigilance  at  any  period  short  of 
this,  will  be  to  defeat  all  the  virtues  we  hav 
practised  on  earth,  to  put  to  hazai  d  all  our  hopes 
of  happiness  in  heaven. 


CHAP.  XIII. 

Self-Love, 

‘  The  idol  Self,’  says  an  excellent  old  divine,* 
‘  has  made  more  desolation  among  men  than 
ever  was  made  in  those  places  where  idols  were 
served  by  human  sacrifices.  It  has  preyed  more 
fiercely  on  human  lives,  than  Moloch  or  the 
Minotaur.’ 

To  worship  images  is  a  more  obvious,  but  it 
is  scarcely  a  more  degrading  idolatry,  than  to 
set  up  self  in  opposition  to  God.  To  devote  our¬ 
selves  to  this  service  is  as  perfect  slavery  as  the 
service  of  God  is  perfect  freedom.  If  we  cannot 
imitate  the  sacrifice  of  Christ  in  his  death,  we 
are  called  upon  to  imitate  the  sacrifice  of  him¬ 
self  in  his  will.  Even  the  Son  of  God  declared 
‘  I  came  not  to  do  my  own  will,  but  the  will  of 
Him  who  sent  me.’  This  was  his  grand  lesson^ 
this  was  his  distinguishing  character. 

Self  will  is  the  ever  flowing  fountain  of  all 
the  evil  tempers  which  deform  our  hearts,  of 
all  the  boiling  passions  which  inflame  and  dis¬ 
order  society  ;  the  root  of  bitterness  on  which 
all  its  corrupt  fruits  grow.  We  set  up  our  own 
understanding  against  the  wisdom  of  God,  and 
our  own  passions  against  the  will  of  God.  If 
we  could  ascertain  the  precise  period  when  sen¬ 
suality  ceased  to  govern  in  the  animal  part  of 

*  Ilowe. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


461 


“Our  nature,  and  pride  in  the  intellectual,  that 
period  would  form  the  most  memorable  era  of 
the  Christian  life  ;  from  that  moment  he  begins 
a  new  date  of  liberty  and  happiness  ;  from  that 
stage  he  sets  out  on  a  new  career  of  peace,  li- 
berty,  and  virtue. 

Self-love  is  a  Proteus  of  all  shapes,  shades, 
•and  complexions.  It  has  the  power  of  dilation 
and  contraction  as  best  serves  the  occasion. 
There  is  no  crevice  so  small  through  which  its 
subtle  essence  cannot  force  its  way,  no  space  so 
ample  that  it  cannot  stretch  itself  to  fill. — It  is 
of  all  degrees  of  refinement,  so  coarse  and  hun¬ 
gry  as  to  gorge  itself  with  the  grossest  adula¬ 
tion  ;  so  fastidious  as  to  require  a  homage  as  re¬ 
fined  as  itself ;  so  artful  as  to  elude  the  detection 
of  ordinary  observers  ;  so  specious  as  to  escape 
the  observation  of  the  very  heart  in  which  it 
reigns  paramount :  yet,  though  so  extravagant 
an  its  appetites,  it  can  adopt  a  moderation  which 
imposes,  a  delicacy  which  veils  its  deformity,  an 
artificial  character  which  keeps  its  real  one  out 
of  sight. 

We  are  apt  to  speak  of  self-love  as  if  it  were 
only  a  symptom,  whereas  it  is  the  distemper  it¬ 
self;  a  malignant  distemper  which  has  posses¬ 
sion  of  the  moral  constitution,  of  which  malady 
every  part  of  the  system  participates.  In  direct 
opposition  to  the  effect  produced  by  the  touch 
•of  the  fabled  king,  which  converted  the  basest 
materials  into  gold,  this  corrupting  principle 
pollutes,  by  coming  in  contact  with  it,  whatever 
is  in  itself  great  and  noble. 

Self-love  is  the  centre  of  the  unrenewed  heart. 
This  stirring  principle,  as  has  been  observed, 
serves  indeed 

The  virtuous  mind  to  wake ; 

•but  it  disturbs  it  from  its  slumbers  to  ends  and 
purposes  directly  opposite  to  those  assigned  to 
it  by  our  incomparable  bard.*  Self-love  is  by 
no  means  ‘the  small  pebble  which  stirs  the 
peaceful  lake.’  It  is  rather  the  pent  up  wind 
within,  which  causes  the  earthquake  ;  it  is  the 
tempest  which  agitates  the  sleeping  ocean.  Had 
the  image  been  as  just  as  its  clothing  is  beau¬ 
tiful  ;  or  rather  had  Mr,  Pope  been  as  sound  a 
theologian  as  he  was  an  exquisite  poet,  the  allu¬ 
sion  in  his  hands  might  have  conveyed  a  sounder 
meaning  without  losing  a  particle  of  its  elegance. 
This  might  ha»o  been  effected  by  only  substi¬ 
tuting  the  effect  Tor  the  cause  ;  that  is,  by  mak¬ 
ing  benevolence  the  principle  instead  of  the  con¬ 
sequence,  and  by  discarding  self-love  from  its 
central  situation  in  the  construction  of  the  meta¬ 
phor.  ^ 

But  by  arraying  a  beggarly  idea  in  princely 
robes,  he  knew  that  his  own  splendid  powers 
could  at  any  time  transform  meanness  into  ma¬ 
jesty,  and  deformity  into  beauty. 

After  all  however,  le  vrai  est  le  seul  beau.  Had 
he  not  blindly  adopted  the  misleading  system 
of  the  noble  sceptic,  ‘  his  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend,’  he  might  have  transferred  tlie  shining 
attributes  of  the  base-born  thing  which  he  has 
dressed  out  with  so  many  graces,  to  the  legiti¬ 
mate  claimant — benevolence; — of  which  self- 
love  is  so  far  from  being,  as  he  represents,  the 
moving  spring,  that  they  are  both  working  in  a 
*  Essay  on  Man,  1,  362. 


course  of  incessant  couhteraction,  the  spirit 
striving  against  the  flesh,  and  the  flesh  against 
the  spirit. 

To  Christian  benevolence  all  the  happy  effects 
attributed  to  self-love  might  have  been  fairly 
traced.  It  was  only  to  dislodge  the  idol  and 
make  the  love  of  God  the  centre,  and  the  poet’s 
delightful  numbers  might  have  conveyed  truths 
worthy  of  so  perfect  a  vehicle.  ‘  This  centre 
moved,’  does  indeed  extend  its  pervading  mflu. 
ence  in  the  very  manner  ascribed  to  the  oppo- 
site  principle ;  does  indeed  spread  from  its  throne 
in  the  individual  breast,  to  all  those  successive 
circles,  ‘  wide  and  more  wide,’  of  which  the 
poet  makes  self-love  the  firsfmover.* 

The  apostle  James  appears  to  have  been  of  a 
different  opinion  from  the  ethic  bard ;  he  speaks 
as  if  he  suspected  that  the  pebble  stirred  the 
lake  a  little  too  roughly.  He  traces  this  mis¬ 
chievous  principle  from  its  birth  to  the  largest 
extent  of  its  malign  influence. — The  question, 
‘  whence  come  wars  and  fightings  among  you,’ 
he  answers  by  another  question  ; — ‘  Come  they 
not  hence,  even  of  your  lusts  that  war  in  your 
members']’ 

The  same  pervading  spirit  which  creates  hos¬ 
tility  between  nations,  creates  animosity  among 
neighbours,  and  discord  in  families.  It  is  the 
same  principle  which,  having  in  the  beginning 
made  ‘  Cain  the  first  male  child,’  a  murderer  in 
his  father’s  house,  has  been  ever  since  in  per¬ 
petual  operation  ;  has  been  transmitted  in  one 
unbroken  line  of  succession,  through  that  long 
chain  of  crimes  of  which  history  is  composed 
to  the  present  triumphant  spoiler  of  Europe. — 
In  cultivated  societies,  laws  repress,  by  punish¬ 
ing,  the  overt  act  in  private  individuals,  but  no 
one  thing  but  the  Christian  religion  has  ever 
been  devised  to  cleanse  the  spring. 

‘The  heart  is  deceitful  above  all  things  and 
desperately  wicked,  who  can  know  it  ?’  This 
proposition,  this  interrogation,  we  read  with 
complacency,  and  both  the  aphorism  and  the 
question  being  a  portion  of  Scripture,  we  think 
it  would  not  be  decent  to  controvert  it.  We 
read  it  however  with  a  secret  reservation,  that 
it  is  only  the  heart  of  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
that  is  meant,  and  we  rarely  make  the  applica¬ 
tion  which  the  Scripture  intended.  Each  hopes 
that  there  is  one  heart  which  may  escape  the 
charge,  and  he  makes  the  single  exception  in 
favour  of  his  own.  But  if  the  exception  which 
every  one  makes  were  true,  there  would  not  be 
a  deceitful  or  wicked  heart  in  the  world. 

As  a  theory  we  are  ready  enough  to  admire 
self-knowledge,  yet  when  the  practice  comes  in 
question  we  are  as  blindfolded  as  if  our  happi¬ 
ness  depended  on  our  ignorance.  To  lay  hold 

*  Self-love  thus  pushed  to  social,  to  divine, 

Gives  thee  to  make  thy  neighbour’s  blessing  thine: 

Self  love  but  serves  the  virtuous  mind  to  wake, 

As  the  small  pebble  stirs  the  peaceful  lake  ; 

The  centre  mov’d,  a  circle  straight  succeeds, 

Another  still,  and  still  another  spreads; 

Friend,  parent,  neighbour,  first  it  will  embrace, 

His  country  next,  and  next  all  human  race. 

The  author  hopes  to  be  forgiven  for  these  remarks; 
she  has  hazarded  them  for  the  sake  of  her  more  youth¬ 
ful  readers. — She  has  not  forgotten  the  time  when,  in 
the  admiration  of  youthful  enthusiasm,  she  never  sus¬ 
pected  that  the  principle  of  these  finished  verses  was  less 
excellent  than  the  poetry. 


463 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


on  a  religious  truth,  and  to  maintain  our  hold, 
is  no  easy  matter.  Our  understandings  are 
not  more  ready  to  receive  than  our  affections  to 
lose  it.  We  like  to  have  an  intellectual  know¬ 
ledge  of  divine  things,  but  to  cultivate  a  spiritual 
acquaintance  with  them  cannot  be  effected  at  so 
cheap  a  rate.  We  can  even  more  readily  force 
ourselves  to  believe  that  which  has  no  affinity 
with  our  understanding,  than  we  can  bring  our¬ 
selves  to  choose  that  which  has  no  interest  in 
our  will,  no  correspondence  with  our  passions. 
One  of  the  first  duties  of  a  Christian  is  to 
endeavour  to  conquer  this  antipathy  to  the  self- 
denying  doctrines  against  which  the  human 
heart  so  sturdily  holds  out.  The  learned  take 
incredible  pains  for  the  acquisition  of  knowledge. 
The  philosopher  cheerfully  consumes  the  mid¬ 
night  oil  in  his  laborious  pursuits ;  he  willingly 
sacrifices  food  and  rest  to  conquer  a  difficulty 
in  science.  Here  the  labour  is  pleasant,  the  fa¬ 
tigue  is  grateful,  the  very  difficulty  is  not  with¬ 
out  its  charms.  Why  do  we  feel  so  differently 
in  our  religious  pursuits  ?  Because  in  the  most 
operose  human  studies,  there  is  no  contradic¬ 
tion  of  self,  there  is  no  opposition  to  the  will, 
there  is  no  combat  of  the  affections.  If  the  pas¬ 
sions  are  at  all  implicated,  if  self-love  is  at  all 
concerned,  it  is  rather  in  the  way  of  gratifica¬ 
tion  than  of  opposition. 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  mechanical  Chris¬ 
tianity.  'There  are  good  imitations  of  religion, 
BO  well  executed  and  so  resembling,  as  not  only 
to  deceive  the  spectator,  but  the  artist.  Self- 
love  in  its  various  artifices  to  deceive  us  to  our 
ruin,  sometimes  makes  use  of  a  means,  which, 
if  properly  used,  is  one  of  the  most  beneficial 
that  can  be  devised  to  preserve  us  irom  its  in¬ 
fluence — the  perusal  of  pious  books. 

But  these  books  in  the  hands  of  the  ignorant, 
the  indolent,  and  the  self-satisfied,  produce  an 
effect  directly  contrary  to  that  which  they  were 
intended  to  produce,  and  which  they  actually  do 
produce  on  minds  prepared  for  the  perusal. 
They  inflate  where  they  were  intended  to 
humble.  As  some  hypochondriacs,  who  amuse 
their  melancholy  hours  with  consulting  indis¬ 
criminately  ev^ery  medical  book  which  falls  in 
their  way,  fancy  they  find  their  own  case  in 
every  page,  their  own  ailment  in  the  ailment 
of  every  patient,  till  they  believe  they  actually 
feel  every  pain  of  whiel)  they  read,  though  the 
work  treats  of  cases  diametrically  opposite  to 
their  own: — so  the  religious  valetudinarian,  as 
unreasonably  elated  as  the  others  are  depressed, 
reads  books  descriptive  of  a  highly  religious 
state,  with  the  same  unhappy  self-applieation. 
Ho  feels  his  spiritual  pulse  by  a  wateh  that  has 
no  movements  in  common  with  it,  yet  he  faneies 
that  they  go  exactly  alike.  He  dwells  with  de¬ 
light  on  symptoms,  not  one  of  which  belongs  to 
him,  and  flatters  himself  with  their  supposed 
agreement.  He  observes  in  those  books  what 
are  the  signs  of  grace,  and  he  observes  them 
with  complete  self-application  ;  he  traces  what 
are  the  evidences  of  being  in  God’s  favour,  and 
those  evidences  he  finds  in  himself. 

Self-ignorance  appropriates  truths  faithfully 
stated  but  wholly  inapplicable.  The  presump¬ 
tion  of  the  novice  arrogates  to  itself  the  experi¬ 
ence  of  the  advanced  Christian.  Ho  is  persuad¬ 


ed  that  it  is  his  own  case,  and  seizes  on  the  con¬ 
solations  which  belong  only  to  the  most  elevated 
piety.  Self-knowledge  would  correct  the  judg¬ 
ment.  It  would  teach  us  to  use  the  pattern 
held  out  as  an  original  to  copy,  instead  of  lead¬ 
ing  us  to  fancy  that  we  are  already  wrought 
into  the  assimilation.  It  would  teach  us  when 
we  read  the  history  of  an  established  Christian, 
to  labour  after  a  conformity  to  it,  instead  of 
mistaking  it  for  the  delineation  of  our  own 
character. 

Human  prudence,  daily  experience,  self-love, 
all  teach  us  to  distrust  others,  but  all  motives 
combined  do  not  teach  us  to  distrust  ourselves ; 
we  confide  unreservedly  in  our  own  heart,  though 
as  a  guide  it  misleads,  as  a  counsellor  it  betrays. 
It  is  both  party  and  judge.  As  the  one,  it  blinds 
through  ignorance,  as  the  other,  it  acquits 
through  partiality. 

Though  we  value  ourselves  upon  our  discre. 
tion  in  not  confiding  too  implicitly  in  others 
yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any  friend,  any 
neighbour,  or  even  any  enemy  who  has  deceivea 
us  so  often  as  we  liave  deceived  ourselves.  If 
any  acquaintance  betray  us,  we  take  warning 
are  on  the  watch,  and  are  careful  not  to  trust 
him  again.  But  however  frequently  the  bosom 
traitor  deceive  and  misled,  no  such  determined 
stand  is  made  against  his  treachery  :  we  lie  as 
open  to  his  next  assault  as  if  he  had  never  be¬ 
trayed  us.  We  do  not  profit  by  the  remem¬ 
brance  of  the  past  delusion  to  guard  against  tha 
future. 

Yet  if  another  deceive  us,  it  is  only  in  matters 
respecting  this  world  ;  but  we  deceive  ourselves 
in  things  of  eternal  moment.  The  treachery 
of  others  can  only  affect  our  fortune  or  our  fame, 
or  at  worst  our  peace ;  but  the  internal  traitor 
may  mislead  us  to  our  everlasting  destruction. 
We  are  too  much  disposed  to  suspect  others 
who  probably  have  neither  the  inclination  nor 
the  power  to  injure  us,  but  we  seldom  suspect 
our  own  heart  though  it  possesses  and  employs 
both.  We  ought  however  fairly  to  distinguish 
between  the  simple  vanity  and  the  hypocrisy 
of  self-love.  Those  who  content  themselves 
with  talking  as  if  the  praise  of  virtue  implied 
the  practice,  and  who  expect  to  be  thought 
good,  because  they  commend  goodness,  only 
propagate  the  deceit  which  has  misled  them¬ 
selves,  whereas  hypocrisy  doeS  not  even  believe 
herself.  She  has  deeper  motives ;  she  has  de¬ 
signs  to  answer,  competitions  to  promote,  pro¬ 
jects  to  effect.  But  mere  vanity  can  subsist 
on  ,the  thin  air  of  the  admiration  she  soli¬ 
cits,  without  intending  to  get  any  thing  by  it. 
She  is  gratuitous  in  her  loquacity  ;  for  she  is 
ready  to  display  her  own  merit  to  those  who  have 
nothing  to  give  in  return,  whose  applause  brings 
no  profit,  and  whose  censure  no  disgrace. 

It  is  not  strange  that  we  should  judge  of 
things  not  according  to  the  opinion  of  others  in 
cases  foreign  to  ourselves ;  cases  on  which  we 
have  no  correct  means  of  determining;  but  we 
do  it  in  things  which  relate  immediately  to 
ourselves,  thus  making  not  truth  but  the  opinion 
of  others  our  standard  in  points  which  others 
cannot  know,  and  of  whicli  we  ought  not  to  be 
ignorant.  We  are  as  fond  of  the  applauses  even 
of  the  upper  gallery  as  the  dramatic  poet.  Like 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


463 


him  we  affect  to  despise  the  mob  considered  as 
individual  judges,  yet  as  a  mass,  we  covet  their 
applause.  Like  him  we  feel  strengthened  by 
the  number  of  voices  in  our  favour,  and  are  less 
anxious  about  the  goodness  of  the  work,  than 
the  loudness  of  the  acclamation.  Success  is 
merit  in  the  eye  of  both.  . 

But  even  though  we  may  put  more  refinement 
into  our  self-love,  it  is  self-love  still.  No  sub¬ 
tlety  of  reasoning,  no  elegance  of  taste,  though 
it  may  disguise  the  radical  principle,  can  destroy 
it.  We  are  still  too  much  in  love  with  flattery, 
even  though  we  may  profess  to  despise  that 
praise  which  depends  on  the  acclamations  of 
the  vulgar.  But  if  we  are  over  anxious  for  the 
admiration  of  the  better  born  and  the  better 
bred,  this  by  no  means  proves  that  we  are  not 
vain  ;  it  only  proves  that  our  vanity  has  a  better 
taste.  Our  appetite  is  not  coarse  enough  per¬ 
haps  to  relish  that  popularity  which  ordinary 
ambition  covets,  but  do  we  never  feed  in  secret 
upon  the  applauses  of  more  distinguished 
judges  ?  Is  not  their  having  extolled  our  merit 
a  confirmation  of  our  discernment,  and  the  chief 
ground  of  our  high  opinion  of  theirs  'I 

But  if  any  circumstance  arise  to  induce 
them  to  change  the  too  favourable  opinion 
which  they  had  formed  of  us,  though  their 
general  character  remain  unimpeachable,  and 
their  general  conduct  as  meritorious  as  when 
we  most  admired  them,  do  we  not  begin  to  judge 
them  unfavourably  ?  Do  we  not  begin  to  ques¬ 
tion  their  claim  to  that  discernment  which  we 
had  ascribed  to  them,  to  suspect  the  soundness 
of  their  judgment  which  we  had  so  loudly  com¬ 
mended  ?  It  is  well  if  we  do  not  entertain  some 
doubt  of  the  rectitude  of  their  principles,  as  we 
probably  do  of  the  reality  of  their  friendship. 
We  do  not  candidly  allow  for  the  effect  which 
prejudice,  which  misrepresentation,  which  party 
may  produce  even  on  an  upright  mind.  Still 
less  does  it  enter  into  our  calculation  that  we 
may  actually  have  deserved  their  disapproba¬ 
tion,  that  something  in  our  conduct  may  have 
incurred  the  change  in  theirs. 

It  is  no  low  attainment  to  detect  this  lurking 
injustice  in  our  hearts,  to  strive  against  it,  to 
pray  against  it,  and  especially  to  conquer  it. 
We  may  reckon  that  we  have  acquired  a  sound 
principle  of  integrity  when  prejudice  no  longer 
blinds  our  judgment,  nor  resentment  biases  our 
justice;  when  we  do  not  make  our  opinion  of 
another  depend  on  the  opinion  which  we  con¬ 
ceive  he  entertains  of  us.  We  must  keep  a  just 
mearsure,  and  hold  an  even  balance  in  judging 
of  ourselves  as  well  as  of  others.  We  must  have 
no  false  estimate  which  shall  incline  to  con¬ 
demnation  without,  or  to  partiality  within. 
The  examining  principle  must  be  kept  sound, 
or  our  deteimination  will  not  be  exact.  It  must 
be  at  once  a  testimony  of  our  rectitude,  and  an 
incentive  to  it. 

In  order  to  improve  this  principle,  we  should 
make  it  a  test  of  our  sincerity  to  search  out  and 
io  commend  the  good  qualities  of  those  who  do 
not  like  us.  But  this  must  be  done  without 
affectation,  and  without  insincerity.  Wo  must 
practice  no  false  candour.  If  we  are  not  on  our 
guard  we  may  be  laying  out  for  the  praise  of 
generosity,  while  we  are  only  exercising  a  sim¬ 


ple  act  of  justice.  These  refinements  of  self 
love  are  the  dangers  only  of  spirits  of  the  higher 
order,  but  to  such  they  are  dangers. 

The  ingenuity  of  self-deceit  is  inexhaustible. 
If  people  extol  us,  we  feel  our  good  opinion  of 
ourselves  confirmed.  If  they  dislike  us,  we  do 
not  think  the  worse  of  ourselves,  but  of  them  ; 
it  is  not  we  who  want  merit  but  they  who  want 
penetration.  If  we  cannot  refuse  them  discern¬ 
ment,  we  persuade  ourselves  that  they  are  not 
so  much  insensible  to  our  worth  as  envious  of 
it.  There  is  no  shift,'  stratagem,  or  device 
which  we  do  not  employ  to  make  us  stand  well 
with  ourselves. 

We  are  too  apt  to  calculate  our  own  character 
unfairly  in  two  ways;  by  referring  to  some  one 
signal  act  of  generosity,  as  if  such  acts  were 
the  common  habit  of  our  lives,  and  by  treating 
our  habitual  faults,  not  as  common  habits,  but 
occasional  failures.  There  is  scarcely  any  fault 
in  another  which  offends  us  more  than  vanity, 
though  perhaps  there  is  none  that  really  injures 
us  so  little.  We  have  no  patience  that  another 
should  be  as  full  of  self-love  as  we  allow  our¬ 
selves  to  be ;  so  full  of  himself  as  to  have  little 
leisure  to  attend  to  us.  We  are  particularly 
quick  sighted  to  the  smallest  of  his  imperfec¬ 
tions  which  interferes  with  our  self-esteem, 
while  we  are  lenient  to  his  more  grave  offences, 
which  by  not  coming  in  contact  with  our  vanity, 
do  not  shock  onr  self-love. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  though  we  love  our 
selves  so  much  better  than  we  love  any  other 
person,  yet  there  is  hardly  one,  however  little 
we  value  him,  that  we  had  not  rather  be  alone 
with,  that  we  had  not  rather  converse  with, 
that  we  had  not  rather  come  to  close  quarters 
with,  than  ourselves  ?  Scarcely  one  whose  pri¬ 
vate  history,  whose  thoughts,  feelings,  actions, 
and  motives  we  had  not  rather  pry  into  than 
our  own.  Do  we  not  use  every  art  and  con¬ 
trivance  to  avoid  getting  at  the  truth  of  our  own 
character  ?  Do  we  not  endeavour  to  keep  our¬ 
selves  ignorant  of  what  every  one  else  knows 
respecting  our  faults,  and  do  we  not  account 
that  man  our  enemy,  who  takes  on  himself  the 
be.st  oflice  of  a  friend,  that  of  opening  to  us  our 
real  state  and  condition  ? 

The  little  satisfaction  people  find  when  they 
faithfully  look  within,  makes  them  fly  more 
eagerly  to  things  without.  Early  practice  and 
long  habit  might  conquer  the  repugnance  to 
look  at  home,  and  the  fondness  for  looking 
abroad.  Familiarity  often  makes  us  pleased 
with  the  society  which,  while  strangers  we 
dreaded.  Intimacy  with  ourselves  might  pro¬ 
duce  a  similar  effect. 

We  might  perhaps  collect  a  tolerably  just 
knowledge  of  our  own  character,  could  we 
ascertain  the  real  opinion  of  others  respecting 
us  ;  but  that  opinion  being,  except  in  a  moment 
of  resentment,  carefully  kept  ftom  us  by  our 
own  precautions,  profits  us  nothing.  We  d^ 
not  choose  to  know  their  secret  sentiments, 
because  we  do  not  choose  to  be  cured  of  our 
error;  because  we ‘love  darkness  rather  than 
light;’  because  we  conceive  that  in  parting 
with  our  vanity,  we  should  part  with  the  only 
comfort  wo  have,  that  of  being  ignorant  of  our 
own  faults. 


4G4 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Self-knowledgfe  would  materially  contribute 
to  our  happiness,  by  curing  us  of  that  self-suffi¬ 
ciency  which  is  continually  exposing  us  to  mor¬ 
tifications.  Tlie  hourly  rubs  and  vexations  which 
pride  undergoes,  is  far  more  than  an  equivalent 
for  the  short  intoxication  of  pleasure  which  it 
snatches. 

The  enemy  within  is  always  in  a  confederacy 
with  the  enemy  without,  whether  that  enemy 
be  the  world  or  the  devil.  The  domestic  foe  ac- 
commodates  itself  to  their  allurements,  flatters 
■our  weaknesses,  throws  a  veil  over  our  vices, 
.tarnishes  our  good  deeds,  gilds  our  bad  ones, 
hoodwinks  our  judgment,  and  works  hard  to 
conceal  our  internal  springs  of  action. 

Self-love  has  the  talent  of  imitating  whatever 
.the  world  admires,  even  though  it  should  be  the 
Christian  virtues.  It  leads  us  from  our  regard 
to  reputation  to  avoid  all  vices,  not  only  which 
would  bring  punishment  but  discredit  by  the 
commission.  It  can  even  assume  the  zeal  and 
copy  the  activity  of  Christian  charity.  It  com¬ 
municates  to  our  conduct  those  properties  and 
graces,  manifested  in  the  conduct  of  those  who 
<are  actuated  by  a  sounder  motive.  The  differ¬ 
ence  lies  in  the  ends  proposed.  The  object  of 
the  one  is  to  please  God,  of  the  other  to  obtain 
the  praise  of  man. 

Self-love  judging  of  the  feelings  of  others  by 
its  own,  is  aware  that  nothing  excites  so  much 
odium  as  its  own  character  would  do,  if  nakedly 
exhibited.  We  feel,  by  our  own  disgust  at  its 
•exhibition  in  others,  how  much  disgust  we  our¬ 
selves  should  excite  did  wo  not  invest  it  with 
the  soft  garb  of  gentle  manners  and  polished  ad¬ 
dress.  When  therefore  we  would  not  conde¬ 
scend  ‘  to  take  the  lowest  place,  to  think  others 
better  than  ourselves,  to  be  courteous  and  pitiful,’ 
on  the  true  scripture  ground,  politeness  steps  in 
-as  the  accidental  substitute  of  humility,  and  the 
counterfeit  brilliant  is  willingly  worn  by  those 
who  will  not  be  at  the  expense  of  the  jewel. 

There  is  a  certain  elegance  of  mind  which 
will  often  restrain  a  well-bred  man  from  sordid 
pleasures  and  gross  voluptuousness.  He  will  be 
•led  by  his  good  taste  perhaps  not  only  to  abhor 
the  excesses  of  vice,  but  to  admire  the  theory  of 
virtue.  But  it  is  only  the  crapule  of  vice  which 
he  will  abhor.  Exquisite  gratifications,  sober 
luxury,  incessant  but  not  unmeasured  enjoy¬ 
ment,  form  the  principle  of  his  plan  of  life,  and 
if  he  observe  a  temperance  in  his  pleasures,  it 
is  only  because  excess  would  take  olF  the  edge, 
<lestroy  the  zest,  and  abridge  the  gratification. 
By  resisting  gross  vices  ho  flatters  himself  that 
ho  is  a  temperate  man,  and  that  he  has  made 
all  the  sacrifices  which  self-denial  imposes.  In¬ 
wardly  satisfied,  he  compares  himself  with  those 
who  have  sunk  into  coarser  indulgences,  enjoys 
his  own  superiority  in  health,  credit,  and  unim¬ 
paired  faculties,  and  triumphs  in  the  dignity  of 
his  own  character. 

There  is,  if  the  expression  may  be  allowed, 
*a  sort  of  religious  self-deceit,  an  affection  of  hu¬ 
mility  which  is  in  reality  full  of  life,  which  re¬ 
solves  all  importance  into  what  concerns  self, 
which  only  looks  at  things  as  they  refer  to  life. 
This  religious  vanity  operates  in  two  ways  : — 
We  not  only  fly  out  at  the  imputation  of  the 
■mallest  individual  fault,  while  at  the  same  time 


we  affect  to  charge  ourselves  with  more  corrup¬ 
tion  than  is  attributed  to  us ;  but  on  the  other 
hand,  while  we  are  lamenting  our  general  want 
of  all  goodness,  we  fight  for  every  particle  that 
is  disputed.  The  one  quality  that  is  in  question 
always  happens  to  be  the  very  one  to  which  we 
must  lay  claim,  however  deficient  in  others. — 
Thus,  while  renouncing  the  pretensions  to  every 
virtue,  ‘  we  depreciate  ourselves  into  all.’  We 
had  rather  talk  even  of  our  faults  than  not  oc¬ 
cupy  the  foreground  of  the  canvass. 

Humility  does  not  consist  in  telling  our  faults, 
but  in  bearing  to  be  told  of  them ;  in  hearing 
them  patiently  and  even  thankfully ;  in  correct¬ 
ing  ourselves  when  told ;  in  not  hating  those 
who  tell  us  of  them.  If  we  were  little  in  our 
own  eyes,  and  felt  our  real  insignificance,  we 
should  avoid  false  humility  as  much  as  mere 
obvious  vanity ;  but  we  seldom  dwell  on  our 
faults  except  in  a  general  way,  and  rarely  on 
those  of  which  we  are  really  guilty.  We  do  it 
in  the  hope  of  being  contradicted,  and  thus  of 
being  confirmed  in  the  secret  good  opinion  we 
entertain  of  ourselves.  It  is  not  enough  that  we 
inveigh  against  ourselves,  we  must  in  a  manner 
forget  ourselves.  This  oblivion  of  self  from  a 
pure  principle,  would  go  further  towards  our 
advancement  in  Christian  virtue,  than  the  most 
splendid  actions  performed  on  the  opposite 
ground. 

That  self-knowledge  which  teaches  us  humi¬ 
lity,  teaches  us  compassion  also.  The  sick  pity 
the  sick.  They  sympathize  with  the  disorder 
of  which  they  feel  the  symptoms  in  themselves. 
Self-knowledge  also  checks  injustice  by  esta¬ 
blishing  the  equitable  principle  of  showing  the 
kindness  we  expect  to  receive ;  it  represses  am¬ 
bition  by  convincing  us  how  little  we  are  entitled 
to  superiority ;  it  renders  adversity  profitable 
by  letting  us  see  how  much  we  deserve  it ;  it 
makes  prosperity  safe,  by  directing  our  hearts 
to  HIM  who  confers  it,  instead  of  receiving  it  as 
the  consequence  of  our  own  desert. 

We  even  carry  our  self-importance  to  the  foot 
of  the  throne  of  God.  When  prostrate  there  we 
are  not  required,  it  is  true,  to  forget  ourselves, 
but  we  are  required  to  remember  him.  We  have 
indeed  much  sin  to  lament,  but  we  have  also 
much  mercy  to  adore.  We  have  much  to  ask, 
but  we  have  likewise  much  to  acknowledge. 
Yet  our  infinite  obligations  to  God  do  not  fill 
our  hearts  half  as  much  as  a  petty  uneasiness 
of  our  own  ;  nor  his  infinite  perfections  as  much 
as  our  own  smallest  want. 

The  great,  the  only  effectual  antidote  to  self- 
love,  is  to  get  the  love  of  God  and  of  our  neigh¬ 
bour  firmly  rooted  in  the  heart.  Yet  let  us  ever 
bear  in  mind  that  dependance  on  our  fellow  crea¬ 
tures  is  as  carefully  to  be  avoided  as  love  of  them 
is  to  be  cultivated,  There  is  none  but  God  on 
whom  the  principles  of  love  and  dependance 
form  but  one  duty. 


/  CHAP.  XIV. 

On  the  conduct  of  Christians  in  their  intercourse 
with  the  irreligious. 

i  The  combination  of  integrity  with  discretion 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


465 


is  the  precise  point  at  which  a  serious  Christian 
must  aim  in  his  intercourse,  and  especially  in 
his  debates  on  religion,  with  men  of  the  oppo¬ 
site  description.  He  must  consider  himself  as 
not  only  having  his  own  reputation  but  the  ho¬ 
nour  of  religion  in  his  keeping.  While  he  must 
on  the  one  hand  ‘set  his  face  as  a  flint’  against 
any  thing  that  may  be  construed  into  compro¬ 
mise  or  evasion,  into  denying  or  concealing  any 
Christian  truth,  or  shrinking  from  any  com¬ 
manded  duty,  in  order  to  conciliate  favour  ;  he 
must,  on  the  other  hand,  be  scrupulously  care¬ 
ful  never  to  maintain  a  Christian  doctrine  with 
an  unchristian  temper.  In  endeavouring  to  con¬ 
vince  he  must  be  cautious  not  needlessly  to  irri¬ 
tate.  He  must  distinguish  between  the  honour 
of  God  and  the  pride  of  his  own  character,  and 
never  be  pertinaciously  supporting  the  one,  un¬ 
der  the  pretence  that  he  is  only  maintaining  the 
other.  The  dislike  thus  excited  against  the  dis¬ 
putant  is  at  once -transferred  to  the  principle, 
and  the  adversary’s  unfavourable  opinion  of  re¬ 
ligion  is  augmented  by  the  faults  of  its  cham¬ 
pion.  At  the  same  time,  the  intemperate  cham¬ 
pion  puts  it  out  of  his  power  to  be  of  any  fur¬ 
ther  service  to  the  man  whom  his  offensive  man¬ 
ners  have  disgusted. 

A  serious  Christian,  it  is  true,  feels  an  honest 
indignation  at  hearing  those  truths  on  which 
Iiis  everlasting  hopes  depend,  lightly  treated. 
He  cannot  but  feel  his  heart  rise  at  the  affront 
cfFered  to  his  Maker.  But  instead  of  calling 
down  fire  from  heaven  on  the  reviler’s  head,  he 
W'ill  raise  a  secret  supplication  to  the  God  of 
heaven  in  his  favour,  which,  if  it  change  not  the 
heart  of  his  opponent,  will  not  only  tranquilize 
his  own,  but  soften  it  towards  his  adversary ; 
for  we  cannot  easily  hate  the  man  for  whom  we 
pray. 

He  who  advocates  the  sacred  cause  of  Chris¬ 
tianity,  should  be  particularly  aware  of  fancying 
that  his  being  religious  will  atone  for  his  being 
disagreeable  that  his  orthodoxy  will  justify  his 
iincharitableness,  or  his  zeal  make  up  for  his  in¬ 
discretion.  He  must  not  persuade  himself  that 
lie  has  been  serving  God,  when  he  has  only  been 
gratifying  his  own  resentment,  when  he  has 
actually  by  a  fiery  defence  prejudiced  the  cause 
which  he  might  perhaps  have  advanced  by  tem¬ 
perate  argument  and  persuasive  mildness.  Even 
a  judicious  silence  under  great  provocation  is,  in 
a  warm  temper,  real  forbearance.  And  though 
‘  to  keep  silence  from  good  words’  may  be  pain 
and  grief,  yet  the  pain  and  grief  must  bo  borne, 
and  the  silence  must  be  observed. 

We  sometimes  see  imprudent  religionists 
^lory  in  the  attacks  which  their  own  indiscre¬ 
tion  has  invited.  With  more  vanity  than  truth 
they  apply  the  strong  and  ill-chosRn  term  of 
persecution,  to  the  sneers  and  ridicule  which 
some  impropriety  of  manner  or  feome  inadvert¬ 
ency  of  their  own  has  occasioned.  Now  and  then 
jt  is  to  be  feared  the  censure  may  be  deserved, 
and  llie  high  professor  may  possibly  be  but  an 
indifferent  moralist.  Even  a  good  man,  a  point 
wo  are  not  sufficiently  ready  to  concede,  may 
Jiavc  been  blameable  in  some  instance  on  whicli 
his  censures  will  naturally  have  kept  a  keen  eye. 
On  these  occasions  how  forcibly  does  the  point¬ 
ed  caution  recur,  which  was  implied  by  the  di- 
Voi..  I.  G  2 


vine  moralist  on  the  mount,  and  enforced  by  the 
apostle  Peter,  to  distingllish  for  whose  sake  we 
are  calumniated. 

By  the  way,  this  sharp  look-out  of  worldly 
men  on  the  professors  of  religion,  is  not  without 
very  important  uses.  While  it  serves  to  promote 
circumspection  in  the  real  Christian,  the  detec¬ 
tion  to  which  it  leads  in  the  case  of  the  hollow 
professor,  forms  a  broad  and  useful  line  of  dis¬ 
tinction  between  two  classes  of  characters  so 
essentially  distinct,  and  yet  so  frequently,  so  un¬ 
justly,  and  so  malevolently  confounded. 

The  world  believes,  or  at  least  affects  to  be¬ 
lieve,  that  the  correct  and  elegant  minded  reli¬ 
gious  man  is  blind  to  tliose  errors  and  infirmi¬ 
ties,  that  eccentricity  and  bad  taste,  that  pro¬ 
pensity  to  diverge  from  the  straight  line  of  pru¬ 
dence,  which  is  discernible  in  some  pious  but 
ill-judging  men,  and  which  delight  and  gratify 
the  enemies  of  true  piety,  as  furnishing  them 
with  so  plausible  a  ground  for  censure.  But  if 
the  more  judicious  and  better  informed  Chris¬ 
tian  bears  with  these  infirmities,  it  is  not  that 
he  does  not  clearly  perceive  and  entirely  con¬ 
demn  them.  But  he  bears  with  what  he  disap¬ 
proves  for  the  sake  of  the  zeal,  the  sincerity,  the 
general  usefulness  of  these  defective  characters: 
these  good  qualities  are  totally  overlooked  by 
the  censurer,  who  is  ever  on  the  watch  to  aggra 
vate  the  failings  which  Christian  charity  la 
ments  without  extenuating.  It  bears  with  them 
from  the  belief  that  impropriety  is  less  mis¬ 
chievous  than  carelessness,  a  bad  judgment  than 
a  bad  heart,  and  some  little  excesses  of  zeal  than 
gross  immorality  or  total  indifference. 

We  are  not  ignorant  how  much  truth  itself 
offends,  though  unassociated  with  any  thing  that 
is  displeasing.  This  furnishes  an  important 
rule  not  to  add  to  the  unavoidable  offence,  by 
mixing  the  faults  of  our  own  character  with  the 
cause  we  support;  because  we  may  be  certain 
that  the  enemy  will  take  care  never  to  separate 
them.  He  will  always  voluntarily  maintain  the 
pernicious  association  in  his  own  mind.  He  will 
never  think  or  speak  of  religion  without  connect, 
ing  with  it  the  real  or  imputed  bad  qualities  of 
all  the  religious  men  he  knows  or  has  heard  of. 

Let  not  then  the  friends  of  truth  unnecessarily 
increase  the  number  of  her  enemies.  Let  her 
not  hav^e  at  once  to  sustain  the  assaults  to  which 
her  divine  character  inevitably  subjects  her,  and 
the  obloquy  to  which  the  infirmities  and  foibles 
of  her  injudicious,  and  if  there  are  any  such, 
her  unworthy  champions  expose  her. 

But  we  sometimes  justify  our  rash  violence 
under  colour  that  our  correct  piety  cannot  en¬ 
dure  the  faults  of  others.  The  Pharisees,  over¬ 
flowing  witii  wickedness  themselves,  made  the 
exactness  of  their  own  virtue  a  pretence  for 
looking  with  horror  on  the  publicans  whom  our 
Saviour  regarded  wi’h  compassionate  tender¬ 
ness,  while  he  reprobated  with  keen  severity 
the  sins,  and  especially  the  censoriousness  of 
their  accusers.  ‘Charity,’  says  an  admirable 
French  writer,  ‘is  that  law  which  Jesus  Christ 
came  down  to  bring  into  the  world,  to  repair 
the  diiv'sions  which  sin  lias  introduced  into  it: 
to  bo  the  proof  of  the  reconciliation  of  man  with 
God,  by  bringing  him  into  obedience  to  the  di¬ 
vine  law ;  to  reconcile  him  to  himself  by  subju 


466 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


gating  his  passions  to  his  reason  ;  and  in  fine  to 
reconcile  him  to  all  mankind,  by  curing  him  of 
the  desire  to  domineer  over  them.’ 

But  we  put  it  out  of  our  power  to  become  the 
instruments  of  God  in  promoting  the  spiritual 
good  of  any  one,  if  we  stop  up  the  avenue  to  his 
heart  by  violence  or  imprudence.  We  not  only 
put  it  out  of  our  power  to  do  good  to  all  whom 
we  disgust,  but  are  we  not  liable  to  some  respon¬ 
sibility  for  the  failure  of  all  the  good  we  might 
have  done  them,  had  we  not  forfeited  our  influ¬ 
ence  by  our  indiscretion  ?  What  we  do  not  to 
others,  in  relieving  their  spiritual  as  well  as 
bodily  wants,  Christ  will  punish  as  not  having 
been  done  to  himself  This  is  one  of  the  cases 
in  which  our  own  reputation  is  so  inseparably 
connected  with  that  of  religion,  that  we  should 
be  tender  of  one  for  the  sake  of  tile  other. 

The  modes  of  doing  good  in  society  are  vari¬ 
ous.  We  should  sharpen  our  discernment  to 
discover  them ;  and  our  zeal  to  put  them  in 
practice.  If  we  cannot  open  man’s  eyes  to  the 
truth  of  religion  by  our  arguments,  we  may 
perhaps  open  them  to  its  beauty  by  our  modera¬ 
tion.  Though  he  may  dislike  Christianity  in 
itself,  he  may,  from  admiring  the  forbearance  of 
the  Christian,  be  at  last  led  to  admire  the  prin¬ 
ciple  from  which  it  flowed.  If  he  have  hitherto 
refused  to  listen  to  the  written  evidences  of  re¬ 
ligion,  the  temper  of  her  advocate  may  be  a  new 
evidence  of  so  engaging  a  kind,  that  his  heart 
may  be  opened  by  the  sweetness  of  the  one  to 
the  varieties  of  the  other.  He  will  at  least  be 
brought  to  allow  that  that  religion  cannot  be 
very  bad,  the  fruits  of  which  are  so  amiable. 
The  conduct  of  the  disciple  may  in  time  bring 
im  to  the  feet  of  the  Master.  A  new  combina¬ 
tion  may  be  formed  in  his  mind.  He  may  be¬ 
gin  to  see  what  he  had  supposed  antipathies  re¬ 
conciled,  to  unite  two  things  which  he  thought 
as  impossible  to  be  brought  together  as  the  two 
poles — he  may  begin  to  couple  candour  with 
Christianity. 

But  if  the  mild  advocate  fail  to  convince,  he 
may  persuade ;  even  if  he  fail  to  persuade,  he 
will  at  least  leave  on  the  mind  of  the  adversary 
such  favourable  impressions,  as  may  induce  him 
to  inquire  farther.  He  may  be  able  to  employ 
on  some  future  occasion,  to  more  effectual  pur¬ 
pose,  the  credit  which  his  forbearance  will  have 
obtained  for  him :  whereas  uncharitable  vehe¬ 
mence  would  probably  have  forever  shut  the  ears 
and  closed  the  heart  of  his  opponent  against  any 
further  intercourse. 

But  if  the  temperate  pleader  should  not  be  so 
happy  as  to  produce  any  considerable  effect  on 
the  mind  of  his  antagonist,  he  is  in  any  case 
promoting  the  interests  of  his  own  soul ;  he  is 
at  least  imitating  the  faith  and  patience  of  the 
saints  ;  he  is  cultivating  that  ‘  meek  and  quiet 
spirit’  of  which  his  blessed  Master  gave  at  once 
tiie  rule,  the  injunction,  and  the  praise. 

If  ‘  all  bitterness,  and  clamour,  and  malice, 
and  evil  speaking,’  are  expressly  forbidden  in 
ordinary  cases,  surely  the  prohibition  must  more 
peculiarly  apply  to  the  case  of  religious  contro¬ 
versialists.  Suppose  Voltaire  and  Hume  had 
been  left  to  take  their  measure  of  our  religion 
(as  one  would  really  suppose  they  had)  from  the. 
defences  of  Christianity  by  their  very  able  con¬ 


temporary,  bishop  Warburton. — When  they  saw 
this  Goliah  in  talents  and  learning,  dealing  about 
his  ponderous  blows,  attacking  with  the  same 
powerful  weapons,  not  the  enemies  only,  but  th® 
friends  of  Christianity,  who  happened  to  see 
some  points  in  a  different  light  from  himself ; 
not  meeting  them  as  his  opponents,  but  pouncing’ 
on  them  as  his  prey  ;  not  seeking  to  defend 
himself,  but  tearing  them  to  pieces  ;  waging  of¬ 
fensive  war  ;  delighting  in  unprovoked  hostility 
— when  they  saw  him  thus  advocate  the  Chris- 
tian  cause,  with  a  spirit  diametrically  opposite 
to  Christianity,  would  they  not  exultingly  ex¬ 
claim,  in  different  opposition  to  the  exclamation 
of  the  apostolic  age,  ‘  See  how  these  Christians 
hate  one  another  !’  Whereas  had  his  vast  pow¬ 
ers  of  mind  and  astonishing  compass  of  know¬ 
ledge  been  sanctified  by  the  angelic  meekness 
of  archbishop  Leighton,  they  would  have  been 
compelled  to  acknowledge,  if  Christianity  be 
false,  it  is  after  all  so  amiable  that  it  deserves 
to  be  true.  Might  they  not  have  applied  to 
these  two  prelates  what  was  said  of  Bossuet  and 
Fenelon,  ‘  I'un  proiive  la  Religion,  Vautre  la  fait 
aimer.'' 

If  we  studiously  contrive  how  to  furnish  the 
most  complete  triumph  to  infidels,  contentious 
theology  would  be  our  best  contrivance.  They 
enjoy  the  wounds  the  combatants  inflict  on  each 
other,  not  so  much  from  the  personal  injury 
which  either  might  sustain,  as  from  the  convic¬ 
tion  that  every  attack,  however  it  may  termi¬ 
nate,  weakens  the  common  cause.  In  all  en¬ 
gagements  with  a  foreign  foe,  they  know  that 
Christianity  must  come  off  triumphantly.  All 
their  hopes  are  founded  on  a  civil  war. 

If  a  forbearing  temper  should  be  maintained 
towards  the  irreligious,  how  much  more  by  the 
professors  of  religion  towards  each  other.  As  it 
is  a  lamentable  instance  of  human  infirmity  that 
there  is  often  much  hostility  carried  on  by  good 
men,  who  profess  the  same  faith  ;  so  it  is  a 
striking  proof  of  the  litigious  nature  of  rnan 
that  this  spirit  is  less  excited  bj'  broad  distinc¬ 
tions,  (such  as  conscience  ought  not  to  reconcile) 
than  by  shades  of  opinion,  shades  so  few  and 
light,  that  the  world  would  not  know  they  ex¬ 
isted  at  all,  if  by  their  animosities  the  disputants 
were  not  so  impatient  to  inform  it. 

While  we  should  never  withhold  a  clear  and 
honest  avowal  of  the  great  principles  of  our  re 
ligion,  let  us  discreetly  avoid  dwelling  on  incon 
siderable  distinctions,  on  which,  as  they  do  not 
affect  the  essentials  either  of  faith  or  practice, 
we  may  allow  another  to  maintain  his  opinion 
while  we  steadily  hold  fast  our  own.  But  in 
religious  as  in  military  warfare,  it  almost  .seems 
as  if  the  hostility  were  great  in  proportion  to  the 
littleness  of  the  point  contested.  We  all  re¬ 
member  when  two  great  nations  were  on  the 
point  of  being  involved  in  war  for  a  spot  of 
ground*  in  another  hemisphere,  so  little  known 
that  the  very  name  had  scarcely  reached  us;  so 
inconsiderable  that  its  possession  would  have 
added  nothing  to  the  strength  of  either.  In  ci¬ 
vil  too,  as  well  as  in  national  and  theological 
disputes,  there  is  often  most  stress  laid  on  the 
most  indifferent  things.  Why  would  the  Spanish 

Nootka  Sound. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


467 


government  some  years  ago  so  little  consult  the 
prejudices  of  the  people,  as  nearly  to  produce  an 
insurrection,  by  issuing  an  edict  for  them  to  re- 
liuquish  the  ancient  national  dress  ?  Why  was 
the  security  of  the  state,  and  the  lives  of  the  sub¬ 
jects  put  to  hazard  for  a  cloak  and  a  jerkin  ? 
For  the  obstinate  people  made  as  firm  a  stand 
against  this  trifling  requisition,  as  they  could 
have  made  for  the  preservation  of  their  civil  or 
religious  liberty,  if  they  had  been  so  happy  as 
to  possess  either — a  stand  as  firm  as  they  are 
now  nobly  making  in  defence  of  their  country 
and  their  independence. 

Without  invidiously  enumerating  any  of  the 
narrowing  names  which  split  Christianity  in 
pieces,  and  which  so  unhappily  drive  the  sub¬ 
jects  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  into  interminable 
war,  and  range  them  into  so  many  hostile  bands, 
not  against  the  common  enemy,  but  against 
each  other  ;  we  cannot  forbear  regretting  that 
less  temper  is  preserved  among  these  near 
neighbours  in  local  situation  and  in  Christian 
truth,  than  if  the  attack  of  either  were  levelled 
at  Jews,  Turks,  or  Infidels. 

Is  this  that  catholic  spirit  which  embraces 
with  the  love  of  charity,  though  not  of  approba¬ 
tion,  the  whole  offspring  of  our  common  Father 
— which  in  the  arms  of  its  large  affection,  with¬ 
out  vindicating  their  faults  or  adopting  their 
opinions,  ‘  takes  every  creature  in  of  every  kind,’ 
and  which  like  its  gracious  Author,  ‘  would  not 
that  any  thing  should  perish  V 

The  preference  of  remote  to  approximating 
opinion  is,  however,  by  no  means  confined  to 
the  religious  world.  The  Author  of  the  Decline 
and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  though  so  pas¬ 
sionate  an  admirer  of  the  prophet  of  Arabia  as 
to  raise  a  suspicion  of  his  own  Islamism;  though 
so  rapturous  an  eulogist  of  the  apostate  Julian 
as  to  raise  a  suspicion  of  his  own  polytheism, 
yet  with  an  inconsistency  not  uncommon  to  un¬ 
belief,  he  treats  the  stout  orthodoxy  of  the  vehe¬ 
ment  Athanasius,  with  more  respect  than  he 
shows  to  the  ‘  scanty  creed’  of  a  contemporary 
philosopher  and  theologian,  whose  cold  and  com- 
Ibrtless  doctrines  were  much  less  removed  from 
his  own. 

Might  not  the  twelve  monsters  which  even 
the  incredible  strength  and  labour  of  Hercules 
found  so  hard  to  subdue,  be  interpreted  as  an 
ingenious  allegory,  by  which  were  meant  twelve 
popular  prejudices  ?  But  though  the  hero  went 
forth  armed  preternaturally,  the  goddess  of 
Wisdom  herself  furnishing  him  with  his  helmet, 
and  the  god  of  eloquence  with  his  arrows,  yet  it 
is  not  certain  that  he  conquered  thb  religious 
prejudices,  not  of  the  world,  but  oven  of  Argos 
and  Mycenae  ;  at  least  they  were  not  among  his 
earlier  conquests ;  they  were  not  serpents  v;hich 
an  infant  hand  could  strangle.  They  were  more 
probably  the  fruitful  hydra,  which  lost  nothing 
by  losing  a  head,  a  new  head  always  starting 
up  to  supply  the  incessant  decapitation.  But 
though  ho  slew  the  animal  at  last,  might  not  its 
envenomed  gore  in  which  his  arrows  were  dip¬ 
ped  be  the  perennial  fountain  in  which  perse¬ 
cuting  bigotry,  harsh  intolerance,  and  polemical 
acrimony,  have  continued  to  dip  their  pens  ! 

It  is  a  delicate  point  to  hit  upon,  neither  to 
vindicate  the  truth  in  so  coarse  a  manner  as  to 


excite  a  prejudice  against  it,  nor  to  make  any 
concessions  in  tlie  hope  of  obtaining  popularity 
‘If  it  be  possible,  as  much  as  lieth  in  you,  live 
peaceably  with  all  men,’  can  no  more  mean  that 
wo  should  exercise  that  false  candour  which 
conciliates  at  the  expense  of  sincerity,  than  that 
we  should  defend  the  truth  with  so  intolerant  a 
spirit,  as  to  injure  the  cause  by  discrediting  the 
advocate. 

As  the  apostle  beautifully  obtests  his  brethren, 
not  by  the  power  and  dignity,  but  ‘  by  the  meek¬ 
ness  and  gentleness  of  Christ,’  so  every  Christian 
should  adorn  his  doctrine  by  the  same  endearing 
qualities,  evincing  by  the  brightness  of  the  po¬ 
lish,  the  solidity  of  the  substance.  But  he  will 
carefully  avoid  adopting  the  external  appearance 
of  these  amiable  tempers  as  substitutes  for  piety, 
when  they  are  only  its  ornaments.  Condescend¬ 
ing  manners  may  be  one  of  the  numberless  mo¬ 
difications  of  selfishness,  and  reputation  is  thus 
often  obtained,  where  it  is  not  fairly  earned. 
Carefully  to  examine  whether  he  pleased  others, 
for  their  good  to  edification,  or  in  order  to  gain 
praise  and  popularity,  is  the  bounden  duty  of  a 
Christian. 

We  should  not  be  angry  with  the  blind  for 
not  seeing,  nor  with  the  proud  for  not  acknow 
ledging  their  blindness.  We  ourselves  perhaps 
were  once  as  blind  ;  happy  if  wo  are  not  still  as 
proud.  If  not  in  this  instance,  in  others  per¬ 
haps  they  might  have  made  more  of  our  advan¬ 
tages  than  we  have  done ;  we,  under  their  cir¬ 
cumstances  might  have  been  more  perversely 
wrong  than  they  are,  had  we  not  been  treated 
by  the  enlightened  with  more  patient  tenderness 
than  we  are  disposed  to  exercise  towards  them. 
Tyre  and  Sidon,  we  are  assured  by  truth  itself, 
would  have  repented,  had  they  enjoyed  the  pri¬ 
vileges  which  Chorazin  and  Bethsaida  threw 
away.  Surely  we  may  do  that  for  the  love  of 
God,  and  for  the  love  of  our  opponent’s  soul, 
wliich  well-bred  men  do  through  a  regard  to  po¬ 
liteness.  Why  should  a  Christian  be  more  ready 
to  offend  against  the  rule  of  charity  than  a  gen¬ 
tleman  against  the  rule  of  decorum  ?  Candour 
in  judging  is  like  disinterestedness  in  acting ; 
both  are  statutes  of  the  royal  law. 

There  is  also  a  kind  of  right  which  men  feel 
they  possess  to  their  own  opinion.  With  this 
right  it  is  often  more  difficult  to  part  than  even 
with  the  opinion  itself.  If  our  object  be  the 
real  good  of  our  opponent;  if  it  be  to  promote 
the  cause  of  truth,  and  not  to  contest  for  victory, 
we  shall  remember  this.  We  shall  consider 
what  a  value  we  put  upon  our  own  opinion  : 
why  should  his,  though  a  false  one,  be  loss  dear 
to  him,  if  he  believe  it  true?  This  considera¬ 
tion  will  teach  us  not  to  expect  too  much  at  first. 
It  will  teach  us  the  prudence  of  seeking  some 
general  point,  in  which  wo  cannot  fail  to  agree. 
This  will  let  him  see  that  we  do  not  differ  from 
him  for  the  sake  of  differing  ;  which  conciliating 
spirit  of  ours  may  bring  him  to  a  temper  to  listen 
to  arguments  on  topics  where  our  disagreement 
is  wider. 

In  disputing,  for  instance,  with  those  who 
wholly  reject  the  divine  authority  of  the  scrip¬ 
tures,  wo  can  gain  nothing  by  quoting  them, 
and  insisting  vehemently  on  the  proof  which  is 
to  be  drawn  from  them,  in  support  of  tlie  point 


468 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


In  debate  :  their  unquestionable  truth  availing 
nothing  with  those  who  do  not  allow  it.  But 
if  we  take  some  common  ground,  on  whieh  both 
the  parties  can  stand,  and  reason,from  the  analo¬ 
gies  of  natural  religion,  and  the  way  in  which 
God  proceeds  in  the  known  and  acknowledged 
course  of  his  providence,  to  the  way  in  which 
he  deals  with  us,  and  has  declared  he  will  deal 
with  us,  as  the  God  revealed  in  the  Bible  j  our 
opponent  may  be  struck  with  the  similarity  and 
be  put  upon  a  track  of  consideration,  and  be 
brought  to  a  temper  in  considering  which  may 
terminate  in  the  happiest  manner.  He  may 
be  brought  at  length  to  be  less  averse  from 
listening  to  us,  on  those  grounds  and  principles 
of  which  probably  he  might  otherwise  never 
have  seen  the  value. 

Where  a  disputant  of  another  description  can¬ 
not  endure  what  he  sneeringly  calls  the  strict¬ 
ness  of  evangelical  religion,  he  will  have  no 
objection  to  acknowledge  the  momentous  truths 
of  man’s  responsibility  to  his  Maker,  of  the 
omniscience,  omnipresence,  majesty  and  purity 
of  God.  Strive  then  to  meet  him  on  these 
grounds,  and  respectfully  inquire  if  he  can 
sincerely  affirm  that  he  is  acting  up  to  the  truths 
he  acknowledges  ? — If  he  is  living  in  all  re¬ 
spects  as  an  accountable  being  ought  to  live  ? — 
If  he  is  really  conscious  of  acting  as  a  being 
ought  to  act,  who  knows  that  he  is  continually 
acting  under  the  eye  of  a  just  and  holy  God  ? 
You  will  find  he  cannot  stand  on  these  grounds. 
Either  he  must  be  contented  to  receive  the  truth 
as  revealed  in  the  gospel,  or  be  convicted  of  in¬ 
consistency,  or  self-deceit,  or  hypocrisy ;  you 
will  at  least  drive  him  off  his  own  ground  which 
he  will  find  untenable,  if  you  cannot  bring  him 
over  to  yours.  But  while  the  enemy  is  effecting 
his  retreat,  do  not  you  cut  off  the  means  of  his 
return  ? 

Some  Christians  approve  Christianity  as  it  is 
knowledge,  rather  than  as  it  is  principle.  They 
like  it  as  it  yields  a  grand  object  of  pursuit ;  as 
it  enlarges  their  view  of  things,  as  it  opens  to 
them  a  wfider  field  of  inquiry  ;  a  fresh  source  of 
discovery,  an  additional  topic  of  critical  inves¬ 
tigation.  They  consider  it  rather  as  extending 
the  limits  of  their  research,  than  as  a  means  of 
ennobling  their  affections.  It  furnishes  their 
understanding  with  a  fund  of  riches  on  which 
they  are  eager  to  draw,  not  so  much  for  the  im¬ 
provement  of  the  heart  as  of  the  intellect.  They 
consider  it  as  a  thesis  on  which  to  raise  inter¬ 
esting  discussion,  rather  than  as  premises  from 
which  to  draw  practical  conclusions  ;  as  an  in¬ 
controvertible  truth,  rather  than  as  a  rule  of  life. 

There  is  something  in  the  exhibition  of  sacred 
subjects  given  us  by  these  persons,  which  ac¬ 
cording  to  our  conception,  is  not  only  mistaken 
but  pernicious.  We  refer  to  their  treatment  of 
religion  as  a  mere  science  divested  of  its  practi¬ 
cal  application,  and  taken  rather  as  a  code  of 
philosophical  speculations  than  of  active  princi- 
])les.  To  explain  our  meaning,  we  might  per- 
ha.ps  venture  to  except  against  the  choice  of 
topics  almost  exclusively  made  by  these  writers. 

After  they  have  spent  half  a  life  upon  the 
evidences,  the  mere  vestibule,  so  necessary,  we 
allow,  to  be  passed  into  the  temple  of  Christi¬ 
anity,  we  acoompany  them  into  their  edifice. 


and  find  it  composed  of  materials  but  too  co. 
incident  with  their  former  taste.  Questions  of 
criticism,  of  grammar,  of  history,  of  metaphy¬ 
sics,  of  mathematics,  and  of  all  the  sciences 
meet  us,  in  the  very  place  of  that  which  saint 
Paul  tells  us  ‘  is  the  end  of  all,’ — that  is,  ‘  Charity 
out  of  a  pure  heart,  and  of  a  good  conscience, 
and  of  faith  unfeigned,  from  which’  he  adds, 

‘  some  having  swerved,  have  turned  aside  to 
vain  jangling.’* 

We  are  very  far  from  applying  the  latter 
term  to  all  scientific  discussions  in  religion,  of 
which  we  should  be  the  very  last  to  deny  the 
use,  or  question  the  necessity.  Our  main  objec 
tion  lies  to  the  preponderance  given  to  such 
topics  by  our  controversialists  in  their  divinity, 
and  to  the  spirit  too  often  manifested  in  their 
discussions.  A  preponderance  it  is,  which 
makes  us  sometimes  fear  they  consider  these 
things  rather  as  religion  itself,  than  as  helps  to 
understand  it,  as  the  substitutes,  not  the  allies 
of  devotion.  At  the  same  time,  a  cold  and 
philosophical  spirit,  often  studiously  maintained, 
seems  to  confirm  the  suspicion,  that  religion 
with  them  is  not  accidentally,  but  essentially, 
and  solely  an  exercise  of  the  wits,  and  a  field 
for  the  display  of  intellectual  prowess — as  if 
the  salvation  of  souls  were  a  thing  by  the  Jay. 

These  prize  fighters  in  theology  remind  ua 
of  the  philosophers  of  other  schools:  we  feel  as 
if  we  were  reading  Newton  against  Des  Cartes, 
or  the  theory  of  caloric  in  opposition  to  phlogis¬ 
ton.  ‘  Nous  le  regardons,’  says  the  eloquent 
Saurin  upon  some  religious  subject,  ‘  pour  la 
plupart,  de  la  meme  maniere,  dont  on  envisage 
les  ide  es  d’un  ancien  philosophe  sur  le  gouverne- 
ijjent.’ — The  practical  part  of  religion  in  short 
is  forgotten,  is  lost  in  its  theories  ;  and  what  is 
worst  of  all,  a  temper  hostile  to  the  spirit  of 
Christianity  is  employed  to  defend  or  illustrate 
its  positions. 

The  latter  effect  might  be  traced  beyond  the 
foregoing  causes,  to  another  nearly  allied  to 
them — the  habit  of  treating  religion  as  a  science 
capable  of  demonstration.  On  a  subject  evi¬ 
dently  admitting  but  of  moral  evidence,  wo 
lament  to  see  questions  dogmatically  proved, 
instead  of  being  temperately  argued.  Nay  we 
could  almost  smile  at  the  sight  of  some  intricate 
I  and  barren  novelty  in  religion,  demonstrated  to 
the  satisfaction  of  some  one  ingenious  theorist, 
who  draws^  upon  himself  instantly  a  hundred 
confutations  of  every  position  he  maintains. 
The  ulterior  stages  of  the  debate  are  often  such 
as  might  ‘  make  angels  weep.’  And  when  we 
remember  that  even  in  the  most  important  ques¬ 
tions,  involving  eternal  interests,  ‘  probability  is 
the  yery  guide  of  lifc,’t  we  could  most  devoutly 
wish,  that  on  subjects,  to  say  the  least,  not 
‘  generally  necessary  to  salvation,’  infallibility 
were  not  the  claim  of  the  disputant,  or  personal 
animosity  the  condition  of  his  failure. 

Such  speculatists  who  are  more  anxious  to 
make  proselytes  to  an  opinion,  than  converts  to 
a  principle,  will  not  bo  so  likely  to  convince  on 

*  See  1  Tim.  i,  5,  C,  also  verse  4,  in  which  the  apostle 
'  hints  at  certain  ‘  fables  and  cndles.s  genes  logics,  whicli 
minister  questions  rather  than  godly  edifying  which  is 
I  by  faith.’  We  dare  not  say  how  closely  this  descri|)t)Oii 
I  applies  to  some  modern  controvertists  in  theology  , 

I  I  Butler's  Introduction  to  ‘  The  Analogy.’ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


463 


opponent,  as  the  Christian  who  is  known  to  act 
up  to  his  convictions,  and  whose  genuine  piety 
will  put  life  and  heart  into  his  reasonings.  The 
opponent  probably  knows  already  all  the  inge¬ 
nious  arguments  which  books  supply.  Inge¬ 
nuity  therefore,  if  he  be  a  candid  man,  will  not 
be  so  likely  to  touch  him,  as  that  ‘  godly  sin¬ 
cerity’  which  he  cannot  but  perceive  the  heart 
of  his  antagonist  is  dictating  to  his  lips.  There 
13  a  simple  energy  in  pure  Christian  truth  which 
a  factitious  principle  imitates  in  vain.  The 
‘  knowledge  which  pufteth  up’  will  make  few 
practical  converts  unaccompanied  with  the 
‘  charity  which  edifieth.’ 

To  remove  prejudices,  then,  is  the  bounden 
duty  of  a  Christian,  but  he  must  take  care  not 
to  remove  them  by  conceding  what  integrity 
forbids  him  to  concede.  He  must  not  wound 
his  conscience  to  save  his  credit.  If  an  ill  bred 
roughness  disgusts  another,  a  dishonest  com¬ 
plaisance  undoes  himself.  Ho  must  remove  all 
obstructions  to  the  reception  of  truth,  but  the 
truth  itself  he  must  not  adulterate.  In  clearing 
away  the  impediment  he  must  secure  the  prin¬ 
ciple. 

If  his  own  reputation  be  attacked,  he  must 
defend  it  by  every  lawful  means ;  nor  will  he 
sacrifice  the  valuable  possession  to  any  demand 
but  that  of  conscience,  to  any  call  but  the  im¬ 
perative  call  of  duty.  If  his  good  name  be  put 
in  competition  with  any  other  earthly  good,  he 
will  preserve  it,  however  dear  may  be  the  good 
he  relinquishes  ;  but,  if  the  competition  lie  be¬ 
tween  his  reputation  and  his  conscience,  he  has 
no  hesitation  in  making  the  sacrifice,  costly  as 
it  is.  A  feeling  man  struggles  for  his  fame  as 
for  his  life,  but  if  he  be  a  Christian,  he  parts 
with  it,  for  he  knows  that  it  is  not  the  life  of  his 
soul. 

For  the  same  reason  that  we  must  not  be 
over  anxious  to  vindicate  our  fame,  we  must 
be  careful  to  preserve  it  from  any  unjust 
imputation.  The  great  apostle  of  the  Gentiles 
has  set  us  an  admirable  example  in  both  re¬ 
spects,  and  we  should  never  consider  him  in  one 
point  of  view,  without  recollecting  his  conduct 
in  the  other.  So  profound  is  his  humility  that 
he  declares  himself  ‘  less  than  the  least  of  all 
saints.’  Not  content  with  this  comparative 
depreciation,  he  proclaims  his  actual  corrup¬ 
tions.  ‘  In  me,  that  is,  in  my  flesh,  there  is  no 
good  thing.’  Yet  this  deep  self-abasement  did 
not  prevent  him  from  asserting  his  own  calum¬ 
niated  worth,  from  declaring  that  he  was  not 
behind  the  very  ‘chiefest  of  the  apostles;’ — 
again — ‘  As  the  truth  of  Christ  is  in  me,  no 
man  shall  stop  me  of  this  boasting,’  &.c.  He  then 
enumerates,  with  a  manly  dignity,  tempered 
with  a  noble  modesty,  a  multitude  of  instances 
of  his  unparalleled  sufferings  and  his  unrivalled 
zeal. 

Where  only  his  own  personal  feelings  were 
in  question,  how  self-abasing,  how  self-anni-, 
hilating  !  But  where  the  unjust  imputation  in¬ 
volved  the  honour  of  Christ  and  the  credit  of 
religion  ‘  what  carefulness  is  wrought  in  him, 
yea  what  clearing  of  himself;  yea  what  vehe¬ 
ment  desire  ;  yea  what  zeal !’ 

While  we  rejoice  in  the  promises  annexed  to 
the  beatitudes,  wo  shod  J  be  cautious  of  apply¬ 


ing  to  ourselves  promises  which  do  not  belong 
to  us,  particularly  that  which  is  attached  to  the 
last  beatitude.  When  our  fame  is  attacked,  let 
us  carefully  inquire,  if  we  are  ‘  suffering  for 
righteousness’  sake,’  or  for  our  own  faults  ;  let 
us  examine,  whether  we  may  not  deserve  the 
censures  we  have  incurred.  Even  if  we  are 
suffering  in  the  cause  of  God,  may  v/e  not  havo 
brought  discredit  on  that  holy  cause  by  our  im¬ 
prudence,  our  obstinacy,  our  vanity  ;  by  our  zeal 
without  knowledge,  and  our  earnestness  without 
temper  ?  Let  us  inquire,  whether  our  rj^vilera 
have  not  some  foundation  for  the  charge  ? 
Whether  we  have  not  sought  our  own  glory  more 
than  that  of  God  ?  Whether  we  are  not  more 
disappointed  at  missing  that  revenue  of  praise, 
which  we  thought  our  good  works  were  entitled 
to  bring  us  in,  than  at  the  wound  religion  may 
have  sustained  ?  Whether,  though  our  views 
were  right  on  the  whole,  their  purity  was  not 
much  alloyed  by  human  mixtures  ?  Whether 
neglecting  to  count  the  cost,  we  did  not  expect 
unmixed  approbation,  uninterrupted  success, 
and  a  full  tide  of  prosperity  and  applause,  to¬ 
tally  forgetting  the  reproaches  received,  and  the 
obloquy  sustained  by  ‘  the  Man  of  Sorrows.’ 

If  we  can  on  an  impartial  review,  acquit  our¬ 
selves  as  to  the  general  purity  of  our  motives, 
the  general  integrity  of  our  conduct,  the  un¬ 
feigned  sincerity  of  our  endeavours,  then  we 
may  indeed,  though  with  deep  humility,  take 
to  ourselves  the  comfort  of  this  divine  beatitude. 
When  we  really  find,  that  men  only  speak  evil 
of  us  for  his  sake  in  whose  cause  we  have  la- 
boured,  however  that  labour  may  have  been 
mingled  with  imperfection,  we  may  indeed  ‘re¬ 
joice  and  be  exceeding  glad.’  Submission  may 
be  elevated  into  gratitude,  and  forgiveness  into 
love. 


CHAP.  XV. 

On  the  pre^riety  of  introducing  R^igion  in 
general  conversation. 

May  we  be  allowed  to  introduce  here  an 
opinion  warmly  maintained  in  the  world,  and 
which  indeed  strikes  at  the  root  of  all  rules  for 
the  management  of  religious  debate  recom¬ 
mended  in  the  preceding  chapter  ?  It  is,  that 
the  subject  of  religion  ought  on  no  occasion  to 
be  introduced  in  mixed  company  :  that  the  di¬ 
versity  of  sentiment  upon  it  is  so  great,  and  so 
nearly  connected  with  the  tenderest  feelings  of 
our  minds,  as  to  be  liable  to  lead  to  heat  and 
contention.  Finally,  that  it  is  too  grave  and 
solemn  a  topic  to  bo  mixed  in  the  miscellaneous 
circle  of  social  discourse,  much  less  in  the  fes¬ 
tive  effusions  of  convivial  cheerfulness.  Now, 
in  answer  to  these  allegations,  we  must  at  least 
insist,  that  should  religion,  on  other  grounds,  be 
found  entitled  to  social  discussion,  the  last  ob¬ 
servation,  if  true,  would  prove  convivial  cheer¬ 
fulness  incompatible  with  the  spirit  and  practice 
of  religion,  rather  than  religion  inadmissible 
into  cheerful  parties.  And  it  is  certainly  a 
retort  difficult  of  evasion,  that  where  to  intro¬ 
duce  Religion  herself  is  to  endanger  her  honoufj 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


470 

there  she  rather  suffers  in  reputation  by  the  pre¬ 
sence  of  her  friend.  The  man  endeared  by  con¬ 
viction  to  his  religion  will  never  bear  to  be  long, 
much  less  to  be  statedly  separated  from  the  ob¬ 
ject  of  his  affections  :  and  he  whose  zeal  once 
determined  him  ‘to  know  nofAing’  amongst  his 
associates,  ‘but  Jesus  Christ  and  him  crucified, 
never  could  have  dreamt  of  a  latitude  of  inter¬ 
pretation,  which  would  admit  a  Christian  into 
scenes  where  every  thing  but  Jesus  Christ  and 
him  crucified,  might  be  recognized  with  credit. 

These  principles  appear  so  plain  and  incon¬ 
trovertible,  that  the  question  seems  rather  to  call 
for  a  different  statement,  viz.— Why  religion 
should  not  be  deemed  admissible  into  every  so¬ 
cial  meeting  and  friendly  circle  in  which  a 
Christian  himself  would  choose  to  be  found  ? 
That  it  is  too  weighty  and  important  a  subject 
for  discussion,  is  an  argument,  which,  standing 
alone,  assumes  the  gross  absurdity  that  either 
men  never  talk  of  that  which  most  nearly  in¬ 
terests  them,  or  that  when  they  do,  they  talk 
improperly.  They  will  not,  it  is  true,  introduce 
a  private  concern,  however  important,  in  which 
no  one  is  interested  but  themselves.  But  in  the 
subiect  of  religion,  who  is  not  interested  ?  Or 
where  will  topics  be  found  more  universal  in 
their  application  to  all  times,  persons,  places  and 
circumstances,  as  well  as  more  important,  than 
those  which  relate  to  the  eternal  welfare  of 
mankind  ? 

Nor  will  it  be  avowed  with  great  colour  of 
reason,  that  topics  so  important  suffer  in  point 
of  gravity,  or  in  the  respect  of  mankind,  by  fre¬ 
quent  discussion.  We  never  observed  men  grow 
indifferent  to  their  health,  their  affairs,  their 
friends,  their  country,  in  proportion  as  these 
were  made  the  subjects  of  their  familiar  dis¬ 
course.  On  the  contrary,  oblivion  has  been  no¬ 
ticed  as  the  offspring  of  silence.  The  man  who 
never  mentions  his  friend,  is,  we  think,  in  gene¬ 
ral  most  likely  to  forget  him.  And  far  from 
deeming  the  name  of  one,  greater  than  any 
earthly  friend  ‘taken  in  vain,’  when  mentioned 
discreetly  in  conversation,  we  generally  find 
him  most  remembered  and  respected  in  secret, 
by  those  whose  memories  are  occasionally  re¬ 
freshed  by  a  reference  to  his  word  and  authority 
in  public.  ‘  Familiarity,’  indeed,  we  have  been 
told,  ‘  produces  contempt ;’  a  truism,  on  which 
we  are  convinced  many  persons,  honestly,  though 
blindly,  rest  their  habitual,  and  even  systematic 
reserve  on  religious  subjects.  But  ‘  familiarity 
in  our  mind  has  reference  rather  to  the  manner, 
than  to  the  act,  of  introducing  religion.  To  us 
it  is  synonymous  with  a  certain  trite  and  trivial 
repetition  of  serious  remarks,  evidently  ‘  to  no 
profit,’  which  we  sometimes  hear  from  persons 
familiarized,  rather  by  education  than  Reeling, 
to  the  language  of  piety. 

More  particularly  we  refer  it  to  a  still  more 
criminal  habit  which,  to  their  disgrace,  some 
professors  of  religion  share  with  the  profane,  of 
raising  a  laugh  by  the  introduction  of  a  religious 
observation  or  even  a  Scriptural  quotation.  ‘  To 
court  a  grin  when  we  should  woo  a  soul,’  is 
surely  an  abuse  of  religion,  as  well  in  the  par¬ 
lour  as  the  pulpit  Nor  has  the  senate  itself 
been  always  exempt  from  this  impropriety.  Dr. 
Johnson  has  long  since  pronounced  a  jest  drawn 


from  the  Bible,  the  vulgarest  because  the  easiest 
of  all  jests. — And  far  from  perverting  religious 
topics  to  such  a  purpose  himself,  a  feeling  Chris¬ 
tian  would  not  often  be  found,  where  such  would 
be  the  probable  consequence  of  offering  a  pious 
sentiment  in  company. 

That  allusions  involving  religious  questions 
are  often  productive  of  dispute  and  altercation, 
is  a  fact,  which  though  greatly  exaggerated, 
must  yet  in  a  degree  be  admitted.  This  cir¬ 
cumstance  may  in  some  measure  account  for 
the  singular  reception  which  a  religious  remark 
is  often  observed  to  meet  with  in  the  world.  It 
is  curious  to  notice  the  surprise  and  alarm 
which,  on  such  occasions,  will  frequently  per¬ 
vade  the  party  present.  The  remark  is  received 
as  a  stranger  guest,  of  which  no  one  knows  the 
quality  or  intentions.  And,  like  a  species  of 
intellectual  foundling,  it  is  cast  upon  the  com- 
pany  without  a  friend  to  foster  its  infancy,  or  to 
own  any  acquaintance  with  the  parent.  A  fear 
of  consequences  prevails.  It  is  obvious  that  the 
feeling  is — ‘  We  know  not  into  what  it  may 
grow :  it  is  therefore  safer  to  stifle  it  in  the 
birth.’  This,  if  not  the  avowed,  is  the  implied 
sentiment. 

But  is  not  this  delicacy,  this  mauvaise  honte, 
so  peculiar  perhaps  to  our  countrymen  on  reli¬ 
gious  subjects,  the  very  cause  which  operates  so 
unfavourably  upon  that  effect  which  it  labours 
to  obviate  ?  Is  not  the  very  infrequency  of  mo¬ 
ral  or  religious  observations,  a  suflScient  account 
to  be  given  both  of  the  perplexity  and  the  irrita¬ 
tion  said  to  be  consequent  upon  their  introduc¬ 
tion  ?  And  were  not  religion  (we  mean  such 
loligious  topics  as  may  legitimately  arise  in 
mixed  society,)  banished  so  much  as  it  is  from 
conversation,  might  not  its  occasional  recurrence 
become  by  degrees  as  natural,  perhaps  as  inte¬ 
resting,  certainly  as  instructive,  and  after  all  as 
safe,  as  ‘  a  close  committee  on  the  weather,  or 
any  other  of  the  authorized  topics  which  are 
about  as  productive  of  amusement  as  of  instruc¬ 
tion  ?  People  act  as  if  religion  were  to  be  re- 
garded  at  a  distance  ;  as  if  even  a  respectful  ig¬ 
norance  were  to  be  preferred  to  a  more  familiar 
approaeh.  This  reserve,  however,  does  not  give 
an  air  of  respect,  so  much  as  of  mystery,  to  re¬ 
ligion.  An  able  writer*  has  observed,  ‘  that  was 
esteemed  the  most  sacred  part  of  Pagan  devotion 
which  was  the  most  impure,  and  the  only  thing 
that  was  commendable  in  it  is,  that  it  was  kept 
a  great  mystery.’  He  approves  of  nothing  in 
this  religion  but  the  mode^y  of  withdrawing  it¬ 
self  from  the  eyes  of  the  world. — But  Christiani¬ 
ty  requires  not  to  be  shrouded  in  any  such  mys 
terious  recesses.  She  does  not,  like  the  Eastern 
monarchs,  owe  her  dignity  to  her  concealment. 
She  is,  on  the  contrary,  most  honoured  where 
most  known,  and  most  revered  where  most  clear¬ 
ly  visible. 

It  will  be  obvious  that  hints  rather  than  ar¬ 
gument  belong  to  our  present  undertaking.  In 
this  view,  we  may  perhaps  be  excused  if  'y.® 
for  a  few  general  observations,  upon  the  ditfor- 
ent  occasions  on  which  a  well  regulated  mind 
would  be  solicitous  to  introduce  religion  into 
social  discourse.  The  person  possessed  of  such 

•  Bishop  Sherlock- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


471 


■  a  mind,  would  be  mainly  anxious,  in  a  society 
of  Christians,  that  something  should  appear  in¬ 
dicative  of  their  profession.  He  would  accord¬ 
ingly  feel  a  strong  desire  to  effect  it,  when  he 
plainly  perceived  his  company  engaged  on  no 
other  topic  either  innocently  entertaining,  or  ra¬ 
tionally  instructive.  The  desire,  however,  would 
Dy  no  means  cloud  his  brow,  give  an  air  of  im¬ 
patience  to  his  countenance,  or  rerrder  him  inat¬ 
tentive  to  the  general  tone  and  temper  of  the 
circle.  On  the  contrary,  he  would  endeavour  to 
feel  additional  interest  in  his  neighbour’s  sug¬ 
gestions,  in  proportion  as  he  hoped  in  turn  to 
attract  notice  to  his  own.  He  would  show  long 
forbearance  to  the  utmost  extent  of  conscientious 
toleration.  In  the  prosecution  of  his  favourite 
design,  he  would  never  attempt  a  forced  or  un¬ 
reasonable  allusion  to  serious  subjeets ;  a  caution 
“equiring  the  nicest  judgment  and  discrimina- 
don,  most  particularly  where  he  felt  the  senti¬ 
ments  or  the  zeal  of  his  company  to  be  not  con¬ 
genial  with  his  own.  His  would  be  the  spirit 
of  the  prudent  mariner,  who  does  not  even  ap¬ 
proach  his  native  shore  without  carefully  watch¬ 
ing  the  winds,  and  sounding  the  channels ; 
knowing  well  that  a  temporary  delay,  even  on 
an  unfriendly  element,  is  preferable  to  a  hasty 
landing  his  company,  on  shore  indeed,  but  upon 
the  point  of  a  rock. 

Happily  for  our  present  purpose,  the  days  we 
live  in,  afford  circumstances  both  of  foreign  and 
domestic  occurrence,  of  every  possible  variety 
of  colour  and  connection,  so  as  to  leave  scarcely 
any  mind  unfurnished  with  a  store  of  progressive 
remarks  by  which  the  most  instructive  truths 
may  be  approached  through  the  most  obvious 
topics.  And  a  prudent  mind  will  study  to  make 
its  approacJies  to  such  an  ultimate  object,  pro¬ 
gressive  ,  ii  will  know  aiso  where  to  stop,  rather 
indeed  out  of  regard  to  others  than  to  itself. 
And  in  the  manly  avowal  of  its  sentiments, 
avoiding  as  we]]  what  is  canting  in  utterance  as 
tecnnical  in  language,  it  will  make  them  at  once 
appear  not  the  ebullition  of  an  ill  educated  ima¬ 
gination,  but  the  result  of  a  long  exercised  un¬ 
derstanding. 

Nothing  will  be  more  likely  to  attract  atten¬ 
tion  or  secure  respect  to  your  remarks,  than  the 
good  taste  in  which  they  are  delivered.  On 
common  topics,  we  reckon  him  the  most  elegant 
speaker  whose  pronunciation  and  accent  are  so 
free  from  all  peculiarities,  that  it  cannot  be  de¬ 
termined  to  what  place  he  owes  his  birth.  A 
polished  critic  of  Rome  accuses  one  of  the  finest 
of  her  historians  of  provinciality.  This  is  a 
fault  obvious  to  less  enlightened  critics,  since 
the. Attic  herb-woman  could  detect  the  provin¬ 
cial  dialect  of  a  great  philosopher.  Why  must 
religion  have  her  Patavinity  1  Why  must  the 
Christian  adopt  the  quaintness  of  a  party,  or  a 
scholar  the  idiom  of  the  illiterate  ?  Why  should 
a  valuable  truth  be  combined  with  a  vulgar  or 
fanatical  expression  ?  If  either  would  offend 
when  separate,  how  inevitably  must  they  disgust 
when  the  one  is  mistakingly  intended  to  set  off 
the  other.  Surely  this  is  not  enchasing  our 

■  apples  of  gold  in  pictures  of  silver.’ 

We  must  not  close  this  part  of  our  subject 
without  alluding  to  another,  and  still  more  deli¬ 
cate  introduction  of-religion,  in  the  way  of  re- 


I  proof.  Here  is.  indeed  a  point  in  religious  con. 
I  duct  to  which  we  feel  it  a  boldness  to  make  any 
reference  at  all.  Bold  indeed,  is  that  casuist, 
who  would  lay  down  general  rules  on  a  subject 
where  the  consciences  of  men  seem  to  differ  so 
widely  from  each  other  :  and*  feeble  too  often 
will  be  its  justest  rules,  where  the  feelings  of 
timidity  or  delicacy  rush  in  with  a  force  w'hich 
sweeps  down  many  a  land-mark  erected  for  its 
own  guidance,  even  by  conscience  itself. 

Certainly  much  allowance,  perhaps  respect,  is 
due  in  cases  of  very  doubtful  decision,  to  those 
feelings  which,  after  the  utmost  self  regulation 
of  mind,  are  found  to  be  irresistible.  And  cer¬ 
tainly  the  habits  and  modes  of  address  attached 
to  refined  society,  are  such  as  to  place  personal 
observations  on  a  very  different  footing  to  that 
on  which  they  stand  by  nature.  A  frown,  even 
a  cold  and  disapproving  look,  may  be  a  reception 
which  the  profane  expression  or  loose  action  of 
a  neighbour  of  rank  and  opulence,  may  have 
never  before  encountered  from  .his  flatterers  or 
convivial  companions.  A  vehement  censure  in 
his  case  might  inflame  his  resentment  without 
amending  his  fault. — Whether  the  attempt  be  to 
correct  a  vice  or  rectify  an  error,  one  object 
should  ever  be  steadily  kept  in  view — to  con- 
cili^te  rather  than  to  contend,  to  inform  but  not 
to  insult,  to  evince  that  we  assume,  not  the  cha¬ 
racter  of  a  dictator,  but  the  office  of  a  Christian 
friend ;  that  we  have  the  best  interests  of  the 
offender,  and  the  honour  of  religion  at  heart, 
and  that  to  reprove  is  so  far  from  a  gratification, 
that  it  is  a  trial  to  ourselves,  the  effort  of  con¬ 
science,  not  the  effect  of  choice. 

The  feelings,  therefore,  of  the  person  to  be 
admonished  should  be  most  scrupulously  con¬ 
sulted.  The  admonition,  if  necessarily  strong, 
explicit  and  personal,  should  yet  be  friendly, 
temperate,  and  well  bred.  An  offence,  even 
though  publicly  committed,  is  generally  best  re¬ 
proved  in  private,  perhaps  in  writing.  Age, 
superiority  of  station,  previous  acquaintance, 
above  all,  that  sacred  profession  to  which  the 
honour  of  religion  is  happily  made  a  personal 
concern,  are  circumstances  which  especially 
call  for,  and  sanction  the  attempt  recommended. 
And  he  must  surely  be  unworthy  his  Christian 
vocation,  who  would  not  conscientiously  use  any 
influence  or  authority  which  he  might  chance  to 
possess,  in  discountenancing  or  rectifying  the 
delinquency  he  condemns. 

We  are,  indeed,  as  elsewhere,  after  the  closest 
reflection  and  longest  discussion  often  forced 
into  the  general  conclusion,  tliat  ‘  a  good  heart 
is  the  best  casuist.’ — And  doubtless  where  true 
Christian  benevolence  towards  man  meets  in  the 
same  mind  with  an  honest  zeal  for  the  glory  of 
God,  a  way  will  be  found,  let  us  rather  say  will 
bo  opened,  for  the  right-  e.xercise  of  this,  as  of 
every  virtuous  disposition. 

Let  us  ever  remember  what  we  have  so  often 
insisted  on,  that  self-denial  is  the  ground  work, 
the  indispensable  requisite  for  every  Christian 
virtue  ;  that  without  the  habitual  exercise  of  this 
principle,  wo  shall  never  be  followers  of  him 
‘  who  pleased  not  himself.’  And  when  we  are 
called  by  conscience  to  the  largest  use  of  it  in 
practice,  we  must  arm  ourselves  with  the  high* 
est  considerations  for  the  trial ;  we  must  consi- 


472 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


der  liim,  who  (through  his  faithful  reproofs) 
‘  endured  the  contradiction  of  sinners  against 
himself.’  And  when  even  from  Moses  we  hear 
the  truly  evangelical  precept,*  thou  shalt  in  any 
wise  rebuke  thy  brother,  and  not  suffer  sin  up¬ 
on  him  we  rau^  duly  weigh  how  strongly  its 
performance  is  enforced  upon  ourselves,  by  the 
conduct  of  one  greater  than  Moses,  who  express¬ 
ly  *  suffered  for  us,  leaving  us  an  example  that 
we  should  follow  his  footsteps.’ 


CHAP.  XVI. 

Christian  Watchfulness. 

Of  all  the  motives  to  vigilance  and  self-disci¬ 
pline  which  Christianity  presents,  there  is  not 
one  more  powerful  than  the  danger,  from  which 
even  religious  persons  are  not  exempt,  of  slack¬ 
ening  in  zeal  and  declining  in  piety.  Would  we 
could  afSrm,  that  coldness  in  religion  is  confined 
to  the  irreligious  !  If  it  be  melancholy  to  observe 
an  absence  of  Christianity  where  no  profession 
of  it  was  ever  made,  it  is  far  more  grievous  to 
mark  its  declension,  where  it  once  appeared  not 
only  to  exist,  but  to  flourish.  We  feel  on  the 
comparison,  the  same  distinct  sort  of  compas¬ 
sion  with  which  we  contemplate  the  pecuniary 
distresses  of  those  who  have  been  always  indi¬ 
gent,  and  of  those  who  have  fallen  into  want 
from  a  state  of  opulence.  Our  concern  differs 
not  only  in  degree  but  in  kind. 

This  declension  is  one  of  the  most  awakening 
calls  to  watchfulness,  to  humility,  and  self-in¬ 
spection,  which  religion  can  make  to  him  *  who 
thinketh  he  standeth  which  it  can  make  to  him 
who,  sensible  of  his  own  weakness,  ought  to  feel 
the  necessity  *  of  strengthening  the  things  which 
remain  that  are  ready  to  die.’ 

If  there  is  not  any  one  circumstance  which 
ought  more  to  alarm  and  quicken  the  Christian, 
than  that  of  finding  himself  grow  languid  and 
indifferent,  after  having  made  not  only  a  profes¬ 
sion  but  a  progress,  so  there  is  not  a  more  rea- 
soflable  motive  of  triumph  to  the  profane,  not 
one  cause  which  excites  in  him  a  more  plausible 
ground  of  suspicion,  either  that  there  never  was 
any  truth  in  the  profession  of  the  person  in  ques¬ 
tion,  or  which  is  a  more  fatal,  and,  to  such  a 
mind,  a  more  natural  conclusion — that  there  is 
no  truth  in  religion  itself.  At  best,  he  will  be 
persuaded  that  lliis  can  only  be  a  faint  and  fee¬ 
ble  principle,  the  impulse  of  which  is  so  soon 
exhausted,  and  which  is  by  no  means  found  suf¬ 
ficiently  powerful  to  carry  on  its  votary  through¬ 
out  his  course.  He  is  assured  that  piety  is  only 
an  outer  garment,  put  on  for  show  or  conveni¬ 
ence,  and  that  when  it  ceases  to  be  wanted  for 
either  it  is  laid  aside.  In  these  unhappy  in¬ 
stances  the  evil  seldom  ceases  with  him  who 
causes  it.  The  inference  becomes  general,  that 
all  religious  men  are  equally  unsound  or  equally 
deluded,  only  that  some  are  more  prudent,  or 
more  fortunate,  or  greater  hypocrites  than 
others.  After  the  falling  away  of  one  promising 
character,  the  old  suspicion  recurs  and  is  con¬ 
firmed,  and  the  defection  of  others  pronounced  i 
to  bo  infallible.  I 


There  seems  to  be  this  marked  distinction  in. 
the  different  opinions  which  religious  and  world-, 
ly  men  entertain  respecting  human  corruption^ 
The  candid  Christian  is  contented  to  believe  it,, 
as  an  indisputable  general  truth,  while  he  is 
backward  to  suspect  the  wickedness  of  the  indi¬ 
vidual,  nor  does  he  allow  himself  to  give  full- 
credit  to  particular  instances  without  proof.  The 
man  of  the  world,  on  the  contrary,  who  denies- 
the  general  principle  is  extremely  prone  to  sus¬ 
pect  the  individual :  Thus  his  knowledge  of 
mankind  not  only  furnishes  a  proof,  but  out¬ 
strips  the  truth  of  the  doctrine  :  though  he  de¬ 
nies  it  as  a  proposition  of  Scripture,  he  is  eager 
to  establish  it  as  a  fact  of  experiment. 

But  the  probability  is,  that  the  man  by  his  de¬ 
parture  from  the  principles  with  which  he  ap¬ 
peared  to  set  out,  so  much  gratifies  the  thought¬ 
less,  and  grieves  the  serious  mind,  never  was  a 
sound  and  genuine  Christian.  His  religion  wa» 
perhaps  taken  up  on  some  accidental  circum¬ 
stance,  built  on  some  false  ground,  produced  by. 
some  evanescent  cause  ;  and  though  it  cannot 
be  fairly  pronounced  that  he  intended  by  his 
forward  profession  and  prominent  zeal,  to  de¬ 
ceive  others,  it  is  probable  that  he  himself  was 
deceived.  Perhaps  he  had  made  too  sure  of 
himself.  His  early  profession  was  probably  ra¬ 
ther  bold  and  ostentatious  ;  he  had  imprudently 
fixed  his  stand  on  ground  so  high  as  to  be  not 
easily  tenable,  and  from  which  a  descent  would- 
be  but  too  observable.  While  he  thought  he 
never  could  be  too  secure  of  his  own  strength,, 
he  allowed  himself  to  be  too  censorious  on  the 
infirmities  of  others,  especially  of  those  whom, 
he  had  apparently  outstripped,  and  who,  thougli 
they  had  started  together,  he  had  left  behind- 
him  in  the  race. 

Might  it  not  be  a  safer  course,  if  in  the  outset 
of  the  Christian  life,  a  modest  and  self-distrust¬ 
ing  humility  were  to  impose  a  temporary  re¬ 
straint  on  the  forwardness  of  outward  profession?. 
A  little  knowledge  of  the  human  heart,  a  little 
suspicion  of  the  deceitfulness  of  his  own,  would 
not  only  moderate  the  intemperance  of  an  ill 
understood  zeal,  should  the  warm  convert  be¬ 
come  an  established  Christian,  but  would  save 
the  credit  of  religion,  which  will  receive  a  fresK 
wound  in  the  possible  event  of  his  desertion  from 
her  standard. 

Some  of  the  most  distinguished  Christians  ia 
this  country  began  their  religious  career  with 
this  graceful  humility.  They  would  not  suffer 
their  change  of  character,  and  their  adoption  of 
new  principles,  and  a  new  course  to  be  blazoned 
abroad,  as  the  affectionate  zeal  of  their  confiden¬ 
tial  friends  would  have  advised,  till  the  princi¬ 
ples  they  had  adopted  were  established,  and 
worked  into  habits  of  piety  ;  till  time  and  expe¬ 
rience  had  evinced  that  the  grace  of  God  had 
not  been  bestowed  on  them  in  vain.  Their  pro¬ 
gress  proved  to  be  such  as  might  have  been  in¬ 
ferred  from  the  modesty  of  their  outset.  I’liey 
have  gone  on  with  a  perseverance  which  diffi¬ 
culties  have  only  contributed  to  strengthen,  antt 
experience  to  confirm  ;  and  will,  through  divine 
aid,  doubtless  go  on,  shining  more  and  more  un 
to  the  perfect  day. 

I  But  to  return  to  the  less  steady  convert.  Per- 

J  haps  religion  was  only,  as,  we  have  hinted  elsg 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


473 


where,  one  pursuit  among  many  which  he  had 
taken  up  when  other  pursuits  failed,  and  which 
he  now  lays  down  because,  his  faith  not  being 
rooted  and  grounded,  fails  also  ; — or  the  tempta¬ 
tion  arising  from  without  might  concur  with  the 
failure  within.  If  vanity  be  his  infirmity,  he 
will  shrink  from  the  pointed  disapprobation  of 
his  superiors.  If  the  love  of  novelty  be  his  be¬ 
setting  weakness,  the  very  peculiarity  and  strict¬ 
ness  of  religion,  the  very  marked  departure 
from  the  ‘  gay  and  primrose  path’  in  which  he 
had  before  been  accustomed  to  walk,  which  first 
attracted,  now  repels  him.  The  attention  which 
his  early  deviation  from  the  manners  of  the 
world  drew  upon  him,  and  which  once  flattered, 
now  disgusts  him.  The  very  opposition  which 
once  animated,  now  cools  him.  He  is  discou¬ 
raged  at  the  near  view,  subdued  by  the  required 
practice,  of  that  Christian  self-denial  which,  as 
a  speculation,  had  appeared  so  delightful.  Per¬ 
haps  ,his  fancy  had  been  fired  by  some  act  of 
Christian  heroism,  which  he  felt  an  ambition  to 
imitate :  a  feeling  which  tales  of  martial  prow¬ 
ess,  or  deeds  of  chivalry,  something  that,  pro¬ 
mising  celebrity  and  exciting  emulation,  had 
often  kindled  before.  The  truth  is,  religion  had 
only  taken  hold  of  his  imagination,  his  heart  had 
been  left  out  of  the  question. 

Or  he  had  in  the  twilight  of  his  first  awaken¬ 
ing,  seen  religion  only  as  something  to  be  be¬ 
lieved  ;  he  now  finds  that  much  is  to  be  done 
in  the  new  life,  and  much  which  was  habitual 
to  the  old  one  left  undone.  Above  all,  he  did 
not  reckon  on  the  consistency  which  the  Chris¬ 
tian  life  demands.  Warm  affections  rendered 
the  practice  of  some  right  actions  easy  to  him  ; 
but  he  did  not  include  in  his  faulty  and  imper¬ 
fect  scheme,  the  self  denial,  the  perseverance, 
the  renouncing  of  his  own  will  and  his  own 
way,  the  evil  report  as  well  as  the  good  report, 
to  which  every  man  pledges  himself,  when  ho 
enlists  under  the  banner  of  Christ.  The  cross 
which  it  was  easy  to  venerate,  he  finds  it  hard 
to  bear. 

Or  religion  might  be  adopted  when  he  was 
in  affliction,  and  he  is  now  happy : — when  he 
was  in  bad  circumstances,  and  he  is  now  grown 
affluent.  Or  it  might  be  assumed  as  something 
wanting  to  his  recommendation  to  that  party  or 
project  by  which  he  wished  to  make  his  way ; 
as  something  that  would  better  enable  him  to 
carry  certain  points  which  he  had  in  view ; 
something  that,  with  the  new  acquaintance  he 
wished  to  cultivate,  might  obliterate  certain  de¬ 
fects,  in  his  former  conduct,  and  white-wash  a 
somewhat  sullied  reputation. 

Or  in  his  now  more  independent  situation,  it 
may  be  he  is  surrounded  by  temptations,  soften¬ 
ed  by  blandishments,  allured  by  pleasures,  which 
he  never  expected  would  arise  to  weaken  his  re¬ 
solutions.  These  new  enchantments  make  it 
not  so  easy  to  be  pious,  as  when  he  had  little  to 
lose  and  every  thing  to  desire,  as  when  the  world 
wore  a  frowning,  and  religion  an  inviting  as¬ 
pect.  Or  he  is  perhaps  by  the  vicissitudes  of 
life,  transferred  from  a  sober  and  humble  society, 
where  to  bo  religious  was  honourable,  to  a  more 
fashionable  set  of  associates,  where,  as  the  dis¬ 
closure  of  his  piety  would  add  nothing  to  his 
credit,  he  set  out  with  taking  pains  to  conceal 
VoL.  I. 


it,  till  it  has  fallen  into  that  gradual  oblivion, 
which  is  the  natural  consequence  of  its  being 
kept  out  of  sight. 

But  we  proceed  to  a  far  more  interesting  and 
important  character.  The  one  indeed  whom  we 
have  been  slightly  sketching,  may  by  his  incon¬ 
stancy  do  much  harm  ;  the  one  on  which  we  are 
about  to  animadvert,  might  by  his  consistency 
and  perseverance  effect  essential  good.  Even, 
the  sincere,  and  to  all  appearance,  the  establish¬ 
ed  Christian,  especially  if  his  situation  in  life 
be  easy,  and  his  course  smooth  and  prosperous, 
had  need  keep  a  vigilant  eye  upon  his  own 
heart.  For  such  a  one  it  will  not  be  sufficient 
that  he  keep  his  ground  if  he  do  not  advance  in 
it.  Indeed  it  will  be  a  sure  proof  that  he  has 
gone  back,  if  he  has  not  advanced. 

In  a  world  so  beset  with  snares,  various  are. 
the  causes  which  may  possibly  occasion  in  even 
good  men  a  slow  but  certain  decline  in  piety- 
A  decline  scarcely  perceptible  at  first,  but  which 
becomes  more  visible  in  its  subsequent  stages.. 
When  therefore  we  suspect  our  hearts  of  any 
declension  in  piety,  we  should  not  compare  our¬ 
selves  with  what  we  were  in  the  preceding  week 
or  month,  but  what  we  yere  at  the  supposed 
height  of  our  character.  Though  the  alteration- 
was  not  perceptible  in  its  gradual  progress,  one 
shade  melting  into  the  next,  and  each  losing  its 
distinctness,  yet  when  the  two  remote  states  are 
brought  into  contrast,  the  change  will  be  stri¬ 
kingly  obvious. 

Among  other  causes,  may  be  assigned  the  in¬ 
discreet  forming  of  some  worldly  connexion, 
especially  that  of  marriage.  In  this  connexion, 
for  union  it  cannot  be  called,  it  is  to  be  lamented 
that  the  irreligious  more  frequently  draw  away 
the  religious  to  their  side,  than  that  the  contrary 
takes  place ;  a  circumstance  easily  accounted 
for  by  those  who  are  at  all  acquainted  with  the 
human  heart. 

Or  the  sincere  but  incautious  Christian  may 
be  led  by  a  strong  affection  which  assumes  the 
shape  of  virtue,  into  a  fond  desire  of  establish¬ 
ing  his  children  advantageously  in  the  world, 
into  methods  which  if  not  absolutely  incorrect 
are  yet  ambiguous  at  the  best.  In  order  to  raise 
those  whom  he  loves  to  a  station  above  their 
level,  he  may  be  tempted,  while  self-deceit  will 
teach  him  to  sanctify  the  deed  by  the  motive,  to 
make  ^me  little  sacrifices  of  principle,  some 
little  abatements  of  that  strict  rectitude,  for 
which  in  the  abstract  no  man  would  more  stre¬ 
nuously  contend.  And  as  it  may  be  in  general' 
observed,  that  the  most  amiable  minds  are  most 
susceptible  of  the  strongest  natural  affections  , 
of  course  the  very  tenderness  of  the  heart  lays 
such  characters  peculiarly  open  to  a  danger,  to 
which  the  unfeeling  and  the  obdurate  are  less 
exposed. 

If  the  'person  in  question  bo  of  the  sacred  or¬ 
der,  no  small  danger  may  arise  from  his  living 
under  the  eye  of  an  irreligious,  but  rich  and 
bountiful  patron.  It  is  his  duty  to  make  religioa 
appear  amiable  ip  his  eyes. — He  ought  to  con¬ 
ciliate  Ins  good  will  by  every  means  whicii  rec¬ 
titude  can  sanction.  But  though  his  very  piety 
will  stimulate  his  discretion  in  the  adoption  of 
those  means,  he  will  take  care  never  to  let  his* 
discretion  intrench  on  his  integrity 


474 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


If  he  be  under  obligations  to  him,  he  may  be 
in  danger  of  testifying  his  gratitude,  and  fur¬ 
thering  his  hopes  by  some  electioneering  ma¬ 
noeuvres,  and  by  too  much  electioneering  society. 
He  may,  unawares  be  tempted  to  too  much  con¬ 
formity  to  his  friend’s  habits,  too  much  convivi¬ 
ality  in  his  society.  And  when  he  witnesseth 
so  much  kindness  and  urbanity  in  his  manners, 
possibly  so  much  usefulness  and  benevolence  in 
his  life,  he  may  be  even  tempted  to  suspect  that 
he  himself  may  be  wrong  ;  to  accuse  himself  of 
being  somewhat  churlish  in  his  own  temper,  a 
little  too  austere  in  his  habits,  and  rather  hard 
in  his  judgment  of  a  man  so  amiable.  He  will 
be  still  more  likely  to  fall  into  this  error  if  ho 
expects  a  favour  than  if  he  has  obtained  it ;  for 
though  it  is  not  greatly  to  the  honour  of  human 
nature,  we  daily  see  how  much  keener  are  the 
feelings  which  are  excited  by  hope  than  those 
which  are  raised  by  gratitude — The  favour  which 
has  been  already  conferred,  excites  a  temperate, 

,  that  which  we  are  looking  for,  a  fervid  feeling. 

These  relaxing  feelings  and  these  softened 
dispositions,  aided  by  the  seducing  luxury  of  the 
table,  and  the  bewitching  splendour  of  the  apart¬ 
ment  ;  by  the  soft  accommodations  which  opu¬ 
lence  exhibits  ;  and  the  desires  which  they  are 
too  apt  to  awaken  in  the  dependant,  may,  not  im¬ 
possibly,  lead  by  degrees  to  a  criminal  timidity 
in  maintaining  the  purity  of  his  own  principles, 
iri  supporting  the  strictness  of  his  own  practice. 
He  may  gradually  lose  somewhat  of  the  dignity 
of  his  professional,  and  of  the  sobriety  of  the 
Christian  character.  He  may’  be  brought  to  for¬ 
feit  the  independence  of  his  mind  ;  and  in  order 
to  magnify  his  fortune,  may  neglect  to  magnify 
his  office. 

Even  here,  from  an  increasing  remissness  in 
self-examination,  he  may  deceive  himself  by 
persisting  to  believe — for  the  films  are  now  grow¬ 
ing  thick  over  his  spiritual  sight — that  his  mo¬ 
tives  are  defensible.  Were  not  his  discernment 
labouring  under  a  temporary  blindness,  he  would 
reprobate  the  character  which  interested  views 
have  insensibly  drawn  him  in  to  act.  He  would 
be  as  much  astonished  to  be  told  that  his  cha¬ 
racter  was  beeome  his  own,  as  was  the  royal 
offender,  when  the  righteous  boldness  of  the 
prophet  pronounced  the  heart-appalling  words, 
‘  Thou  art  the  man.’ 

Still  he  continues  to  flatter  himself  that  the 
reason  of  his  diminished  opposition  to  the  faults 
of  his  friend,  is  not  because  he  has  a  more  lu¬ 
crative  situation  in  view,  but  because  he  may, 
by  a  slight  temporary  concession,  and  a  short 
suspension  of  a  severity  which  he  begins  to  fan¬ 
cy  he  has  carried  too  far,  secure  for  his  future 
life  a  more  extensive  field  of  usefulness,  in  the 
benefice  which  is  hanging  over  his  head. 

In  the  mean  time  hope  and  expectation  so  fill 
his  mind,  that  he  insensibly  grows  cold  in  the 
prosecution  of  his  positive  duties.  He  begins  to 
lament  that  in  his  present  situation  he  can  make 
but  few  converts;  that  he  sees  but  small  effects 
of  his  labourt ,  not  perceiving  that  God  may  have 
withdrawn  his  blessing  from  a  ministry  which 
-is  exercised  on  such  questionable  grounds.  With 
his  new  expectations  he  continues  to  blend  his 
old  ideas.  He  feasts  his  imagination  with  the 
prospect  of  a  more  fruitful  harvest  on  an  un¬ 


known,  and  perhaps  an  unbroken  soil — as  if  hu 
man  nature  were  not  pretty  much  the  same 
every  where  ;  as  if  the  labourer  were  accounta¬ 
ble  for  the  abundance  of  his  crop,  and  not  solely 
for  his  own  assiduity  ;  as  if  actual  duty,  faith¬ 
fully  performed,  even  in  this  circumscribed 
sphere  in  which  God  has  cast  our  lot,  is  not 
more  acceptable  to  him,  than  theories  of  the 
most  extensive  good,  than  distant  speculations 
and  improbable  projects,  for  the  benefit  even  ot 
a  whole  district;  while,  in  the  indulgence  of 
these  airy  schemes,  our  own  specific  and  ap¬ 
pointed  work  lies  neglected,  or  is  performed 
without  energy  and  without  attention. 

Self-love  so  naturally  infatuates  the  judgment, 
that  it  is  no  paradox  to  assert  that  we  look  too 
far,  and  yet  do  not  look  far  enough.  We  look 
too  far  when  passing  over  the  actual  duties  of  the 
immediate  scene,  we  form  long  connected  trains 
of  future  projects,  and  indulge  our  thoughts  in 
such  as  are  most  remote,  and  perhaps  least  pro¬ 
bable.  And  we  do  not  look  far  enough  when 
the  prospective  mind  does  not  shoot  beyond  all 
these  little  earthly  distances,  to  that  state,  falsely 
called  remote,  whither  all  our  steps  are  not  the 
less  tending,  because  our  eyes  are  confined  to 
the  home  scenes.  But  while  the  precariousness 
of  our/luration  ought  to  set  limits  toour  designs, 
it  should  furnish  incitements  to  our  application. 
Distant  projects  are  too  apt  to  slacken  present 
industry  ;  while  the  magnitude  of  schemes,  pro¬ 
bably  impracticable,  may  render  our  actual  ex¬ 
ertions  cold  and  sluggish. 

Let  it  be  observed  that  we  would  be  the  last 
to  censure  any  of  those  fair  and  honourable 
means  of  improving  his  condition  which  every 
man,  be  he  worldly  or  religious,  owes  to  himself^ 
and  to  his  family.  Saints  as  well  as  sinners 
have  in  common,  what  a  great  genius  calls, 
‘  certain  inconvenient  appetites  of  eating  and 
drinking ;’  which  while  we  are  in  the  body  must 
be  complied  with.  It  would  be  a  great  hardship 
on  good  men,  to  be  denied  any  innocent  means 
of  fair  gratification.  It  would  be  a  peculiar  in¬ 
justice  that  the  most  diligent  labourer  should  be 
esteemed  the  least  worthy  of  his  hire,  the  least 
fit  to  rise  in  his  profession. 

The  more  serious  clergyman  has  also  the  same 
warm  affection  for  his  children  with  his  less 
scrupulous  brother,  and  consequently  the  same 
laudable  desire  for  their  comfortable  establish¬ 
ment  ;  only  in  his  plans  for  their  advancement 
he  should  neither  entertain  ambitious  views  nor 
prosecute  any  views,  even  the  best,  by  methods 
not  consonant  to  the  strictness  of  his  avowed 
principles.  Professing  to ‘seek  first  the  king¬ 
dom  of  God  and  his  righteousness,’  he  ought  to 
be  more  exempt  from  an  over  anxious  solicitude 
than  those  who  profess  it  less  zealously.  Avow¬ 
ing  a  more  determined  confidence  that  all  other 
things  will,  as  far  as  they  are  absolutely  neces¬ 
sary,  ‘  be  added  unto  him,’  he  should,  as  it  is 
obvious  lie  commonly  docs,  manifest  practically, 
a  more  implicit  trust,  confiding  in  the  gracious 
and  cheering  promise,  that  promise  expressed 
botli  negatively  and  piositively,  as  if  to  comfort 
with  a  double  confirmation,  that  God  who  is 
‘  both  his  light  and  defence,  who  will  give  grace 
and  worship,  will  also  withhold  no  good  thing 
from  them  that  live  a  godly  life.* 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


475 


It  is  one  of  the  trials  of  faith  appended  to  the 
sacred  office,  that  its  ministers,  like  the  father 
of  the  faithful,  are  liable  to  go  out,  ‘  not  knowing 
whither  they  go and  this  not  only  at  their 
first  entrance  into  their  profession,  but  through 
life ;  an  inconvenience  to  which  no  other  pro¬ 
fession,  is  necessarily  liable ;  a  trial  which  is 
not  perhaps  fairly  estimated. 

This  remark  will  naturally  raise  a  laugh 
among  those  who  at  once  hold  the  function  in 
contempt,  deride  its  ministers,  and  think  their 
well-earned  remuneration  lavishly  and  even  un¬ 
necessarily  bestowed.  They  will  probably  ex¬ 
claim  with  as  much  complacency  in  their  ridi¬ 
cule,  as  if  it  were  really  the  test  of  truth — ‘  A 
great  cause  ®f  commisseration  truly,  to  be  trans- 
ferred  from  a  starving  curacy  to  a  plentiful  bene¬ 
fice,  or  from  the  vulgar  society  of  a  country  parish 
to  be  a  stalled  theologian  in  an  opulent  town  !’ 

We  are  far  from  estimating  at  a  low  rate  the 
exchange  from  a  state  of  uncertainty  to  a  state 
of  independence,  from  a  life  of  penury  to  com¬ 
fort,  or  from  a  barely  decent  to  an  affluent  pro¬ 
vision. — But  does  the  ironical  remarker  rate  the 
feelings  and  affections  of  the  heart  at  nothing  ? 
If  he  insists  that  money  is  that  chief  good  of 
which  ancient  philosophy  says  so  much,  we  beg 
leave  to  insist  that  it  is  not  the  only  good.  We 
are  above  the  affectation  of  pretending  to  con¬ 
dole  with  any  man  on  his  exaltation,  but  there 
are  feelings  which  a  man  of  acute  sensibility, 
rendered  more  acute  by  an  elegant  education, 
Talues  more  intimately  than  silver  or  gold. 

Is  it  absolutely  nothing  to  resign  his  local 
comforts,  to  break  up  his  local  attachments,  to 
have  new  connexions  to  form,  and  that  frequent¬ 
ly  at  an  advanced  period  of  life  ?  Connexions, 
perhaps  less  valuable  than  those  he  is  quitting  ? 
Is  it  nothing  for  a  faithful  minister  to  be  sepa¬ 
rated  from  an  affectionate  people,  a  people  not 
only  whose  friendship,  but  whose  progress  has 
constituted  his  happiness  here,  as  it  will  make 
his  joy  and  crown  of  rejoicing  hereafter  ? 

Men  of  delicate  minds  estimate  things  by  their 
affections  as  well  as  by  their  circumstances  :  to 
a  man  of  a  certain  cast  of  character,  a  change 
however  advantageous,  may  be  rather  an  exile 
than  a  promotion.  While  he  gratefully  accepts 
the  good,  he  receives  it  with  an  edifying  ac¬ 
knowledgment  of  the  imperfection  of  the  best 
human  things.  These  considerations  we  con¬ 
fess  add  the  additional  feelings  of  kindness  to 
their  persons,  and  of  sympathy  with  their  vicis¬ 
situdes,  to  our  respect  and  veneration  for  their 
holy  office. 

To  themselves,  however,  the  precarious  tenor 
of  their  situation  presents  an  instructive  emblem 
of  the  uncertain  condition  of  human  life,  of  the 
transitory  nature  of  the  world  itself.  Their 
liableness  to  a  sudden  removal,  gives  them  the 
advantage  of  being  more  especially  reminded  of 
the  necessity  and  duty  of  keeping  in  a  continual 
posture  of  preparation,  having  ‘  their  loins  gird¬ 
ed,  their  shoes  on  their  feet,  and  their  staff  in 
their  hand.’  They  have  also  the  same  promises 
which  supported  the  Israelites  in  the  desert. — 
The  same  assurance  which  cheered  Abraham, 
may  still  cheer  the  true  servants  of  God  under- 
*11  difficulties. — ‘  Fear  not— I  arn  thy  shield  and 
tliy  exceeding  great  reward.’ 


I  But  there  are  perils  on  the  right  hand  and  on 
1  the  left.  It  is  not  among  the  least,  that  though 
a  pious  clergyman  may  at  first  have  tasted  with 
trembling  caution  of  the  delicious  cup  of  ap 
plause,  he  may  gradually  grow,  as  thirst  is  in., 
creased  by  indulgence,  to  drink  too  deeply  of 
the  enchanted  chalice.  The  dangers  arising 
from  any  thing  that  is  good  are  formidable,  be¬ 
cause  unsuspected.  And  such  are  the  perils  of 
popularity,  that  we  will  venture  to  say  that  the 
victorious  general  who  has  conquered  a  king¬ 
dom,  or  the  sagacious  statesman  who  has  pre- 
’served  it,  is  almost  in  less  danger  of  being  spoilt 
by  acclamation  than  the  popular  preacher  ;  be¬ 
cause  their  danger  is  likely  to  happen  but  once, 
his  is  perpetual.  Theirs  is  only  on  a  day  of 
triumph,  his  day  of  triumph  occurs  every  week ; 
we  mean  the  admiration  he  excites.  Every 
fresh  success  ought  to  be  a  fresh  motive  to  hu¬ 
miliation  ;  he  who  feels  his  danger  will  vigilant¬ 
ly  guard  against  swallowing  too  greedily  the  in¬ 
discriminate,  and  often  undistinguishing  plaudits 
which  his  doctrines  or  his  manner,  his  talent  or 
his  voice,  may  equally  procure  for  him. 

If  he  be  not  prudent  as  well  as  pious,  he  may 
be  brought  to  humour  his  audience,  and  his 
audience  to  flatter  him  w’ith  a  dangerous  emula¬ 
tion,  till  they  will  scarcely  endure  truth  itself 
from  any  other  lips.  Nay,  he  may  imperceptibly 
be  led  not  to  be  always  satisfied  with  the  atten¬ 
tion  and  improvement  of  his  hearers,  unless 
the  attention  be  sweetened  by  flattery,  and  the 
improvement  followed  by  exclusive  attachment. 

The  spirit  of  exclusive  fondness  generates  a 
spirit  of  controversy.  Some  of  the  followers 
will  rather  improve  in  casuistry  than  in  Chris¬ 
tianity.  They  will  be  more  busied  in  opposing 
Paul  to  Apollos,  than  looking  unto  ‘  Jesus,  the 
author  and  finisher  of  their  faith  than  in  bring, 
ing  forth  fruits  meet  for  repentance.  Religious 
gossip  may  assume  the  place  of  religion  itself! 
A  party  spirit  is  thus  generated,  and  Christianity 
may  begin  to  be  considered  as  a  thing  to  be  dis¬ 
cussed  and  disputed,  to  be  heard  and  talked  about, 
rather  than  as  the  productive  principle  of  virtu¬ 
ous  conduct.*’ 

We  owe,  indeed,  lively  gratitude  and  affec¬ 
tionate  attachment  to  the  minister  who  has 
faithfully  laboured  for  our  edification  ;  but  the 
author  has  sometimes  noticed  a  manner  adopted 
by  some  injudicious  adherents,  especially  of  her 
own  se,x,  which  seems  rather  to  erect  their  fa¬ 
vourite  into  the  head  of  a  sect,  than  to  reverence 
him  as  the  pastor  of  a  flock.  This  mode  of 
evincing  an  attachment,  amiable  in  itself,  is 
doubtless  as  distressing  to  the  delicacy  of  the 
minister  as  it  is  unfavourable  to  religion,  to  which 
it  is  apt  to  give  an  air  of  party. 

May  we  be  allowed  to  animadvert  more  im¬ 
mediately  on  the  cause  of  declension  in  piety,  in 
some  persons  who  formerly  exhibited  evident 
marks  of  that  seriousness  in  their  lives  which 
they  continue  to  inculcate  from  the  pulpit.  If 
such  has  been  sometimes  (we  hope  it  has  been 
very  rarely)  the  case,  may  it  not  bo  partly 
ascribed  to  an  unliappy  notion  that  the  same  ex¬ 
actness  in  his  private  devotion,  the  same  watch- 

♦  This  polemic  tattle  i.s  of  a  totally  (lifTerent  character 
from  that  species  of  reliRious  conversation  recommended 
ill  the  preceding  chanter. 


476 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


fulness  in.  his  daily  conduct,  is  not  equally  ne¬ 
cessary  in  the  advanced  progress  as  in  the  first 
stages  of  a  religious  course  ?  He  does  not  de¬ 
sist  from  warning  his  hearers  of  the  continual 
necessity  of  these  things,  but  is  he  not  in  some 
danger  of  not  applying  the  necessity  to  himself? 
May  he  not  begin  to  rest  satisfied  with  the  in¬ 
culcation  without  the  practice  ?  It  is  not  pro¬ 
bable  indeed  that  he  goes  so  far  as  to  establish 
himself  as  an  exempt  case,  but  he  slides  from 
indolence  into  the  exemption,  as  if  its  avoidance 
were  not  so  necessary  for  him  as  for  others. 

Even  the  very  sacredness  of  his  profession  is 
not  without  a  snare.  He  may  repeat  the  holy 
offices  so  often  that  he  may  be  in  danger  on  the 
one  hand,  of  sinking  into  the  notion  that  it  is  a 
mere  profession,  or  on  the  other,  of  so  resting  in 
it  as  to  make  it  supercede  the  necessity  of  that 
strict  personal  religion  with  which  he  set  out : 
He  may  at  least  be  satisfied  with  the  occasional, 
without  the  uniform  practice.  There  is  a  dan¬ 
ger — we  advert  only  to  its  possibility — that  his 
very  exactness  in  the  public  exercise  of  his 
function,  may  lead  to  a  little  justification  of  his 
remissness  in  secret  duties.  His  zealous  expo¬ 
sition  of  the  Scriptures  to  others  may  satisfy 
him,  though  it  does  not  always  lead  to  a  practi¬ 
cal  application  of  them  to  himself. 

But  God,  by  requiring  exemplary  diligence 
in  the  devotion  of  his  appointed  servants,  would 
keep  up  in  their  minds  a  daily  sense  of  their 
dependance  on  him.  If  he  does  not  continually 
teach  by  his  Spirit  those  who  teach  others,  they 
have  little  reason  to  expect  success,  and  that 
Spirit  will  not  be  given  where  it  is  not  sought ; 
or,  which  is  an  awful  consideration,  may  be 
withdrawn,  where  it  had  been  given,  and  not 
improved  as  it  might  haive  been. 

Should  this  unhappily  ever  be  the  case,  it 
would  almost  reduce  the  minister  of  Christ  to  a 
mere  engine,  a  vehicle  through  which  know¬ 
ledge  was  barely  to  pass,  like  the  ancient  oracles 
who  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  information  but 
to  convey  it.  Perhaps  the  public  success  of  the 
best  men  has  been,  under  God,  principally  owing 
to  this,  that  their  faithful  ministration  in  the 
temple  has  been  uniformly  preceded  and  follow¬ 
ed  by  petitions  in  the  closet ;  that  the  truths 
implanted  in  the  one,  have  chiefly  flourished 
from  having  been  watered  by  the  tears,  and 
nourished  by  the  prayers  of  the  other. 

We  will  hazard  but  one  more  observation  on 
this  dangerous  and  delicate  subject ;  in  this 
superficial  treatment  of  which,  it  is  the  thing  in 
the  world  the  most  remote  from  the  writer’s 
wish,  to  give  the  slightest  offence  to  any  pious 
member  of  an  order  which  possesses  her  highest 
veneration.  If  the  indefatigable  labourer  in  his 
great  Master’s  vineyard,  has,  as  must  often  be 
the  case,  the  mortification  of  finding  that  his 
labours  have  failed  of  producing  their  desired 
effect,  in  some  instance,  where  his  warmest 
hopes  had  been  excited ; — if  he  feels  that  he  has 
not  benefitted  others  as  he  had  earnestly  de¬ 
sired,  this  is  precisely  the  moment  to  benefit 
himself,  and  is  perhaps  permitted  for  that  very 
end.  Where  his  usefulness  has  been  obviously 
great,  the  true  Christian  will  be  humbled  by 
the  recollection  that  he  is  only  an  instrument. 
Where  it  has  been  less,  the  defeat  of  his  hopes 


offers  the  best  occasion,  which  he  will  not  fail  to 
use  for  improving  bis  humility.  Thus  he  may 
always  be  assured  that  good  has  been  done 
somewhere,  so  that  in  any  case  his  labour  will 
not  have  been  vain  in  the  Lord. 


CHAP.  XVII. 

True  and  False  Zeal. 

It  is  one  of  the  most  important  ends  of  cui- 
tivating  that  self-knowdedge  which  we  have 
elsewhere  recommended,  to  discover  what  is  the 
real  bent  of  our  mind,  and  which  are  the  strong¬ 
est  tendencies  of  our  character ;  to  discover 
where  our  disposition  requires  restraint,  and 
where  we  may  be  safely  trusted  with  some 
liberty  of  indulgence.  If  the  temper  be  fervid, 
and  that  fervour  be  happily  directed  to  religion, 
the  most  consummate  prudenee  will  be  requisite 
to  restrain  its  excesses  without  freezing  its 
energies. 

If,  on  the  contrary,  timidity  and  diffidence  be 
the  natural  propensity,  we  shall  be  in  danger  of 
falling  into  coldness  and  inactivity  with  regard 
to  ourselves,  and  into  too  unresisting  a  com¬ 
pliance  with  the  requisitions,  or  too  easy  a  con¬ 
formity  with  the  habits  of  others.  It  will  there¬ 
fore  be  an  evident  proof  of  Christian  self-govern¬ 
ment,  when  the  man  of  too  ardent  zeal  restrains 
its  outward  expression  where  it  would  be  un¬ 
seasonable,  or  unsafe;  while  it  will  evince  the 
same  Christian  self-denial  in  the  fear.fiil  and 
diffident  character,  to  burst  the  fetters  oftimidity, 
where  duty  requires  a  holy  boldness ;  and  when 
he  is  called  upon  to  lose  all  lesser  fears  in  the 
fear  of  God. 

It  will  then  be  one  of  the  first  objects  of  a 
Christian  to  get  his  understanding  and  his  con¬ 
science  thoroughly  enlightened ;  to  take  an 
exact  survey  not  only  of  the  whole  comprehen¬ 
sive  scheme  of  Christianity,  but  of  his  own 
character ;  to  discover,  in  order  to  correct  the 
defects  in  his  judgment,  and  to  ascertain  the 
deficiencies  even  of  his  best  qualities.  Through 
ignorance  in  these  respects,  though  he  may 
really  be  following  up  some  good  tendency, 
though  he  is  even  persuaded  that  he  is  not  wrong 
either  in  his  motive  or  his  object,  he  may  yet 
be  wrong  in  the  measure,  wrong  in  the  mode, 
wrong  in  the  application,  though  right  in  the 
principle.  He  must  therefore  watch  with  a 
suspicious  eye  over  his  better  qualities,  and 
guard  his  very  virtues  from  deviation  and  exr 
cess. 

His  zeal,  that  indispensable  ingredient  in  the 
composition  of  a  great  character,  that  quality, 
without  which  no  great  eminence  either  secular 
or  religious  has  ever  been  attained ;  which  is 
essential  to  the  acquisition  of  excellence  in  arts 
and  arms,  in  learning  and  piety  ;  that  principle 
without  which  no  man  will  be  able  to  reach  the 
perfection  of  his  nature,  or  to  animate  others  to 
aim  at  that  perfection,  will  yet  hardly  fail  to 
mislead  the  animated  Christian,  if  his  know¬ 
ledge  of  what  is  right  and  just,  if  his  judgment 
in  the  application  of  that  knowledge  do  not- 
keep  pace  with  the  principle  itself. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


477 


Zeal,  indeed,  is  not  so  much  an  individual 
virtue  as  the  principle  which  gives  life  and 
colouring,  as  the  spirit  which  gives  grace  and 
benignity,  as  the  temper  which  gives  warmth 
and  energy  to  every  other.  It  is  that  feeling  which 
exalts  the  relish  of  every  duty,  and  sheds  a 
lustre  on  the  practice  of  every  virtue  ;  which, 
embellishing  every  image  of  the  mind  with  its 
glowing  tints,  animates  every  quality  of  the 
heart  with  its  invigorating  motion.  It  may  be 
said  of  zeal  among  the  virtues  as  of  memory 
among  the  faculties,  that  though  it  singly  never 
made  a  great  man,  yet  no  man  has  ever  made 
himself  conspicuously  great  where  it  has  been 
wanting. 

Many  things  however  must  concur  before  we 
can  be  allowed  to  determine  whether  zeal  be 
jeally  a  virtue  or  a  vice.  Those  who  are  con- 
lending  for  the  one  or  the  other,  will  be  in  the 
situation  of  the  two  knights,  who  meeting  on  a 
cross  road,  were  on  the  point  of  fighting  about 
the  colour  of  a  cross  which  was  suspended  be¬ 
tween  them.  One  insisted  it  was  gold  ;  the  other 
maintained  it  was  silver.  The  duel  was  pre¬ 
vented  by  the  interference  of  a  passenger,  who 
desired  them  to  change  their  position^.  Both 
crossed  over  to  the  opposite  side,  found  the  cross 
was  gold  on  one  side,  and  silver  on  the  other. 
Each  acknowledged  his  opponent  to  be  right. 

It  may  be  disputed  whether  fire  be  a  good  or 
an  evil.  The  man  who  feels  himself  cheerful 
by  its  kindly  warmth,  is  assured  that  it  is  a  be¬ 
nefit,  but  he  whose  house  it  has  just  burnt  down 
will  give  another  verdict.  Not  only  the  cause, 
therefore,  in  w'hich  zeal  is  exerted  must  be  good^ 
but  the  principle  itself  must  be  under  due  regu¬ 
lation  :  or,  like  the  rapidity  of  the  traveller  who 
gets  into  a  wrong  road,  it  will  only  carry  him 
so  much  the  further  out  of  his  way ;  or  if  he 
be  in  the  right  road,  it  will,  through  inattention, 
carry  him  involuntarily  beyond  his  destined 
point. — That  degree  of  motion  is  equally  mis- 
leading  which  detains  us  short  of  our  end,  or 
which  pushes  us  beyond  it. 

The  apostle  suggests  a  useful  precaution  by 
expressly  asserting  that  it  is  ‘  in  a  good  cause,’ 
that  we  ‘  must  be  zealously  affected;’  which  im¬ 
plies  this  further  truth,  that  where  the  cause  is 
not  good,  the  mischief  is  proportioned  to  the 
zeal.  But  lest  we  should  carry  our  limitations 
of  the  quality  to  any  restriction  of  the  seasons 
for  exercising  it,  he  takes  care  to  animate  us  to 
its  perpetual  exercise,  by  adding  that  we  must 
be  always  so  affected. 

If  the  injustice,  the  intolerance  and  persecu¬ 
tion,  with  which  a  misguided  zeal  has  so  often 
afflicted  the  church  of  Christ,  in  its  more  early 
periods,  be  lamented  as  a  deplorable  evil ;  yet 
the  overruling  wisdom  of  Providence  educing 
good  from  evil,  made  the  very  calamities  which 
false  zeal  occasioned,  the  instruments  of  pro¬ 
ducing  that  true  and  lively  zeal  to  which  wc 
owe  tlio  glorious  band  of  martyrs  and  confessors, 
tliose  brightest  ornaments  of  the  best  periods  of 
the  cliurch.  This  effect,  though  a  clear  vindi¬ 
cation  of  that  divine  goodness  which  suffers  evil, 
is  no  apology  for  him  who  perpetrates  it. 

It  is  curious  to  observe  the  contrary  opera¬ 
tions  of  true  and  false  zeal,  which  though  appa¬ 
rently  only  different  modifications  of  the  same 


quality,  are,  when  brought  into  contact,  repug¬ 
nant,  and  even  destructive  to  each  other.  There 
is  no  attribute  of  the  human  mind  where  the 
different  effects  of  the  same  principle  have  such 
a  total  opposition  :  for  is  it  not  obvious  that  the 
same  principle  under  another  direction,  which 
actuates  the  tyrant  in  dragging  the  martyr  to 
the  stake,  enables  the  martyr  to  embrace  it  ? 

As  a  striking  proof  that  the  necessity  for  cau¬ 
tion  is  not  imaginary,  it  has  been  observed  that 
the  Holy  Scriptures  record  more  instances  of  a 
bad  zeal  than  of  a  good  one.  This  furnishes  the 
most  authoritative  argument  for  regulating  this 
impetuous  principle,  and  for  governing  it  by  all 
those  restrictions  which  a  feeling  so  calculated 
for  good  and  so  capable  of  evil  demands. 

It  was  zeal,  but  of  a  blind  and  furious  cha¬ 
racter,  which  produced  the  massacre  on  the  day 
of  St.  Bartholomew ; — a  day  to  which  the  mourn¬ 
ful  strains  of  Job  have  been  so  well  applied. — 
‘  Let  that  day  perish.  Let  it  not  be  joined  to 
the  days  of  the  years.  Let  darkness  and  the 
shadow  of  death  stain  it.’ — It  was  a  zeal  the 
most  bloody,  combined  with  a  perfidy  the  most 
detestable,  which  inflamed  the  execrable  Flo¬ 
rentine,*  when,  having  on  this  occasion  invited 
so  many  illustrious  protestants  to  Paris  under 
the  alluring  mask  of  a  public  festivity,  she  con 
trived  to  involve  her  guest,  the  pious  queen  of 
Navarre,  and  the  venerable  Coligni  in  the  gene¬ 
ra]  mass  of  undistinguished  destruction.  The 
royal  and  pontifical  assassins  not  satisfied  with 
the  sin,  converted  it  into  a  triumpli.— Medals 
were  struck  in  honour  of  a  deed  which  has  no 
parallel  even  in  the  annals  of  Pagan  persecution. 

Even  glory  did  not  content  the  pernicious 
plotters  of  this  direful  tragedy.  Devotion  was 
called  in  to  be 

The  crown  and  consummation  of  their  crime. 

The  blackest  hypocrisy  was  made  use  of  to  sanc¬ 
tify  the  foulest  murder.  The  iniquity  could  not 
be  complete  without  solemnly  thanking  God  for 
its  success.  The  pope  and  cardinals  proceeded 
to  St.  Mark’s  church,  where  they  praised  the 
Almighty  for  so  great  a  blessing  conferred  on 
the  see  of  Rome,  and  the  Christian  world.  A 
solemn  jubilee  completed  the  preposterous  mum¬ 
mery. — This  zeal  of  devotion  was  as  much  worse 
than  even  the  zeal  of  murder,  as  thanking  God 
for  enabling  us  to  commit  a  sin  is  worse  tlian 
the  commission  itself.  A  wicked  piety  is  still 
more  disgusting  than  a  wicked  act.  God  is  less 
offended  by  the  sin  itself  than  by  the  thank- 
offering  of  its  perpetrators.  It  looks  like  a  black 
attempt  to  involve  the  Creator  in  the  crime.t 
It  was  this  exterminating  zeal  which  made 
the  fourteenth  Louis,  bad  in  the  profligacy  of 
his  youth,  worse  in  the  superstition  of  his  age, 
revoke  the  tolerating  edict  which  might  have 
drawn  down  a  blessing  on  his  kingdom.  One 
species  of  crime  was  called  on,  in  his  days  of 
blind  devotion,  to  expiate  another  committed  in 
his  days  of  mad  ambition. — But  the  expiation 
was  even  more  intolerable  than  the  offence.  The 
havoc  made  by  the  sword  of  civil  persecution 

•  Catliarine  de  Medici. 

t  See  Thuaiius  for  a  most  aflecling  and  exact  account 
of  this  direful  massacre. 


478 


'THE  WORRS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


was  a  miserable  atonement  for  the  blood  which  I 
unjust  aggression  had  shed  in  foreign  wars.  1 

It  was  this  impious  and  cruel  zeal  which  in¬ 
spired  the  monk  Dominick,  in  erecting  the  most 
infernal  tribunal  which  ever  inventive  bigotry 
projected  to  dishonour  the  Christian  name,  and 
which  with  pertinacious  barbarity  has  conti¬ 
nued  for  above  six  centuries,  to  afflict  the  hu¬ 
man  race. 

For  a  complete  contrast  to  this  pernicious  zeal 
we  need  not,  blessed  be  God,  travel  back  into  re¬ 
mote  history,  nor  abroad  into  distant  realms. 
This  happy  land  of  civil  and  religious  liberty 
can  furnish  a  countless  catalogue  of  instances 
of  a  pure,  a  wise,  and  a  well  directed  zeal.  Not 
to  swell  the  list,  we  will  only  mention  that  it 
has  in  our  own  age,  produced  the  Society  for 
promoting  Christian  Knowledge,  the  British  and 
Foreign  Bible  Society,  and  the  Abolition  of  the 
African  slave,  trade.  Three  as  noble,  and  which 
will,  we  trust,  be  as  lasting  monuments  as  ever 
national  virtue  erected  to  true  piety.  These  are 
institutions  which  bear  the  genuine  stamp  of 
Christianity,  not  originating  in  party,  founded 
in  disinterestedness,  and  comprehending  the 
best  interests  of  almost  the  whole  habitable 
globe, — ‘  without  partiality  and  without  hypo¬ 
crisy.’ 

Why  we  hear  so  much  in  praise  of  zeal  from 
a  certain  class  of  religious  characters,  is  partly 
owing  to  their  liaving  taken  up  a  notion,  that 
its  acquired  exertions  relate  to  the  care  of  other 
people’s  salvation  rather  than  to  their  own  ;  and 
indeed  the  casual  prying  into  a  neighbour’s 
house,  though  much  more  entertaining,  is  not 
near  so  troublesome  as  the  constant  inspection 
of  one’s  own.  It  is  observable  that  the  outcry 
against  zeal  among  the  irreligious  is  raised  on 
nearly  the  same  ground,  as  the  clamour  in  its 
favour  by  these  professors  of  religion.  The 
former  suspect  that  the  zeal  of  the  religionist 
evaporates  in  censuring  their  impiety,  and  in 
eagerness  for  their  conversion,  instead  of  being 
directed  to  themselves.  This  supposed  anxiety 
they  resent,  and  give  a  practical  proof  of  their 
resentment  by  resolving  not  to  profit  by  it. 

Two  very  erroneous  opinions  exist,  respecting 
zeal.  It  is  commonly  supposed  to  indicate  a 
want  of  charity,  and  the  two  principles  are  ac¬ 
cused  of  maintaining  separate  interests.  This 
is  so  far  from  being  the  case,  that  charity  is  the 
firm  associate  of  that  zeal  of  which  it  is  sup¬ 
posed  to  be  the  enemy. — Indeed,  this  is  so  infal¬ 
lible  a  criterion  by  which  to  try  its  sincerity, 
that  we  should  be  apt  to  suspect  the  legitimacy 
of  the  zeal  which  is  unaccompanied  by  this  fair 
ally. 

Another  opinion  equally  erroneous  is  not  a 
little  prevalent — that  where  there  is  much  zeal 
there  is  little  or  no  prudence.  Now  a  sound  and 
sober  zeal  is  not  such  an  idiot  as  to  neglect  to 
provide  for  its  own  success  ;  and  would,  that  suc¬ 
cess  be  provided  for,  without  employing  for  its 
accomplishment,  every  precaution  which  pru¬ 
dence  can  suggest  ? — True  zeal,  therefore,  will 
DC  as  discreet  as  it  is  fervent,  well  knowing  that 
its  warmest  efforts  will  be  neither  effectual,  nor 
lasting,  without  those  provisions  which  discre¬ 
tion  alone  can  make.  No  quality  is  ever  pos¬ 
sessed  in  perfection  where  '(s  opposite  is  want¬ 


ing  ;  zeal  is  not  Christrian  fervour,  but  aiiima.> 
heat,  if  not  associated  with  charity  and  pru 
dence. 

Zeal  indeed,  like  other  good  things,  is  fre¬ 
quently  calumniated  because  it  is  not  understood: 
and  it  may  sometimes  deserve  censure,  as  being 
the  effervescence  of  that  weak  but  well  meaning 
mind  which  will  defeat  the  efforts  not  only  of 
this,  but  of  every  other  good  propensity. 

That  most  valuable  faculty  therefore  of  in¬ 
tellectual  man,  the  judgment,  the  enlightened, 
impartial,  unbiassed  judgment,  must  be  kept  in 
perpetual  activity,  not  only  in  order  to  ascertain 
that  the  cause  be  good,  but  to  determine  also 
the  degree  of  its  importance  in  any  given  case, 
that  we  may  not  blindly  assign  an  undue  value 
to  an  inferior  good  :  for  want  of  this  discrimina¬ 
tion  we  may  be  fighting  a  windmill,  when  we 
fancy  we  are  attacking  a  fort.  We  must  prove 
not  only  whether  the  thing  contended  for  be 
right,  but  whether  it  be  essential ;  whether  in 
our  eagerness  to  attain  this  subordinate  good  we 
may  not  be  sacrificing,  or  neglecting,  things  of 
more  real  consequence.  Whether  the  value  we 
assign  to  it  may  not  be  even  imaginary. 

Above  all,  we  should  examine  whether  we  do 
not  contend  for  it  chiefly  because  it  happens  to 
fall  in  with  our  own  humour,  or  our  own  party, 
more  than  on  account  of  its  intrinsic  worth ; 
whether  we  do  not  wish  to  distinguish  ourselves 
by  our  pertinacity,  and  to  append  ourselves  to 
the  party  rather  than  to  the  principle  ;  and  thus, 
as  popularity  is  often  gained  by  the  worst  part 
of  a  man’s  character,  whether  we  do  not  princi¬ 
pally  persist  from  the  hope  of  becoming  popular. 
The  favourite  adage  that  le  jeu  ne  vaui  pas  la 
chandelle,  might  serve  as  an  appropriate  motto 
to  one  half  of  the  contentions  which  divide  and 
distract  the  world. 

This  zeal,  hotly  exercised  for  mere  circum¬ 
stantials,  for  ceremonies  different  in  themselves, 
for  distinctions  rather  than  differences,  has  un¬ 
happily  assisted  in  causing  irreparable  separa¬ 
tions  and  dissentions  in  the  Christian  world, 
even  where  the  champions  on  both  sides  were 
great  and  good  men. — Many  of  the  points  which 
have  been  the  sources  of  altercation  were  not 
worth  insisting  upon,  where  the  opponents 
agreed  in  the  grand  fundamentals  of  faith  and 
practice. 

But  to  consider  zeal  as  a  general  question,  as 
a  thing  of  every  day  experience.  He  whose 
piety  is  most  sincere  will  be  likely  to  be  the 
most  zealous.  But  though  zeal  is  an  indication, 
and  even  a  concomitant  of  sincerity,  a  burning 
zeal  is  sometimes  seen  where  the  sincerity  is 
somewhat  questionable. 

For  where  zeal  is  generated  by  ignorance  it 
is  commonly  fostered  by  self-will.  That  which 
we  have  embraced  through  false  judgment  we 
maintain  through  false  honour. — Pride  is  gene¬ 
rally  called  in  to  nurse  the  offspring  of  errer. 
It  is  from  this  confederacy  that  we  frequently 
see  those  who  are  perversely  zealous  for  jwints 
which  can  add  nothing  to  the  cause  of  Christian 
truth,  whether  they  are  rejected  or  retained, 
cold  and  indifferent  about  the  great  things  which 
involve  the  salvation  of  man. 

Though  all  momentous  truths,  all  indispens^ 
I  ble  duties,  are,  in  the  luminous  volume  of  inspi- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ration,  made  so  obvious  that  those  may  read  who 
run ;  the  contested  matters  are  not  only  so  com¬ 
paratively  little  as  to  be  by  no  means  worthy 
of  the  heat  they  excite,  but  are  rendered  so 
doubtful,  not  in  themselves,  but  by  the  opposite 
systems  built  on  them,  that  he  who  fights  for 
them  is  not  always  sure  whether  he  be  right  or 
not ;  and  if  he  carry  his  point  he  can  make  no 
moral  use  of  his  victory.  This  indeed  is  not  his 
concern.  It  is  enough  thpt  he  has  conquered. 
The  importance  of  the  object  having  never  de¬ 
pended  on  its  worth,  but  on  the  opinion  of  his 
right  to  maintain  that  worth. 

The  Gospel  assigns  very  different  degrees 
of  importance  to  allowed  practices  and  com¬ 
manded  duties.  It  by  no  means  censures  those 
who  were  rigorous  in  their  payment  of  the 
most  inconsiderable  tythes  ;  but  seeing  this  duty 
was  not  only  put  in  competition  with,  but  pre¬ 
ferred  before,  the  most  important  duties,  even 
judgment,  mercy  and  faith,  the  flagrant  hypo¬ 
crisy  was  pointedly  censured  by  meekness  itself. 

This  opposition  of  a  scrupulous  exactness  in 
paying  the  petty  demand  on  three  paltry  herbs, 
to  the  neglect  of  the  thrfee  cardinal  Christian 
virtues,  exhibits  as  complete  and  instructive  a 
specimen  of  that  frivolous  and  false  zeal  which, 
evaporating  in  trifles,  wholly  overlooks  those 
grand  points  on  which  hangs  eternal  life,  a^  can 
be  conceived. 

This  passage  serves  to  corroborate  a  striking 
fact,  that  there  is  scarcely  in  scripture  any  pre¬ 
cept  enforced,  which  has  not  some  actual  ex¬ 
emplification  attached  to  it.  The  historical 
parts  of  the  Bible,  therefore,  are  of  inestimable 
value,  were  it  only  on  this  single  ground,  that 
the  appended  truths  and  principles  so  abundant¬ 
ly  scattered  through  them,  are  in  general  so 
happily  illustrated  by  them.  They  are  not  dry 
aphorisms  and  cold  propositions,  which  stand 
singly,  and  disconnected,  but  truths  suggested 
by  the  event,  but  precepts  growing  out  of  the 
occasion.  The  recollection  of  the  principles  re¬ 
calls  to  the  mind  the  instructive  story  which 
they  enrich,  while  the  remembrance  of  the  cir¬ 
cumstance  impresses  the  sentiment  upon  the 
heart.  Thus  the  doctrine,  like  a  precious  gem, 
is  at  once  preserved  and  embellished  by  the 
narrative  being  made  a  frame  in  which  to  en¬ 
shrine  it. 

True  zeal  will  first  exercise  itself  in  earnest 
desires,  in  increasing  ardour  to  obtain  higher 
degrees  of  illurhination  in  our  own  minds  ;  in 
fervent  prayer  that  this  growing  light  may 
operate  to  the  improvement  of  our  practice,  that 
the  influences  of  divine  grace  may  become  more 
outwardly  perceptible  by  the  increasing  correct¬ 
ness  of  our  habits ;  that  every  holy  affection  may 
be  followed  by  its  correspondent  act,  whether 
of  obedience  or  of  resignation,  of  doing,  or  of 
suffering. 

But  the  effects  of  a  genuine  and  enlightened 
zeal  will  not  stop  here.  It  will  be  visible  in  our 
discourse  with  those  to  whom  we  may  have  a 
probability  of  being  useful.  But  though  we 
should  not  confine  the  exercise  of  our  zeal  to  our 
conversation,  nor  our  attention  to  the  opinions 
and  practices  of  others,  yet  this,  when  not  done 
with  a  bustling  kind  of  interference,  and  offen¬ 
sive  forwardness,  is  proper  and  useful.  It  is 


47fl 

indeed  a  natural  effect  of  zeal  to  appear  where 
it  exists,  as  a  fire  which  really  burns  will  not  be 
prevented  from  emitting  both  light  and  heat; 
yet  we  should  labour  principally  to  keep  up  in 
our  own  minds  the  pious  feelings  which  religion 
has  excited  there.  The  brightest  flame  will 
decay  if  no  means  are  used  to  keep  it  alive. 
Pure  zeal  will  cherish  every  holy  affection,  and. 
by  increasing  every  pious  disposition  will  ani¬ 
mate  us  to  every  duty.  It  will  add  new  force 
to  our  hatred  of  sin-  fresh  contrition  to  our  re¬ 
pentance,  additional  vigour  to  our  resolutions, 
and  will  impart  augmented  energy  to  every 
virtue.  It  will  give  life  to  our  devotions,  and 
spirit  to  all  our  actions. 

When  a  true  zeal  has  fixed  these  right  affec¬ 
tions  in  our  own  hearts,  the  same  principle  will, 
as  we  have  already  observed,  make  us  earnest 
to  excite  them  in  others.  No  good  man  wishes 
to  go  to  heaven  alone,  and  none  ever  wished 
others  to  go  thither  without  earnestly  endea¬ 
vouring  to  awaken  right  affections  in  them. 
That  will  be  a  false  zeal  which  does  not  begin 
with  the  regulation  of  our  own  hearts.  That 
will  be  an  illiberal  zeal  which  stops  where  it 
begins.  A  true  zeal  will  extend  itself  through 
the  whole  sphere  of  its  possessor’s  influence 
Christian  zeal,  like  Christian  charity,  will  begin 
at  home,  but  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  must 
end  there. 

But  that  we  must  not  confine  our  zeal  to  mere 
conversation  is  not  only  implied  but  expressed 
in  Scripture.  The  apostle  does  not  exhort  us 
to  be  zealous  only  of  good  words  but  of  good 
works.  True  zeal  ever  produces  true  benevo¬ 
lence.  It  would  extend  the  blessings  which  we 
ourselves  enjoy,  to  the  whole  human  race.  It 
will  consequently  stir  us  up  to  e.xert  all  our  in¬ 
fluence  to  the  extension  of  religion,  to  the  ad¬ 
vancement  of  every  well  concerted  and  well 
conducted  plan,  calculated  to  enlarge  the  limits 
of  human  happiness,  and  more  especially  to 
promote  the  eternal  interests  of  human  kind. 

But  if  we  do  not  first  strenuously  labour  for  our 
own  illumination,  how  shall  we  presume  to  en¬ 
lighten  others  !  It  is  a  dangerous  presumption, 
to  busy  ourselves  in  improving  others,  before 
'we  have  diligently  sought  our  own  improvement. 
Yet  it  is  a  vanity  not  uncommon  that  the  first 
feelings,  be  they  true  or  false,  which  resemble 
devotion,  the  first  faint  ray  of  knowledge  which 
has  imperfectly  dawned,  excites  in  certain  raw 
minds  an  eager  impatience  to  communicate  to 
others  what  they  themselves  have  not  yet  at¬ 
tained.  Hence  the  novel  swarms  of  uninstruct¬ 
ed  instructors,  of  teachers  who  have  had  no 
time  to  learn.  The  act  previous  to  the  impart¬ 
ing  knowledge  should  seem  to  be  that  of  ac¬ 
quiring  it.  Nothing  would  so  effectually  check 
an  irregular  and  improve  a  temperate  zeal, 
as  the  personal  discipline,  the  self  acquaintance 
we  have  so  repeatedly  recommended. 

True  Christian  zeal  will  always  be  known 
by  its  distinguishing  and  inseparable  properties. 
It  will  be  warm,  indeed,  not  from  temirerarnent 
but  principle.  It  will  be  humble,  or  it  will  not 
be  Christian  zeal. — It  will  restrain  its  impetu¬ 
osity  that  it  may  the  more  effectually  promote 
its  object. — It  will  be  temperate,  soflening  what 
is  strong  in  the  act  by  gentleness  in  the  man 


480 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Iier.  It  will  be  tolerating',  willing  to  grant  what 
it  would  itself  desire. — It  will  be  forbearing,  in 
the  hope  that  the  offence  it  censures  may  be  oc- 
■casional  failing  and  not  a  habit  of  the  mind. 
— It  will  be  candid,  making  a  tender  allowance 
for  those  imperfections  which  beings,  fallible 
themselves  ought  to  expect  from  human  infir¬ 
mity. — It  will  be  reasonable — employing  fair 
argument  and  affectionate  remonstrance,  instead 
of  irritating  by  the  adoption  of  violence,  instead 
of  mortifying  by  the  assumption  of  superiority. 

He,  who  in  private  society  allows  himself  in 
violent  anger  or  unhallowed  bitterness,  or  ac¬ 
rimonious  railing,  in  reprehending  the  faults 
of  another,  might,  did  his  power  keep  pace  with 
his  inclination,  have  recourse  to  other  weapons. 
He  would  probably  banish  and  burn,  confiscate 
and  imprison,  and  think  then  as  he  thinks  now, 
that  he  is  doing  God  service. 

If  there  be  any  quality  which  demands  a 
clearer  sight,  a  tighter  rein,  a  stricter  watchful¬ 
ness  than  another,  zeal  is  that  quality.  The 
heart  where  it  is  wanting  has  no  elevation  ; 
■where  it  is  not  guarded,  no  security.  The  pru¬ 
dence  with  which  it  is  exercised  is  the  surest 
evidence  of  its  integrit}' ;  for  if  intemperate  it 
not  only  raises  enemies  to  ourselves  but  to  God. 
it  augments  the  natural  enmity  to  religion  in¬ 
stead  of  increasing  her  friends. 

But  if  tempered  by  charity,  if  blended  with 
benevolence,  if  sweetened  by  kindness,  if  evinc¬ 
ed  to  be  honest  by  its  influence  on  your  own 
conduct,  and  gentle  by  its  effect  on  your  man¬ 
ners,  it  may  lead  your  irreligious  acquaintance 
to  inquire  more  closely  in  what  consists  the 
distinction  between  them  and  you.  You  will 
already  by  this  mildness  have  won  their  affec- 
tion.  Your  next  step  may  be  to  gain  over  their 
judgment.  They  may  be  led  to  examine  what 
solid  grounds  of  difference  subsists  between  you 
and  them.  What  substantial  reasen  you  have 
for  not  going  their  lengths.  What  sound  argu¬ 
ment  they  can  offer  for  not  going  yours. 

But  it  may  possibly  be  asked,  after  all,  where 
do  we  perceive  any  symptoms  of  this  inflam¬ 
matory  distemper?  Should  not  the  prevalence, 
or  at  least  the  existence  of  a  disease  be  ascer¬ 
tained  previous  to  the  application  of  the  remedy  ? 
That  it  exists  is  sufficiently  obvious,  though  it 
must  be  confessed  that  among  the  higher  ranks 
it  has  not  hitherto  spread  very  widely ;  nor  is  its 
progress  likely  to  be  very  alarming,  or  its 
•effects  very  malignant.  It  is  to  be  lamented 
that  in  every  rank,  indeed,  coldness  and  indiffer¬ 
ence,  carelessness  and  neglect,  are  the  reigning 
epidemics.  These  are  diseases  far  more  diffi¬ 
cult  to  cure  ;  diseases  not  more  dangerous  to  the 
patient  than  distressing  to  the  physician,  who 
generally  finds  it  more  dfficult  to  raise  a  slug¬ 
gish  habit  than  to  lower  an  occasional  heat. 
The  imprudently  zealous  man,  if  ho  be  sincere, 
may,  by  a  discreet  regimen,  be  brought  to  a 
state  of  complete  sanity  ;  but  to  rouse  from  a 
state  of  morbid  indifference,  to  brace  from  a  to- 
tal  relaxation  of  the  system,  must  be  the  imme¬ 
diate  work  of  the  great  Physician  of  souls;  of 
him  who  can  effect  even  this,  by  his  Spirit  ac¬ 
companying  this  powerful  word,  ‘  Awake  thou 
that  sleepest,  and  arise  from  the  dead,  and 
Christ  shall  give  thee  light.’ 


CHAP.  XVIII. 

Insensibility  to  Eternal  Things. 

Insensibility  to  eternal  things,  in  beings  who 
are  standing  on  the  brink  of  eternity,  is  a  mad. 
ness  which  would  be  reckoned  among  prodigies, 
if  it  were  not  so  common.  It  would  be  al 
together  incredible,  if  the  numberless  instances 
we  have  of  it  were  only  related,  and  not  wit¬ 
nessed,  were  only  heard  of,  and  not  experience^. 

If  we  had  a  certain  prospect  of  a  great  estate, 
and  a  splendid  mansion  vi'hich  we  knew  must 
be  ours  in  a  few  days  ;  and  not  only  ours  as  a 
bequest,  but  an  inheritance,  not  only  as  a 
possession,  but  a  perpetuity ;  if,  in  tlie  mean 
time,  we  rented,  on  a  precarious  lease,  a  paltry 
cottage  in  bad  repair,  ready  to  fall,  and  from 
which  we  knew  we  must  at  all  events  soon  be 
turned  out,  depending  on  the  proprietor’s  will, 
whether  the  ejectment  might  not  be  the  next 
minute  ;  would  it  argue  wisdom  or  even  com- 
mon  sense,  totally  to  overlook  our  near  and 
noble  reversion,  and  to  be  so  fondly  attached  to 
our  falling  tenement,  as  to  spend  great  part  of 
our  time  and  thoughts  in  supporting  its  ruins 
by  props,  and  concealing  its  decays  by  decora¬ 
tions  1  To  be  so  absorbed  in  the  little  sordid 
pleasures  of  this  frail  abode,  as  not  even  to  cul¬ 
tivate  a  taste  for  the  delights  of  the  mansion, 
where  such  treasures  are  laid  up  for  us,  and  on 
the  possession  of  which  we  fully  reckon  in  spite 
of  our  neglect, — this  is  an  excess  of  inconside 
ration,  which  must  be  seen  to  be  credited. 

It  is  a  striking  fact,  that  the  acknowledged 
uncertainty  of  life  drives  worldly  men  to  make 
sure  of  every  thing  depending  on  it,  except  their 
eternal  concerns.  It  leads  them  to  be  regular 
in  their  accounts,  and  exact  in  their  bargains. 
They  are  afraid  of  risking  ever  so  little  property, 
on  so  precarious  a  tenure  as  life,  without  ensur¬ 
ing  a  reversion.  There  are  even  some  who 
speculate  on  the  uncertainty  of  life  as  a  trade. 
Strange,  that  this  accurate  calculation  of  the 
duration  of  life  should  not  involve  a  serious  at¬ 
tention  to  its  end  !  Strange,  that  the  critical 
annuitant  should  totally  overlook  his  perpetuity  ! 
Strange,  that  in  the  prudent  care  not  to  risk  a 
fraction  of  property,  equal  care  should  not  be 
taken  to  risk  eternal  salvation  ! 

We  are  not  supposing  flagitious  characters, 
remarkable  for  any  thing  which  the  world  calls 
wicked  :  we  are  not  supposing  their  wealth  ob¬ 
tained  by  injustice,  or  increased  by  oppression. 
We  are  only  supposing  a  soul  drawn  aside  from 
God,  by  the  alluring  baits  of  a  world,  which, 
like  the  treacherous  love  of  Atalanta,  causes 
him  to  lose  the  victory  by  throwing  golden  ap¬ 
ples  in  his  way.  The  shining  baits  are  obtain 
ed,  but  the  race  is  lost ! 

To  worldly  men  of  a  graver  cast,  business 
may  be  as  formidable  an  enemy  as  pleasure  is  to 
those  of  a  lighter  turn  :  business  has  so  sober  an 
air  that  it  looks  like  virtue,  and  virtuous  it  cer¬ 
tainly  is,  when  carried  on  in  a  proper  spirit,  with- 
due  moderation,  and  in  the  fear  of  God.  To  have  a 
lawful  employment,  and  to  pursue  it  with  deli 
genco,  is  not  only  right  and  honourable  in  itself, 
but  is  one  of  the  best  preservatives  from  teir  pta- 
tion.* 

I  ♦  That  accurate  judge  of  human  life,  Dr.  Johnson,  h«f 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


481 


When  a  man  pleads  in  his  favour,  the  dili¬ 
gence  business  demands,  the  self-denying  prac¬ 
tices  it  imposes,  the  patience,  the  regularity,  the 
industry  indispensable  to  its  success;  when  he 
argues  that  these  are  habits  of  virtue,  that  they 
lire  a  daily  discipline  to  the  moral  man ;  and 
that  the  world  could  not  subsist  without  busi¬ 
ness,  he  argues  justly  ; — but  when  he  forgets  his 
interest  in  the  eternal  world,  when  he  neglects 
to  lay  up  a  treasure  in  heaven,  in  order  that  he 
may  augment  a  store  which  he  does  not  want, 
and,  perhaps,  he  does  not  intend  to  use,  or  uses 
to  purposes  merely  secular,  he  is  a  bad  calcu¬ 
lator,  of  the  relative  value  of  things. 

Business  has  an  honourable  aspect  as  being 
opposed  to  idleness,  the  most  hopeless  offspring 
of  the  whole  progeny  of  sin.  The  man  of  busi¬ 
ness  comparing  himself  with  tlie  man  of  dissi¬ 
pation,  feels  a  fair  and  natural  consciousness  of 
his  own  value,  and  of  the  superiority  of  his  own 
pursuits.  But  it  is  by  comparison  that  we  de- 
ceive  ourselves  to  our  ruin.  Business,  whether 
professional,  commercial,  or  political,  endangers 
minds  of  a  better  cast,  minds  which  look  down 
on  pleasure  as  beneath  a  thinking  being.  But 
if  business  absorb  the  affections,  if  it  swallow  up 
lime,  to  the  neglect  of  eternity  ;  if  it  generate  a 
worldly  spirit;  if  it  cherish  covetousness  ;  if  it 
engage  the  mind  in  long  views,  and  ambitious 
pursuits,  it  may  be  as  dangerous,  as  its  more  in¬ 
considerate  frivolous  rwal.  The  grand  evil  of 
both  lies  fn  the  alienation  of  the  heart  from  God. 
Nay,  in  one  respect,  the  danger  is  greater  to 
him  who  is  the  best  employed.  The  man  of 
pleasure,  however  thoughtless,  can  never  make 
himself  believe  that  he  is  doing  right.  The  man 
plunged  in  the  serious  bustle  of  business,  can¬ 
not  easily  persuade  himself  that  he  may  be  doing 
ivrong. 

Commutation,  compensation  and  substitution, 
are  the  grand  engines  which  worldlv  religion 
incessantly  keeps  in  play.  Her’s  is  a  life  of 
carter,  a  state  of  spiritual  traffic,  so  much  in¬ 
dulgence  for  so  many  good  works.  The  impli¬ 
cation  is,  ‘we  have  a  rigorous  master,’  and  it  is 
but  fair  to  indemnify  ourselves  for  the  severity 
of  his  requisitions  ;  just  as  an  overworked  ser¬ 
vant  steals  a  holyday. — ‘These  persons,’  says 
an  eminent  writer,*  ‘maintain  a.meum  and  tuvrn 
with  heaven  itself.’  The  set  bounds  to  God’s 
prerogative,  lest  it  should  too  much  encroach  on 
man’s  privilege. 

We  have  elsewhere  observed,  that  if  we  invite 
people  to  embrace  religion  on  the  mere  raerce- 
nary  ground  of  present  pleasure,  they  will  desert 
it  as  soon  as  they  find  themselves  disappointed. 
Men  arc  too  ready  to  clamour  for  the  pleasures 
«f  piety  before  they  have,  I  dare  not  say  entitled 
themselves  to  them,  but  put  themselves  into  the 
way  of  receiving  them.  We  should  be  angry  at 
that  servant,  who  made  the  receiving  of  his 
wages  a  preliminary  to  the  performance  of  his 
work.  This  is  not  meant  to  establish  the  merit 
of  the  works,  but  the  necessity  of  our  seeking 
tliat  transforming  and  purifying  change  which 

often  been  lieard  by  the  writer  of  these  papes  to  ott- 
serve,  that  it  was  the  greatest  misfortune  which  could 
hefal  a  man  to  have  lieen  bred  to  no  profe.ssion,  and  pa¬ 
thetically  to  regret  that  this  misfortune  was  his  own. 

*  The  learned  .and  pious  John  Smith. 

VoL.  I.  H  2 


characterises  the  real  Christian  ;  instead  of  com¬ 
plaining  that  we  do  not  possess  those  consola¬ 
tions,  which  can  be  consequent  only  on  such  a 
mutation  of  the  mind. 

But  if  men  consider  this  world  on  the  true 
scripture  ground  as  a  state  of  probation  ;  if  they 
consider  religion  as  a  school  for  happiness,  in¬ 
deed,  but  of  which  the  consummation  is  only  to 
be  enjoyed  in  heaven,  the  Christian  hope  will 
support  them ;  the  Christian  faith  will  strengthen 
them.  They  will  serve  diligently,  wait  patient¬ 
ly,  love  cordiall}',  obey  faithfully,  and  be  stead¬ 
fast  under  all  trials,  sustained  by  the  cheering 
promise  held  out  to  him,  ‘who  endures  to  the  end.' 

There  are  certain  characters  who  seem  to  have 
a  graduated  scale  of  vices.  Of  this  scale  they 
keep  clear  of  the  lowest  degrees,  and  to  rise 
above  the  highest  they  are  not  ambitious,  forget 
ful  that  the  same  principle  which  operates  in 
the  greater,  operates  also  in  the  less.  A  life  of 
incessant  gratification  does  not  alarm  the  con- 
science,  yet  it  is  equally  unfavorable  to  religion, 
equally  destructive  of  its  principle,  equally  op¬ 
posite  to  its  spirit,  with  more  obvious  vices. 

These  are  the  habits  which,  by  relaxing  the 
mind  and  dissolving  the  heart,  particularly  fos- 
ter  indifference  to  our  spiritual  state,  and  insen¬ 
sibility  to  the  things  of  eternity.  A  life  of  vo¬ 
luptuousness,  if  it  be  not  a  life  of  actual  sin,  is  a 
disqualification  for  holiness,  for  happiness,  for 
heaven.  It  not  only  alienates  the  heart  from 
God,  but  lays  it  open  to  every  temptation  to 
which  natural  temper  may  invite,  or  incidental 
circumstances  allure.  The  worst  passions  lie 
dormant  in  hearts  given  up  to  selfish  indulgences, 
always  ready  to  start  into  action  as  occasion 
calls. 

Voluptuousness  and  irreligion  play  into  each 
other’s  hands  :  they  are  reciprocally  cause  and 
effect.  The  looseness  of  the  principle  confirms 
the  carelessness  of  the  conduct,  while  the  negli¬ 
gent  conduct  in  its  own  vindication  shelters  it¬ 
self  under  the  supposed  security  of  unbelief. 
The  instance  of  the  rich  man  in  the  parable  of 
Lazarus,  strikingly  illustrates  this  truth. 

Whoever  doubts  that  a  life  of  sensuality  is 
consistent  with  the  most  unfeeling  barbarity  to 
the  wants  and  sufferings  of  others ;  whoever 
doubts  that  boundless  expense  and  magnificence, 
the  means  of  procuring  which  were  wrung  from 
the  robbery  and  murder  of  a  lacerated  world, 
may  not  be  associated  with  that  robbery  and 
murder, — let  him  turn  to  the  gorgeous  festivities 
and  unparalleled  pageantries  of  Versailles  and 
Saint  Cloud. — There  the  Imperial  Harlequin, 
from  acting  the  deepest  and  the  longest  tragedy 
that  ever  drew  tears  of  blood  from  an  audience 
composed  of  the  whole  civilized  globe,  by  a  sud¬ 
den  stroke  of  his  magic  wand,  shifts  the  scene 
of  this  most  preposterous  pantomime  : — 

Where  moody  madness  laughing  wild 

Amidst  severest  tvo, 

gloomily  contemplates  the  incongruous  specta¬ 
cle,  sees  the  records  of  the  Tyburn  Chronicle 
embellished  with  the  wanton  splendours  of  the 
Arabian  tables ;  beholds 

Perverse  all  monstrous,  all  prodigious  things; 

beholds  tyranny  with  his  painted  vizor  of  pa¬ 
triotism,  and  polygamy  with  her  Janus  face  of 


482 


THE  WORKS  OF 

political  conscience  and  counterfeit  affection  fill 
the  fore  ground ;  while  sceptred  parasites,  and 
pinchbeck  potentates,  tricked  on  with  the  shining 
spoils  of  plundered  empires,  and  decked  with  the 
pilfered  crowns  of  deposed  and  exiled  monarchs, 
fill  and  empty  the  changing  scene,  with  ‘  exits 
and  with  entrances,’  as  fleeting  and  unsubstan¬ 
tial  as  the  progeny  of  Banquo, — beholds  inven¬ 
tive  but  fruitless  art,  solicitously  decorate  the 
ample  stage  to  conceal  the  stains  of  blood  stains 
as  indelible  as  those  which  the  ambitious  wife 
of  the  irresolute  thane  vainly  strove  to  wash 
from  her  polluted  hands  ;  while  in  her  sleeping 
delirium  she  continued  to  cry, 

Still  herd's  the  smell  of  blood  ; 

The  perfumes  of  Arabia,  will  not  sweeten  it. 

But  to  return  to  the  general  question.  Let 
us  not  inquire  whether  these  unfeeling  tempers 
and  selfish  habits  offend  society,  and  discredit 
us  with  the  world  ;  but  whether  they  feed  our 
corruptions  and  put  us  in  a  posture  unfavour¬ 
able  to  all  interior  improvement ;  whether  they 
offend  God  and  endanger  the  soul ;  whether  the 
gratification  of  self  is  the  life  which  the  Re¬ 
deemer  taught  or  lived  ;  whether  sensuality  is  a 
suitable  preparation  for  that  state  where  God 
himself,  who  is  a  Spirit,  will  constitute  all  the 
'happiness  of  spiritual  beings. 

But  these  are  not  the  only,  perhaps  not  the 
greatest  dangers.  The  intellectual  vices,  the 
spiritual  offences  may  destroy  the  soul  without 
much  injuring  the  credit.  These  have  not,  like 
voluptuousness,  their  seasons  of  alteration  and 
repose.  Here  the  principle  is  in  continual  ope¬ 
ration.  Envy  has  no  interval.  Ambition  never 
cools.  Pride  never  sleeps.  The  principle  at 
least  is  always  awake.  An  intemperate  man  is 
sometimes  sober,  but  a  proud  man  is  never  hum¬ 
ble.  Where  vanity  reigns,  she  reigns  alvvays. 
These  interior  sins  are  more  difficult  of  extirpa¬ 
tion,  they  are  less  easy  of  detection  ;  more  hard 
to  come  at ;  and,  as  the  citadel  holds  out  after 
the  outworks  are  taken,  these  sins  of  the  heart 
are  the  latest  conquered  in  the  moral  warfare. 

Here  lies  the  distinction  between  the  worldly 
and  the  religious  man.  It  is  alarm  enough  for 
the  Christian  that  he  feels  any  propensities  to 
vice.  Against  these  propensities  he  watches, 
strives  and  prays  i  and  though  he  is  thankful  for 
the  victory  when  he  has  resisted  the  temptation, 
he  can  feel  no  elation  of  heart  while  conscious 
of  inward  dispositions,  which  nothing  but  divine 
grace  enables  him  to  keep  from  breaking  out  in 
a  flame.  He  feels  that  there  is  no  way  to  obtain 
the  pardon  of  sin  but  to  leave  off  sinning:  he 
feels  that  though  repentance  is  not  a  Saviour, 
yet  that  there  can  be  no  salvation  where  there 
is  no  repentance.  Above  all,  he  knows  that  the 
promise  of  remission  of  sin  by  the  death  of  Christ 
is  the  only  solid  ground  of  comfort.  However 
correct  his  present  life  may  be,  the  weight  of 
past  offences  would  hang  so  heavy  on  his  coii- 
Bcience,  that  without  the  atoning  blood  of  his 
Redeemer,  despair  of  pardon  for  the  past  would 
leave  him  hopeless.  He  would  continue  to  sin, 
as  an  extravagant  bankrupt  who  can  get  no  ac¬ 
quittal,  would  continue  to  be  extravagant,  be- 
cause  no  present  frugality  could  redeem  his 
former  debts. 


HANNAH  MORE. 

It  is  sometimes  pleaded  that  the  labour  abach 
ed  to  persons  in  high  public  stations  and  im¬ 
portant  employments,  by  leaving  them  no  tirne 
furnishes  a  reasonable  excuse  for  the  oinissioir 
of  their  religious  duties.  These  apologies  are 
never  offered  for  any  such  neglect  in  the  pwr 
man,  though  to  him  every  day  brings  the  in¬ 
evitable  return  of  his  twelve  hours’  labour,  with¬ 
out  intermission  and  without  mitigation.^ 

But  surely  the  more  important  the  station,  the 
higher  and  wider  the  sphere  of  action,  the  more 
imperious  is  the  call  for  'eligion,  not  only  in  the 
way  of  example,  but  even  in  the  way  of  success » 
if  it  be  indeed  granted  that  there  is  such  a  thing 
as  divine  influences,  if  it  be  allowed^  that  God 
has  a  blessing  to  bestow.  If  the  ordinary  man 
who  has  only  himself  to  govern,  requires  that 
aid,  how  urgent  is  his  necessity  who  has  to  go¬ 
vern  millions !  'What  an  awful  idea,  could  we 
even  suppose  it  realized,  that  the  weight  of  a 
nation  might  rest  on  the  head  of  him  whose  heart 
looks  not  up  for  a  higher  support ! 

Were  we  alluding  to  sovereigns,  and  not  to 
statesmen,  we  need  not  look  beyond  the  throne 
of  Great  Britain,  for  the  instance  of  a  monarcli 
who  has  never  made  the  cares  attendant  on  a 
king,  an  excuse  for  neglecting  his  duty  to  the 
King  of  kings. 

The  politician,  the  warrior,  and  the  orator, 
find  it  peculiarly  hard  to  renounce  in  themselves 
that  wisdom  and  strength,  to  which  they  believe 
that  the  rest  of  the  world  are  looking  up.  The 
man  of  station  or  of  genius,  wheri  invited  to  the 
self-denying  duties  of  Christianity,  as  well  as 
he  who  has  ‘  great  possessions,’  goes  away  ‘  sor¬ 
rowing.’ 

But  to  know  that  they  must  end,  stamps  va¬ 
nity  on  all  the  glories  of  life  ;  to  know  that  they 
must  end  soon,  stamps  infatuation,  not  only  on 
him  who  sacrifices  his  conscience  for  their  ac¬ 
quisition,  but  on  him  who,  though  upright  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duties,  discharges  them 
without  any  reference  to  God. — Would  the  con¬ 
queror  or  the  orator  reflect  when  the  ‘  laurel 
crown  is  placed  on  his  brow,  how  soon  will  it  be 
followed  by  the  cypress  wreath,’  it  would  lovver 
the  delirium  of  ambition  :  it  would  cool  the  in¬ 
toxication  of  prosperity. 

There  is  a  general  kind  of  belief  in  Chris 
tiani  ty,  prevalent  among  men  of  the  world,  w  hich, 
by  soothing  the  conscience,  prevents  self  inquiry 
That  the  holy  Scriptures  contain  the  will  of  God, 
they  do  not  question  ;  that  they  contain  the  best 
system  of  morals,  they  frequently  assert :  but 
that  they  do  not  feel  the  necessity  of  acquiring 
a  correct  notion  of  the  doctrines  those  Scriptures 
involve.  The  depravity  of  man,  the  atonemeirt 
made  by  Christ,  the  assistance  of  the  Holy  Spi¬ 
rit — these  they  consider  as  the  metaphysical 
part  of  religion,  into  which  it  is  not  of  much  im¬ 
portance  to  enter,  and  by  a  species  of  self-flat¬ 
tery,  they  satisfy  themselves  with  an  idea  of 
acceptableneas  with  their  Maker,  as  a  state  to 
be  attained  without  the  humility,  faith,  and  new¬ 
ness  of  life  which  they  require,  and  which  aro 
indeed  their  proper  concomitants. 

A  man  absorbed  in  a  multitude  of  secular  con¬ 
cerns,  decent  but  unawakened,  listens  with  a 
kind  of  respectful  insensibility,  to  the  overtures 
of  religion.  He  considers  the  church  as  venera- 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


483 


ble  from  her  antiquity,  and  important  from  her 
connexion  with  the  state.  No  one  is  more  alive 
to  her  political,  nor  more  dead  to  her  spiritual 
importance.  He  is  anxious  for  her  existence, 
but  indifferent  to  her  doctrines.  These  he  con¬ 
siders  as  a  general  matter  in  which  he  has  no 
individual  concern.  He  considers  religious  ob¬ 
servances  as  something  decorous  but  unreal ;  as 
agrave  custom  made  respectable  by  public  usage, 
and  long  prescription.  He  admits  that  the  poor, 
who  have  little  to  enjoy,  and  the  idle  who  have 
little  to  do,  cannot  do  better  than  make  over  to 
God  that  time  which  cannot  be  turned  to  a  more 
profitable  account.  Religion,  he  thinks,  may 
properly  enough  employ  leisure,  and  occupy  old 
age.  But  though  both  advance  towards  himself 
with  no  imperceptible  step,  he  is  still  at  a  loss 
to  determine  the  precise  period  when  the  leisure 
is  sufficient,  or  the  age  enough  advanced.  It 
recedes  as  the  destined  season  approaches.  He 
continues  to  intend  moving,  but  he  continues  to 
stand  still. 

Compare  his  drowsy  Sabbaths  with  the  ani¬ 
mation  of  the  days  of  business,  you  would  not 
think  it  was  the  same  man.  The  one  are  to  be 
got  over,  the  others  are  enjoyed.  He  goes  from 
the  dull  decencies,  the  shadowy  forms — for  such 
they  are  to  him,  of  public  worship,  to  the  solid 
realities  of  his  worldly  concerns,  to  the  cheerful 
activities  of  secular  life.  These  he  considers  as 
bounden,  almost  as  exclusive  duties.  The  others 
indeed  may  not  be  wrong,  but  these  he  is  sure 
are  right.  The  world  is  his  element.  Here  he 
breathes  freely  his  native  air.  Here  he  is  sub¬ 
stantially  engaged.  Here  his  whole  mind  is 
alive,  his  understanding  broad  awake,  all  his 
energies  are  in  full  play  |  his  mind  is  all  ala¬ 
crity  ;  his  faculties  are  employed,  his  capacities 
are  filled  ;  here  they  have  an  object  worthy  of 
their  widest  expansion.  Here  his  desires  and 
affections  are  absorbed.  The  faint  impression 
of  the  Sunday’s  sermon  fades  away,  to  be  as 
faintly  revived  on  the  Sunday  following,  again 
to  fade  in  the  succeeding  week.  To  the  sermon 
ne  brings  a  formal  ceremonious  attendance  ;  to 
the  world,  he  brings  all  the  heart,  and  soul,  and 
mind,  and  strength.  To  the  one  he  resorts  in 
conformity  to  law  and  custom  ;  to  induce  him  to 
resort  to  the  other,  he  wants  no  law,  no  sanction, 
no  invitation,  no  argument.  His  will  is  of  the 
party.  His  passions  are  volunteers.  The  in¬ 
visible  things  of  heaven  are  clouded  in  shadow, 
are  lost  in  distance.  The  world  is  lord  of  the 
ascendant.  Riches,  honours,  power  fill  his  mind 
with  brilliant  images.  They  are  present,  they 
are  certain,  they  are  tangible.  They  assume 
form  and  bulk.  In  these  therefore  he  cannot  be 
mistaken  ;  in  the  others  he  may.  The  eager¬ 
ness  of  competition,  the  struggle  for  superiority, 
the  perturbations  of  ambition,  fill  his  mind  with 
an  emotion,  his  soul  with  an  agitation,  his  affec¬ 
tions  with  an  interest,  which,  though  very  un- 
like  happiness,  he  yet  flatters  himself  is  the  road 
to  it.  This  fictitious  pleasure,  this  tumultuous 
feeling,  produces  at  least  that  negative  satisfac- 
tion  of  which  he  is  constantly  in  search — it 
keeps  him  from  himself. 

Even  in  circumstances  where  there  is  no  suc¬ 
cess  to  prevent  a  very  tempting  bait,  the  mere 
occupation,  tlie  crowd  of  objects,  the  succession 


of  engagements,  the  mingling  pursuits,  the  very 
tumult  and  hurry  have  their  gratifications.  The 
bustle  gives  false  peace  by  leaving  no  leisure 
for  reflection.  He  lays  his  conscience  asleep 
with  the  ‘  flattering  unction,  of  good  intentions. 
He  comforts  himself  with  the  credible  pretence 
of  want  of  time,  and  the  vague  resolution  of  giv¬ 
ing  up  to  God  the  dregs  of  that  life,  of  the  vi¬ 
gorous  season  of  which  he  thinks  the  world 
more  worthy.  Thus  commuting  with  his  Ma¬ 
ker,  life  wears  away,  its  close  draws  near — and 
even  the  poor  commutation  which  was  promised 
is  not  made.  The  assigned  hour  of  retreat  either 
never  arrives,  or  if  it  does  arrive,  sloth  and  sen¬ 
suality  are  resorted  to,  as  the  fair  reward  of  a 
life  of  labour  and  anxiety  ;  and  whether  he  dies 
in  the  protracted  pursuit  of  wealth,  or  in  the  en¬ 
joyment  of  the  luxuries  it  has  earned,  he  dies  in 
the  trammels  of  the  world. 

If  we  do  not  cordially  desire  to  be  delivered 
from  the  dominion  of  these  worldly  tempers,  it 
is  because  we  do  not  believe  in  the  condemna¬ 
tion  annexed  to  their  indulgence.  We  may  in¬ 
deed  believe  it  as  we  believe  any  other  general 
proposition,  or  any  indifferent  fact ;  but  not  as 
truth  in  which  we  have  a  personal  concern  ;  not 
as  a  danger  which  has  any  reference  to  us.  We 
evince  this  practical  unbelief  in  the  most  une¬ 
quivocal  way,  by  thinking  so  much  more  about 
the  most  frivolous  concern  in  which  we  are  as¬ 
sured  we  have  an  interest,  than  about  this  most 
important  of  all  concerns. 

Indifference  to  eternal  things,  instead  of  tran- 
quilizing  the  mind,  as  it  professes  to  do,  is,  when 
a  thoughtful  moment  occurs,  a  fresh  subject  of 
uneasiness  ;  because  it  adds  to  our  peril  the  hor¬ 
ror  of  not  knowing  it.  If  shutting  our  eyes  to 
a  danger  would  prevent  it,  to  shut  them  would 
not  only  be  a  happiness  but  a  duty  ;  but  to  bar¬ 
ter  eternal  safety  for  momentary  ease, is  a  wretch¬ 
ed  compromise.  To  produce  this  delusion,  mere 
inconsideration  is  as  efficient  a  cause  as  the 
most  prominent  sin.  The  reason  why  we  do 
not  value  eternal  things  is,  because  we  do  not 
think  of  them.  The  mind  is  so  full  of  what  is 
present,  that  it  has  no  room  to  admit  a  thought 
of  what  is  to  come.  Not  only  we  do  not  give 
that  attention  to  a  never-dying  soul  which  pru- 
denb  men  give  to  a  common  transaction,  but  we 
do  not  even  think  it  worth  the  care  which  in¬ 
considerate  men  give  to  an  inconsiderable  one. 
We  complain  that  life  is  short,  and  yet  throw 
away  the  best  part  of  it,  only  making  over  to 
religion  that  portion  which  is  good  for  nothing 
else ;  life  would  be  long  enough  if  we  assigned 
its  best  period  to  its  best  purpose. 

Say  not  that  the  requisitions  of  religion  are 
severe,  ask  rather  if  they  are  necessary.  If  a 
thing  must  absolutely  be  done,  if  eternal  misery 
will  be  incurred  by  not  doing  it,  it  is  fruitless 
to  inquire  whether  it  be  hard  or  easy.  Inquire 
only  whether  it  be  indispensable,  whether  it  be 
commanded,  whether  it  be  practicable.  It  is  a 
well  known  axiom  in  science,  that  difficulties 
are  of  no  weight  against  demonstrations.  The 
duty  on  which  our  eternal  state  depends,  is  not 
a  thing  to  be  debated,  but  done.  The  duty  which 
is  too  imperative  to  be  evaded,  too  important  to 
be  neglected,  is  not  to  be  argued  about,  but  per 
form^.  To  sin  on  quietly,  because  vou  do  not 


■484 


the  works  of  HANNAH  MORE. 


intend  to  Bin  always,  is  to  live  on  a  reversion 
which  will  probably  never  be  yours. 

It  is  folly  to  say  that  religion  drives  men  to 
■despair ;  when  it  only  teaches  by  a  salu¬ 
tary  fear  to  avoid  destruction.  The  fear  of  God 
.differs  from  all  other  fear,  for  it  is 
with  trust,  and  confidence,  and  love.  Blessed 
is  the  man  that  feareth  alway,  is 
him  who  entertains  this  holy  fear.  . 

above  the  fear  of  ordinary  troub.es.  It  hi 
heart.  He  is  not  discomposed  with  those  inferior 
apprehensions  which  unsettle  the  ^ul  and  un¬ 
hinge  the  peace  of  worldly  men.  His  mind  is 
occupied  with  one  grand  concern,  and  is  there- 
fore  less  liable  to  be  shaken  than  little  minds 
which  are  filled  with  little  things.  Can  that 
principle  lead  to  despair,  which  proclaims  the 
mercy^of  God  in  Christ  Jesus  to  be  greater  than 

all  the  sins  ofall  the  men  in  the  world? 

U  despair  then  prevent  your  return,  add  not 
So  your  list  of  offences  that  of  doubting  of  the 
forgiveness  which  is  sincerely  implored.  You 
have  already  wronged  God  m  his  holmes,  wrong 
him  not  in  his  mercy.  You  may  offend 
more  by  despairing  of  his  pardon  than  by  all  the 
5ns  whih  have  made  that  pardori  necessary. 
Repentance,  if  one  may  venture  the  bold  remark, 
almost  disarms  God  of  the  power  p  • 
Hear  his  style  and  title  as  proclaimed  hj  him¬ 
self  • _ ‘  The  Lord,  the  Lord  God,  merciful  and 

gracious,  long  suffering  and  abundant  in  good- 
Lss  and  truth,  keeping  mercy  for  thousands 
/orgiving  iniquity,  transgression,  and  sm,  and 
that  will  by  no  means  clear  the  guilty  —that  is, 
those  who  by  unrepented  guilt  exclude  them- 
selves  from  the  offered  mercy.  .  .• 

If  infidelity  or  indifference,  which  is  pract  - 
■cal  infidelity,  keep  you  back,  yet,  as  reason ab  e 
beings,  ask  yourselves  a  few  short  question  , 

‘  For  what  end  was  I  sent  into  the  world  ?  Is 
my  soul  immortal?  Am  I  really 
a  state  of  trial,  or  is  this  span  my  a  ?  Is  there 
an  eternal  slate  ?  If  there  be,  wi  I  the  use  I 
make  of  this  life  decide  on  my  condition  in  that. 

I  know  that  there  is  death,  but  is  there  a  ju  g- 

™  R^t  not  till  you  have  cleared  up,  I  do  not 
say  your  own  evfdences  for  heaven  ;-you  have 
much  to  do  before  you  arrive  -t^at  stage-but 
whether  there  be  any  heaven  ?  Ask  yourseit 

whether  Christianity  is  ‘^^^'J^hmeter- 
to  deserve  being  inciuired  into? 
nal  life  is  not  too  valuable  to  be  entirely  - 
looked  ?  Whether  eternal  destruction,  if  a  re  ^ 
ty.  is  not  worth  avoiding  ?-If  you  make  these 
i^errogations  sincerely,  you  will  make  them 
"rlSny.  They  w.li  le.d  Jo-,  “ 
your  own  personal  interest  in  the  ^ 

-Evils  which  arc  ruining  us  for  want  of  atten¬ 
tion  to  tliem,  lessen,  from  the  moment  our  atten- 
S  r.  them  beeine.  Tr„.  o,  M.e,  •l» 
is  worth  settling.  Vibrate  then  no  longer  be- 
tween  doubt  and  certainty.  If  the  evidence  b 
inadmissible,  reject  it.  But  if  you  can  once  as- 

certain  these  cardinal  ^'^‘^'^.^^mitTif 

your  time  if  you  can,  then  tnfle  with  eternity  it  ^ 

you  dare.* 

*  \n  awakening  call  to  public  and  indi  vidual  feelings 


It  is  one  of  the  striking  characters  of  the  Ors 
nipotent  that  ‘  he  is  strong  and  patient.’  It  is 
standing  evidence  of  his  patience  that  ‘  he  is 
provoked  every  day.’  How  beautifully  do  these 
characters  reflect  lustre  on  each  other.  It  he 
were  not  strong,  his  patience  would  want  its 
distinguishing  perfection.  If  he  were  not  pa- 
tient,  his  strength  would  instantly  crush  those 
who  provoke  him,  not  sometimes,  but  often  ;  not 

every  year,  but  ‘  every  day.’  _ 

Oh  you,  who  have  a  long  space  given  ym^  mr 
repentance ;  confess  that  the  forbearance  of  God. 
wLn  viewed  as  coupled  with  his  strength,  is  his 
most  astonishing  attribute  !  Think  of  the  com- 
panions  of  your  early  life  ;  if  not  your  associa  es 
in  actual  vice,  if  not  your  confederates  in  guilty 
pleasures,  yet  the  sharers  of  your  thoughtless 
meetings,  of  your  convivial  revelry,  of  your 
worldly  schemes,  of  your  ambitious  Pjoje^ts 
think  how  many  of  them  have  been  cut  off,  per¬ 
haps  without  warning,  probably  without  repent¬ 
ance.— T/ieu  have  been  represented  to  their 
Judge  ;  their  doom,  whatever  it  be,  is  irreversi¬ 
bly  fixed;  yours  is  mercifully  suspended. 
Adore  the  mercy  :  embrace  the  suspension. 

Only  suppose  if  they  could  be  permitted  to 
come  Lck  to  this  world,  if  they  could  be  allow¬ 
ed  another  period  of  trial,  how  vvould  J^y 
their  restored  life  !  How  cordial  would  be  their 
penitence,  how  intense  their  devotion,  how  pro- 
found  their  humility,  how  holy  their  actions^ 
Think  then  that  you  have  still  in  your  power 
that  for  which  they  would  give  millions  of 
wmrlds.  ‘Hell,’  says  a  pious  writer,  is  trut.i 

In  almost  every  mind  there  sometimes  float 

indefinite  and  general  purposes  of  repentance 

The  operation  of  these  purposes  is  often  repelled 
by  a  real  though  disavowed  scepticism.  ^  J5e- 
cause  sentence  is  not  executed  speedily,  they 
suspect  it  has  never  been  pronounced.  1  hey 
therefore  think  they  may  safely  continue  to  He 
fer  their  intended  but  unshapen  PurP"®®' 
Though  they  sometimes  visit  the  sick  bed  o 
others^  though  they  see  how  much  disease  d,s. 
qualifies  for  all  duties,  yet  to  this  period  of  i^' 
pacity,to  this  moment  of  disqualification  do  they 
contiLe  to  defer  this  tremendously  imports.nt 

What  an  image  of  the  divine  condescension 
does  it  convey,  that  ‘  the  goodness  of  God  lead- 
eth  to  repentance  1’  It  does  not  barely  invite, 
but  it  conducts.  Every  warning  is  more  or  less 
an  invitation ;  every  visitation  is  a  lighter  stroke 
to  avert  a  heavier  blow.  This  was  the  way  m 
which  the  heathen  world  understood  porten^ 
and  prodigies,  and  on  this  interpretation  of  th,ni 
they  actel  Any  alarming  "'“rning,  whether 
rational  or  superstitious,  drove  them  to  their  tern- 
pies,  their  sacrifices,  their  expiations.  Does  our 


that  himself  and  the  honorable 

then  sitting  on  a  „p|..  surviving  nicm- 

great  national  calamity,  we  uventv  two 

b“rs  of  the  committee  on  a  similar  (^a.  hecau'W  the 

to  e'Lne  anUioaprevents  it,  till  it  is  thus  forced 

on  our  notice. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


485> 


clearer  light  always  carry  us  farther  ?  Does  it 
in  these  instances,  always  carry  us  as  far  as  na¬ 
tural  conscience  carried  them  ? 

The  final  period  of  the  worldly  man  at  length 
arrives ;  but  he  will  not  believe  his  danger. 
Even  if  he  fearfully  glance  round  for  an  intima¬ 
tion  of  it  in  every  surrounding  face,  every  face, 
it  is  too  probable,  is  in  a  league  to  deceive  him. 
What  a  noble  opportunity  is  now  offered  to  the 
Christian  physician  to  show  a  kindness  as  far 
superior  to  any  he  has  ever  shown,  as  the  con¬ 
cerns  of  the  soul  are  superior  to  those  of  the 
body  ?  Oh  let  him  not  fear  prudently  to  reveal 
a  truth  for  which  the  patient  may  bless  him  in 
eternity  !  Is  it  not  sometimes  to  be  feared  that 
in  the  hope  of  prolonging  for  a  little  while  the 
existence  of  the  perishing  body,  he  robs  the  ne¬ 
ver-dying  soul  of  its  last  chance  of  pardon  ? 
Does  not  the  concern  for  the  immortal  part 
united  with  his  care  of  the  afflicted  body,  bring 
the  medical  professor  to  a  nearer  imitation  than 
any  other  supposable  situation  can  do,  of  that 
Divine  Physician,  who  never  healed  the  one 
without  manifesting  a  tender  concern  for  the 
other  ? 

But  the  deceit  is  short,  is  fruitless.  The 
amazed  spirit  is  about  to  dislodge.  Who  shall 
speak  its  terror  and  dismay  ?  Then  he  cries 
out  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  ‘  What  capacity 
has  a  diseased  man,  what  time  has  a  dying  man, 
what  disposition  has  a  sinful  man  to  acquire 
good  principles,  to  unlearn  false  notions,  to  re¬ 
nounce  bad  practices,  to  establish  right  habits, 
to  beg  in  to  love  God,  to  begin  to  hate  sin  ?  How 
is  the  stupendous  concern  of  salvation  to  be 
worked  out  by  a  mind  incompetent  to  the  most 
ordinary  concerns. 

The  infinite  importance  of  what  he  has  to  do 
— the  goading  conviction  that  it  must  be  done — 
the  utter  inability  of  doing  it — the  dreadful  com¬ 
bination  in  his  mind  of  both  the  necessity  and 
incapacity — the  despair  of  crowding  the  con¬ 
cerns  of  an  age  into  a  moment — the  impossibili¬ 
ty  of  beginning  a  repentance  which  sheuld  have 
been  completed — of  setting  about  a  peace  which 
should  have  been  concluded — of  suing  for  a  par¬ 
don  which  should  have  been  obtained  ; — all  these 
complicated  concerns — without  strength,  with¬ 
out  time,  without  hope,  with  a  clouded  memory, 
a  disjointed  reason,  a  wounded  spirit,  undefined 
terrors,  remembered  sins,  anticipated  punish¬ 
ment,  an  angry  God,  and  accusing  conscience, 
altogether,  intolerably  augment  the  sufferings 
of  a  body  which  stands  in  little  need  of  the  in¬ 
supportable  burthen  of  a  distracted  mind  to  ag¬ 
gravate  its  torments. 

Though  we  pity  the  superstitious  weakness 
of  the  German  emperor  in  acting  over  the  anti¬ 
cipated  solemnities  of  his  own  funeral — that 
eccentric  act  of  penitence  of  a  great  but  per¬ 
verted  mind  ;  it  would  be  well  if  we  were  now 
and  then  to  represent  to  our  minds  while  in 
sound  health,  the  solemn  certainties  of  a  dying 
bed  ;  if  wo  were  sometimes  to  imagine  to  our¬ 
selves  this  awful  scene,  not  only  as  inevitable, 
but  as  near  ;  if  we  accustomed  ourselves  to  see 
things  now,  as  we  shall  then  wish  we  had  seen 
them.  Surely  the  most  sluggish  insensibility 
must  bo  roused  by  figuring  to  itself  the  rapid 
approach  of  death,  the  nearness  of  our  unalter¬ 


able  doom,  our  instant  transition  to  that  state  of 
unutterable  bliss  or  unimaginable  wo  to  which 
death  will  in  a  moment  consign  us.  Such  a 
mental  representation  would  assist  us  in  dissi¬ 
pating  the  illusion  of  the  senses,  would  help  to 
realise  what  is  invisible,  and  approximate  what 
we  think  remote.  It  would  disenchant  us  from 
the  world,  tear  off  her  painted  mask,  shrink  her 
pleasures  into  their  proper  dimensions,  her  con¬ 
cerns  into  their  real  value,  her  enjoyments 
into  their  just  compass,  her  promises  into  no¬ 
thing. 

Terrible  as  the  evil  is,  if  it  must,  and  that  at 
no  distant  day,  be  met,  spare  not  to  present  it  to 
your  imagination ;  not  to  laeerate  your  feelings, 
but  to  arm  your  resolution ;  not  to  excite  unpro¬ 
fitable  distress,  but  to  strengthen  your  faith.  If 
it  terrify  you  at  first,  draw  a  little  nearer  to  it 
every  time.  Familiarity  wilt  abate  the  terror. 
If  you  cannot  face  the  image,  how  will  you  en¬ 
counter  the  reality  ? 

Let  us  then  figure  to  ourselves  the  moment 
(who  can  say  that  moment  may  not  be  the  next?) 
when  all  we  cling  to  shall  elude  our  grasp ;  when 
every  earthly  good  shall  be  to  us  as  if  it  had 
never  been,  except  in  the  remembranee  of  the 
use  we  have  made  of  it ;  when  our  eyes  shall 
close  upon  a  world  of  sense,  and  open  on  a  world 
of  spirits ;  when  there  shall  be  no  relief  for  the 
fainting  body,  and  no  refuge  for  the  parting 
soul,  except  that  single  refuge  to  which,  per¬ 
haps,  we  have  never  thought  of  resorting — that- 
refuge  which  if  we  have  not  despised  we  have 
too  probably  neglected — the  everlasting  mercies 
of  God  in  Christ  Jesus. 

Reader!  whoever  you  are,  who  have  neglected 
to  remember  that  to  die  is  the  end  for  which  you 
were  born,  know  that  you  have  a  personal  in¬ 
terest  in  this  scene.  Turn  not  away  from  it  im 
disdain,  however  feebly  it  may  have  been  repre¬ 
sented.  You  may  escape  any  other  evil  of  life,, 
but  its  end  you  cannot  escape.  Defer  not  then 
its  weightiest  concern  to  its  weakest  period. 
Begin  not  the  preparation  when  you  should  be 
completing  the  work.  Delay  not  the  business 
which  demands  your  best  faculties  to  the  period 
of  their  debility,  probably  of  their  extinction.. 
Leave  not  the  work  which  requires  an  age  to  do, 
to  be  done  in  a  moment,  a  moment  too  whiclt, 
may  not  be  granted.  The  alternative  is  tremen¬ 
dous.  The  differenee  is  that  of  being  saved  or; 
lost.  It  is  no  light  thing  to  perish ! 


CHAP.  XIX. 

Happy  Deaths. 

Few  circumstanees  contribute  more  fatally  to 
confirm  in  worldly  men  that  insensibility  to 
eternal  things  which  was  considered  in  the  pre¬ 
ceding  chapter,  than  the  boastful  accounts  we 
sometimes  hear  of  the  firm  and  heroic  death¬ 
beds  of  popular  but  irreligious  characters.  Many 
causes  contribute  to  these  happy  deaths  as  they 
are  called.  The  blind  are  bold,  they  do  not  see 
the  precipice  they  despise. — Or  perhaps  there  ia 
less  unwillingness  to  quit  a  world  which  has  so 
often  disappointed  them,  or  which  they  have 


486 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


sucked  to  the  last  dre^s.  They  leave  life  with  , 
less  reluctance,  feeling  that  they  have  exhausted 
all  its  gratifications. — Or  it  is  a  disbelief  of  the 
reality  of  the  state  on  which  they  are  about  to 
enter. — Or  it  is  a  desire  to  be  released  from  ex¬ 
cessive  pain,  a  desire  naturally  felt  by  those  who 
calculate  their  gain  rather  by  what  they  are 
escaping  from,  than  by  what  they  are  to  receive. 
—Or  it  is  equability  of  temper,  or  firmness  of 
nerve,  or  hardness  of  mind. — Or  it  is  the  arro¬ 
gant  wish  to  make  the  last  act  of  life  confirm 
its  preceding  professions. — Or  it  is  the  vanity 
of  perpetuating  their  philosophic  character. 

Or  if  some  faint  ray  of  light  break  in,  it  is  the 
pride  of  not  retracting  the  sentiments  which 
from  pride  they  have  maintained  ; — The  desire 
of  posthumous  renown  among  their  own  party  ; 
the  hope  to  make  their  disciples  stand  firm  by 
their  example ;  the  ambition  to  give  their  last 
possible  blow  to  revelation — or  perhaps  the  fear 
of  expressing  doubts  which  might  beget  a  suspi¬ 
cion  that  their  disbelief  was  not  so  sturdy  as 
they  would  have  it  thought.  Above  all,  may 
they  not,  as  a  punishment  for  their  long  neglect 
of  the  warning  voice  of  truth,  be  given  up  to  a 
strong  delusion  to  believe  the  lie  they  have  so 
often  propagated,  and  really  to  expect  to  find  in 
death  that  eternal  sleep,  with  vvhich  they  have 
affected  to  quiet  their  own  consciences,  and  have 
really  weakened  the  faith  of  others  ? 

Every  new  instance  is  an  additional  buttress 
on  which  the  sceptical  school  lean  for  support, 
and  which  they  produce  as  a  fresh  triumph. 
With  equal  satisfaction  they  collect  stories  of 
infirmity,  depression,  and  want  of  courage  in 
the  dying  hour  of  religious  men,  whom  the  na¬ 
ture  of  the  disease,  timorousness  of  spirit,  pro¬ 
found  humility,  the  sad  remembrance  of  sin, 
though  long  repented  of  and  forgiven,  a  deep 
sense  of  the  awfulness  of  meeting  God  in  judg¬ 
ment  ; — whom  some  or  all  of  these  causes  may 
occasion  to  depart  in  trembling  fear  :  in  whom, 
tliough  heaviness  may  endure  through  the  night 
of  death,  yet  joy  cometh  in  the  morning  of  the 
resurrection. 

It  is  a  maxim  of  the  civil  law  that  definitions 
are  hazardous.  And  it  cannot  be  denied  that 
various  descriptions  of  persons  have  hazarded 
much  in  their  definitions  of  a  happy  death.  A 
very  able  and  justly  admired  writer,  who  has 
distinguished  himself  by  the  most  valuable  works 
on  political  economy,  has  recorded  as  proofs  of 
the  happy  death  of  a  no  less  celebrated  contern- 
porary,  that  he  cheerfully  amused  himself  in  his 
last  hours  with  Lucian,  a  game  of  whist,  and 
some  good  humoured  drollery  upon  Charon  and 
his  boat. 

But  may  we  not  venture  to  say,  with  ‘  one  of 
the  people  called  Christians,’*  himself  a  wit  and 
philosopher,  though  of  the  school  of  Christ,  that 
the  man  who  could  meet  death  in  such  a  frame 
of  mind,  ‘  might  smile  over  Babylon  in  ruins, 
esteem  the  earthquake  which  destroyed  Lisbon 
an  agreeable  occurrence,  and  congratulate  the 
hardened  Pharaoh  on  his  overthrow  in  the  Red 
Sea.’ 

This  eminent  historian  and  philosoper,  whose 

»  The  late  excellent  Bishop  Horne.  See  his  letters  to 
Di  Adam  Smith. 


.great  intellectual  powers  it  is  as  impossible  not 
to  admire,  as  not  to  lament  their  unhappy  mis- 
application,  has  been  eulogized  by  his  friend,  as 
coming  nearer  than  almost  any  other  man,  to 
the  perfection  of  human  nature  in  his  life  ;  and 
has  been  almost  deified  for  the  cool  courage  arid 
heroic  firmness  with  which  he  met  death.^  His 
eloquent  panegyrist,  with  as  insidious  an  inuen- 
do  as  has  ever  been  thrown  out  against  revealed 
religion,  goes  on  to  observe,  that  ‘  perhaps  it  is 
one  of  the  very  worst  circumstances  against 
Christianity,  that  very  few  of  its  professors  were 
ever  either  so  moral,  so  humane,  or  could  so 
philosophically  govern  their  passions,  as  the 
sceptical  David  Hume.’  _ 

Yet  notwithstanding  this  rich  embalrning  of 
so  noble  a  compound  of  ‘  matter  and  motion,^  we 
mtist  be  permitted  to  doubt  one  of  the  two  things 
presented  for  our  admiration;  we  must  either 
doubt  the  so  much  boasted  happiness  of  his 
death,  or  the  so  much  extolled  humanity  of  his 
heart.  We  must  be  permitted  to  suspect  the 
soundness  of  that  benevolence  which  led  him  to 
devote  his  latest  hours  to  prepare,  under  the  la¬ 
bel  of  an  Essay  on  Suicide,  a  potion  for  posterity 
of  so  deleterious  a  quality,  that  if  taken  by  the 
patient,  under  all  the  circumstances  in  which  » 
he  undertakes  to  prove  it  innocent,  might  have 
gone  near  to  effect  the  extinction  of  the  wnole 
human  race.  For  if  all  rational  beings,  accord¬ 
ing  to  this  posthumous  prescription,  are  at  liber¬ 
ty  to  procure  their  own  release  from  life,  ‘  under 
pain  or  sickness,  shame  or  poverty,’  how  large 
a  portion  of  the  world  would  be  authorized  to 
quit  it  uncalled  !  For  how  many  are  subject  to 
the  two  latter  grievances  ;  from  the  two  former 
how  few  are  altogether  exempt  !* 

The  energy  of  that  ambition  which  could  con- 
centrate  the  last  efforts  of  a  powerful  mind,  the 
last  exertions  of  a  spirit  greedy  of  fame,  into  a 
project  not  only  for  destroying  the  souls,  but  for 
abridging  the  lives  of  his  fellow  creatures,  leaves 
at  a  disgraceful  distance  the  inverted  thirst  of 
glory  of  the  man,  who  to  immortalize  his  own 
name,  set  fire  to  the  Temple  at  Ephesus.  Such 
a  burning  zeal  to  annihilate  the  eternal  hope  of 
his  fellow  creatures  might  be  philosophy  ;  but 
surely  to  authorise  them  to  curtail  their  moral 
existence,  which  to  the  infidel  who  looks  for  no 
other,  must  be  invaluable,  was  not  philanthropy. 

But  if  this  death  was  thought  worthy  of  being 
blazoned  to  the  public  eye  in  all  the  warm  and 
glowing  colours  with  which  affection  decorates 
panegyric  ;  the  disciples  of  the  same  school  have 
been  in  general,  anxiously  solicitous  to  produce 
only  the  more  creditable  instances  of  invincible 
hardness  of  heart,  while  they  have  laboured  to 
cast  an  impenetrable  veil  over  the  closing  scene 
of  those  among  the  less  inflexible  of  the  fater- 
nity,  who  have  established  in  their  departing 
moments,  any  symptoms  of  doubt,  any  indica- 


*  Another  part  of  the  Essay  on  Suicide,  has  this  pas- 
sace,— ‘Whenever  pain  or  sorrow  so  far  overcome  my 
patience,  as  to  make  me  tired  of  life,  I  may  conclude 
that  I  am  recalled  from  my  station  in  the  plainest  “"<1 
most  express  terms.’  And  again — '  W’hen  I 
my  own  sword.  I  receive  my  death  equally  from  tlic 
hands  of  the  Deity,  as  if  it  had  proceed.'d  from  a  lion,  a 
precipice,  or  a  fever.'  And  again — ‘  Where  is  the  ri  ime 
of  turning  a  few  ounces  of  blood  from  their  natura 
channel.' 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


487 


tions  of  distrust,  respecting  the  validity  of  their 
principles  : — Principles  which  they  had  long 
maintained  with  so  much  zeal,  and  disseminat¬ 
ed  with  so  much  industry. 

In  spite  of  the  sedulous  anxiety  of  his  satel¬ 
lites  to  conceal  the  clouded  setting  of  the  great  lu¬ 
minary  of  modern  infidelity,  from  which  so  many 
minor  stars  have  filled  their  little  urns,  and  then 
set  up  for  original  lights  themselves;  in  spite 
of  the  pains  taken — for  we  must  drop  metaphor 
- — to  shrobd  from  ail  eyes,  except  those  of  the 
initiated,  the  terror  and  dismay  with  which  the 
Philosopher  of  Geneva  met  death,  met  his  sum¬ 
mons  to  appear  before  that  God  whose  provi¬ 
dence  he  had  ridiculed,  that  Saviour  whose 
character  and  offices  he  had  vilified, — the  secret 
was  betrayed.  In  spite  of  the  precautions  taken 
by  his  associates  to  bury  in  congenial  darkness 
the  agonies  which  in  his  last  hours  contradicted 
the  audacious  blasphemies  of  a  laborious  life 
spent  in  their  propagation,  at  last  like  his  great 
instigator,  he  believed  and  trembled. 

Whatever  the  sage  of  Ferncy  might  be  in  the 
eyes  of  Journalists,  of  Academicians,  of  Ency- 
clopoedists,  of  the  Royal  Author  of  Berlin,  of 
Revolutionists  in  the  egg  of  his  own  hatching, 
cf  full  grown  infidels  of  his  own  spawning  ;  of 
a  world  into  which  he  had  been  for  more  than 
half  a  century  industriously  infusing  a  venom, 
the  effects  of  which  will  be  long  felt,  the  ex¬ 
piring  philosopher  was  no  object  of  veneration 
to  his  NURSE. — She  could  have  recorded  ‘a  tale 
to  harrow  up  the  soul,’  the  horrors  of  wliich  were 
sedulously  attempted  to  be  consigned  to  oblivion. 
Rut  for  this  woman  and  a  few  other  unbribed 
witnesses,  his  friends  would  probably  have  en¬ 
deavoured  to  edify  the  world  with  this  addition 
to  the  brilliant  catalogue  of  Kappy  deaths.* 

It  has  been  a  not  uncommon  opinion  that  the 
works  of  an  able  and  truly  pious  Christian,  by 
their  happy  tendency  to  awaken  the  careless 
and  to  convince  the  unbelieving,  may,  even  for 
ages  after  the  excellent  author  is  entered  into 
his  eternal  Kest,  by  the  accession  of  new  con- 
Terts  which  they  bring  to  Christianity,  con¬ 
tinue  to  add  increasing  brightness  to  the  crown 
of  the  all  eady  glorified  saint.  If  this  be  true, 
how  shall  imagination  presume  to  conceive, 
much  less  how  shall  language  express,  what 
must  be  expected  in  the  contrary  case  ?  How 
ehall  we  dare  turn  our  thoughts  to  the  progres¬ 
sive  torments  which  may  be  ever  heaping  on 
the  heads  of  those  unhappy  men  of  genius,  who 
have  devoted  their  rare  talents  to  promote  vice 

*  It  is  a  well  attested  fact,  that  this  woman,  after  his 
decease,  being  sent  for  to  attend  another  person  in  dy¬ 
ing  circumstances,  anxiously  inquired  if  the  patient  was 
ji  gentleman  ;  for  that  she  had  recently  been  so  dread¬ 
fully  terrifled  in  witnessing  the  dying  horrors  of  Mons. 
de  Voltaire,  which  surpassed  all  description,  that  she 
Jiad  resolved  never  to  attend  any  other  person  of  that 
eex  unless  she  could  be  assured  that  he  was  not  a  philo- 
fcuiilier.  Voltaire,  indeed,  as  he  was  deficient  in  the 
moral  nonesty  and  the  other  good  qualities,  whicli  ob¬ 
tained  for  Mr.  Hume  the  affeclion  ofhis  friends,  wanted 
his  sincerity.  Of  all  his  other  vices,  hypocrisy  was  the 
consummation  While  lie  daily  dishonoured  the  llc- 
deemer  by  the  invention  of  unheard  of  blasphemies; 
after  lie  had  bound  himself  by  a  solemn  pledge  never  to 
rest  till  he  had  exterminated  his  very  name  from  the 
face  of  the  earth,  ho  was  not  ashamed  to  as.oist  regu¬ 
larly  at  the  awfiA  commemoration  of  his  death  at  tlie 
altar  I 


and  infidelity,  continue  with  fatal  success  to 
make  successive  proselytes  through  successive 
ages — if  their  works  last  so  long,  and  thus  ac¬ 
cumulate  on  themselves  anguish  ever  growing 
miseries  ever  multiplying,  without  hope  of  any 
mitigation,  without  hope  of  any  end  ! 

A  more  recent  instance  of  the  temper  and 
spirit  which  the  College  of  Infidelity  exhibits 
on  these  occasions  is  perhaps  less  generally 
known,  A  person  of  our  own  time  and  country, 
of  high  rank  and  talents,  and  who  ably  filled  a 
great  public  situation,  had  unhappily  in  early 
life,  imbibed  principles  and  habits  analogous  to 
these  of  a  notoriously  profligate  society  of  which 
he  was  a  member,  a  society,  of  which  the  very 
appellation  it  delighted  to  distinguish  itself 
by,  is 

OflTence  and  torture  to  the  sober  ear. 

In  the  near  view  of  death,  at  an  advanced  age, 
deep  remorse  and  terror  took  possession  of  his 
soul ;  but  he  had  no  friend  about  him  to  whom 
he  could  communicate  the  state  of  his  mind,  or 
from  whom  he  could  derive  either  counsel  or 
consolation.  One  d^y  in  the  absence  of  his  at¬ 
tendants  he  raised  his  exhausted  body  on  his 
dying  bed,  and  threw  himself  on  the  floor,  where 
he  was  found  in  great  agony  of  spirit,  with  a 
prayer-book  in  his  hand.  This  detection  was 
at  once  a  subject  for  ridicule  and  regret  to 
his  colleagues,  and  he  was  contemptuously 
spoken  of  as  a  pusillanimous  deserter  from  the 
good  cause.  The  phrase  used  by  them  to  ex- 
press  their  displeasure  at  his  apostacy  is  too 
offensive  to  find  a  place  here.*  Were  we  called 
upon  to  decide  between  the  two  rival  horrors, 
we  should  feel  no  hesitation  in  pronouncing  this 
death  a  less  unhappy  one  than  those  to  which 
we  have  before  alluded. 

Another  well  known  sceptic,  while  in  perfect 
health,  took  measures  by  a  special  order,  to 
guard  against  any  intrusion  in  his  last  sick¬ 
ness,  by  which  he  might,  even  in  the  event 
of  delirium,  betray  any  doubtful  apprehension 
that  there  might  be  any  hereafter  ;  or  in  any 
other  way  be  surprised  in  uttering  expressions 
of  terror,  and  thus  exposing  the  state  of  his 
mind,  in  case  any  such  revolution  should  take 
place,  which  his  heart  whispered  him  might 
possibly  happen. 

But  not  only  in  those  happy  deaths  which 
close  a  life  of  avowed  impiety,  is  there  great 
room  for  suspicion,  but  even  in  cases  where 
without  acknowledged  infidelity,  there  has  been 
a  careless  life ;  when  in  such  cases  we  hear  of 
a  sudden  death-bed  revolution,  of  much  seeming 
contrition,  succeeded  by  extraordinary  profes- 
sions  of  joy  and  triumph,  we  should'  be  very 
cautious  of  pronouncing  on  their  real  state. 
Let  us  rather  leave  the  penitent  of  a  day  to  that 
mercy  against  which  he  has  been  sinning 
through  a  whole  life.  These  ‘  Clinical  Converts,* 
(to  borrow  a  favourite  phrase  of  the  eloquent 
bishop  Taylor,)  may  indeed  be  true  penitents; 
but  how  shall  we  pronounce  them  to  be  so  ? — 
How  can  we  conclude  that  ‘  they  arc  dead  unto 
sin’  unless  they  are  spared  to  ‘  live  unto  righte- 
ousness  ?’ 

*  The  writer  had  this  anecdote  fVotn  an  acquaintance 
of  the  noble  person  at  the  time  of  liis  death. 


488 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Happily  we  are  not  called  upon  to  decide. 
He  to  whose  broad  e3'e  the  future  and  the  past 
lie  open,  as  he  has  been  their  constant  witness, 
so  will  he  be  their  unerring  judge.* 

But  the  admirers  of  certain  happy  deaths,  do 
not  even  pretend  that  any  such  change  appeared 
in  the  friends  of  whom  they  make  not  so  much 
the  panegyric  as  the  apotheosis.  They  w’ould 
even  think  repentance  a  derogation  from  the 
dignity  of  their  character.  They  pronounce 
them  to  have  been  good  enough  as  they  were  ; 
insisting  that  they  have  a  demand  for  happiness 
upon  God,  if  there  be  any  such  Being  ;  a  claim 
upon  heaven,  if  there  be  any  such  place.  They 
are  satisfied  that  their  friend,  after  a  life  spent 
‘  without  God  in  the  world,’  without  evidencing 
any  marks  of  a  changed  heart,  without  even 
affecting  any  thing  like  repentance,  without  in¬ 
timating  that  there  was  any  call  for  it,  died 

PRONOUNCING  HIMSELF  HAPPY. 

But  nothing  is  more  suspicious  than  a  happy 
death,  where  there  has  neither  been  religion  in 
the  life  nor  humility  in  its  close,  where  its  course 
has  been  without  piety,  and  its  termination  with¬ 
out  repentance. 

Others  in  a  stilt  bolder  strain,  disdaining  the 
posthumous  renown  to  be  conferred  by  survi- 
vers,  of  their  having  died  happily,  prudently 
secure  their  own  fame,  and  changing  both  the 
tense  and  the  person  usual  in  monumental  in¬ 
scriptions,  with  prophetic  confidence  record  on 
their  own  sepulchral  marble,  that  they  shall  die 
not  only  ‘happy,’  but  ‘grateful,’ — the  pre¬ 
science  of  philosophy  thus  assuming  as  certain 
what  the  humble  spirit  of  Christianity  only  pre¬ 
sumes  to  hope. 

There  is  another  reason  to  be  assigned  for 
the  charitable  error  of  indiscriminately  consign¬ 
ing  our  departed  acquaintance  to  certain  hap¬ 
piness.  Affliction,  as  it  is  a  tender,  so  it  is  a 
misleading  feeling;  especially  in  minds  na- 
turall}'  soft,  and  but  slightly  tinctured  with  re. 
ligion.  The  death  of  a  friend  awakens  the 
kindest  feelings  of  the  heart.  But  by  exciting 
true  sorrow,  it  often  excites  false  charity.  Grief 
naturally  softens  every  fault,  love  as  naturally 
heightens  every  virtue.  It  is  right  and  kind 
to  consign  error  to  oblivion,  but  not  to  immor¬ 
tality.  Charity  indeed  we  owe  to  tho  dead  as 
well  as  to  the  living,  but  not  that  erroneous 
charity  by  which  truth  is  violated,  and  unde¬ 
served  commendation  lavished  on  those  whom 
truth  could  no  longer  injure.  To  calumniate 
the  dead  is  even  worse  than  to  violate  the  rights 
of  sepulture ;  not  to  vindicate  calumniated  worth, 
when  it  can  no  longer  vindicate  itself,  is  a 
crime  next  to  that  of  attacking  it  ;t  but  on  the 

*  The  primitive  church  carried  their  incredulity  of 
the  appearances  of  repentance  .so  far  as  to  require  not 
only  years  of  sorrow  for  sui,  but  p<useverance  in  piety, 
before  tliey  would  admit  offenders  to  their  communion  ; 
and  as  a  test  of  their  sincerity,  required  the  uniform 
practice  of  those  virtues  most  opposite  to  their  former 
vices.  Were  this  made  the  criterion  novv,  we  should 
not  so  often  hear  such  flaminy  accounts  of  converts,  so 
exullinply  reported,  before  time  has  been  allowed  to  try 
their  stability.  More  especially  we  should  not  hear  of 
so  many  triumphant  relations  of  death-bed  converts,  in 
whom  the  symptoms  must  frequently  be  too  equivocal 
to  admit  the  positive  decision  of  human  wisdom. 

t  What  a  generous  instance  of  that  disinterested  at¬ 
tachment  which  survives  the  grave  of  its  object  and  pi- 


dead,  charity,  though  well  understood,  is  often 
mistakingly  exercised. 

If  we  were  called  upon  to  collect  the  greatest 
quantity  of  hyperbole — falsehood  might  be  too 
harsh  a  term — in  the  least  given  time  and  space, 
we  should  do  well  to  search  for  it  in  those  sacred 
edifices  expressly  consecrated  to  truth.  There 
we  should  see  the  ample  mass  of  canonizing 
kindness  which  fills  their  mural  decorations, 
expressed  in  all  those  flattering  records  inscrib¬ 
ed  by  every  variety  of  motive  to  every  variety 
of  claim.  In  addition  to  what  is  dedicated  to 
real  merit  by  real  sorrow,  we  should  hear  of 
tears  which  were  never  shed,  grief  which  was 
never  felt,  praise  which  was  never  earned ;  we 
should  see  what  is  raised  by  the  decent  demands 
of  connexion,  by  tender,  but  undiscerning  friend-, 
ship,  by  poetic  licence,  by  eloquent  gratitude  for 
testamentary  favours. 

It  is  an  amiable  though  not  a  correct  feeling 
in  human  nature,  that,  fancying  we  have  not 
done  justice  to  certain  characters  during  their 
lives,  we  run  into  the  error  of  supposed  com¬ 
pensation  by  over  estimating  them  after  their 
decease. 

On  account  of  neighbourhood,  affinity,  long 
acquaintance,  or  some  pleasing  qualities,  we 
may  have  entertained  a  kindness  for  manj'  per¬ 
sons,  of  whose  state  however,  while  they  lived, 
we  could  not  with  the  utmost  stretch  of  charity 
think  favourably.  If  their  sickness  has  been 
long  and  severe,  our  compassion  having  been, 
kept  by  that  circumstance  in  a  state  of  continued 
excitement,  though  we  lament  their  death,  yet 
we  feel  thankful  that  their  suffering  is  at  an  end. 
Forgetting  our  former  opinion,  and  the  course 
of  life  on  which  it  was  framed,  we  fall  into  all 
the  common-place'of  consolation, — ‘  God  is  mer¬ 
ciful — we  trust  that  they  are  at  rest-^what  a 
happy  release  they  have  had  !’ — Nay,  it  is  well 
if  we  do  not  go  so  far  as  to  entertain  a  kind  of 
vague  belief  Ihat  their  better  qualities  joined  to 
their  sufferings  have,  on  the  whole,  ensured 
their  felicity. 

Thus  at  once  losing  sight  of  that  word  of  God 
which  cannot  lie,  of  our  former  regrets  on  their 
subject,  losing  the  remembrance  of  their  defec¬ 
tive  principles  and  thoughtless  conduct ;  without 
any  reasonable  ground  for  altering  our  opinion, 
any  pretence  for  entertaining  a  better  hope — we 
assume  that  they  are  happy.  We  reason  as  if 
we  believed  that  the  suffering  of  the  body  had 
purchased  the  salvation  of  the  soul,  as  if  it  had 
rendered  any  doubt  almost  criminal.  Wo  seem 

ously  rescues  his  reputation  from  the  assaults  of  ino- 
liqnity,  was  given  by  the  late  excellent  bishop  Por 
teas,  in  his  animated  defenceof archbishop  Seeker!  Maj' 
his  own  fair  fame  never  stand  in  need  of  any  such  warm 
vindication,  which,  however,  it  could  not  fail  to  find  in 
the  bosom  of  every  good  man  ! — The  fine  talents  of  this 
lamented  prelate,  uniformly  devoted  to  the  purposes  for 
which  God  gave  them — his  life  directed  to  those  duties 
to  which  his  high  professional  station  called  him— his 
Christian  graces — those  engaging  manners  which  shed 
a  soft  lustre  on  the  firm  fidelity  of  his  friendships — that 
kindness  which  was  ever  flowing  from  his  heart  to  hi» 
lips — the  benignity' and  candour  which  distinguished 
not  his  conversation  only,  but  his  conduct — these  and- 
all  those  amiable  qualities,  that  gentle  temper  and  cor¬ 
rect  cheerfulness  with  which  he  adorned  society,  will 
ever  endear  his  memory  to  all  who  knew  him  intimate¬ 
ly  ;  and  let  his  friends  remember,  that  to  imitate  his  vi.-^ 
lues,  will  be  the  besi  proof  of  their  remembering  them 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


489 


to  make  ourselves  easy  on  the  falsest  ground 
imaginable,  not  because  we  believe  their  hearts 
were  changed,  but  because  they  are  now  beyond 
all  possibility  of  change. 

But  surely  the  mere  circumstance  of  death 
will  not  have  rendered  them  fit  for  that  heaven 
for  which  we  before  feared  they  were  unfit.  Far 
be  it  from  us,  indeed,  blind  and  sinful  as  we  are, 
to  pass  sentence  upon  them,  to  pass  sentence 
upon  any.  We  dare  not  venture  to  pronounce 
what  may  have  passed  between  God  and  their 
souls,  even  at  the  last  hour.  We  know  that  in¬ 
finite  mercy  is  not  restricted  to  times  or  seasons; 
to  an  early  or  a  late  repentance ;  we  know  not 
but  in  that  little  interval  their  peace  was  made, 
their  pardon  granted,  through  the  atonirfg  blood, 
and  powerful  intercession  of  their  Redeemer. 
Nor  should  we  loo  scrupulously  pry  into  the 
state  of  others,  never,  indeed,  except  to  benefit 
them  or  ourselves  ;  we  should  rather  imitate  the 
example  of  Christ,  who  at  once  gave  an  admira¬ 
ble  lesson  of  meekness  and  charitable  judgment, 
when  avoiding  an  answer  which  might  have 
led  to  fruitless  discussion,  he  gave  a  reproof  un¬ 
der  the  shape  of  an  exhortation.  In  reply  to  the 
inquiry,  ‘  Are  there  few  that  be  saved,’  he  thus 
checked  vain  curiosity — ‘  Strive  (you)  to  enter 
in  at  the  strait  gate.’  On  another  occasion,  in 
the  same  spirit,  he  corrected  inqusitiveness,  not 
by  an  answer,  but  by  an  interrogation  and  a 
precept — ‘  What  is  that  to  thee  ?  Follow  thou 
me.’ 

But  where  there  is  strong  ground  to  appre¬ 
hend  that  the  contrary  may  have  been  the  case, 
it  is  very  dangerous  to  pronounce  peremptorily 
on  the  safety  of  the  dead.  Because  if  we  allow 
ourselves  to  be  fully  persuaded  that  they  are  en¬ 
tered  upon  a  state  of  happiness,  it  will  natu¬ 
rally  and  fatally  tempt  us  to  lower  our  own 
standard.  If  we  are  ready  to  conclude  that  they 
are  now  in  a  state  of  glory  whose  principles  we 
believed  to  be  incorrect,  whose  practice,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  we  know  to  have  been  negligent, 
who,  without  our  indulging  a  censorious  or  a 
presumptuous  spirit,  we  thought  lived  in  a  state 
of  mind,  and  a  course  of  habits,  not  only  far 
from  right,  but  even  avowedly  inferior  to  our 
own ;  will  not  this  lead  to  the  conclusion,  either 
that  we  ourselves,  standing  on  so  much  higher 
ground,  are  in  a  very  advanced  state  of  grace, 
or  that  a  much  lower  than  ours  may  be  a  state 
of  safety  ?  And  will  not  such  a  belief  tend  to 
slacken  our  endeavours,  and  to  lower  our  tone, 
both  of  faith  and  practice  ? 

By  this  conclusion  we  contradict  the  affect¬ 
ing  assertion  of  a  very  sublime  poet, 

For  us  they  sicken  and  for  us  they  die. 

For  while  we  are  thus  taking  and  giving  false 
comfort,  our  friend  as  to  us  will  have  died  in 
vain.  Instead  of  his  death  having  operated  as 
a  warning  voice,  to  rouse  us  to  a  more  animated 
piety,  it  will  be  rather  likely  to  lull  us  into  a 
dangerous  security.  If  our  affection  has  so 
blinded  our  judgment,  wo  shall  by  a  false  can¬ 
dour  to  another,  sink  into  a  false  peace  ourselves. 

It  will  be  a  wounding  circumstance  to  the 
feelings  of  surviving  friendship,  to  see  a  person 
of  loose  habits,  whom  though  we  love,  yet  wc 
VoL.  I. 


feared  to  admonish,  and  that  because  we  loved 
him  ;  for  whom,  though  we  saw  his  danger,  yet 
perhaps  we  neglected  to  pray ;  to  see  him 
brought  to  that  ultimate  and  fixed  state  in  which 
admonition  is  impossible,  in  which  prayer  is  not 
only  fruitless,  but  unlawful.  \ 

Another  distressing  circumstance  frequently 
occurs.  We  meet  with  affectionate  but  irreli¬ 
gious  parents,  who  though  kind  and  perhaps 
amiable,  have  neither  lived  themselves,  nor  edu¬ 
cated  their  families  in  Christian  principles,  nor 
in  habits  of  Christian  piety.  A  child  at  ther 
age  of  maturity  dies.  Deep  is  the  afflietion  of 
the  doting  parent.  The  world  is  a  blank.  He 
looks  round  for  comfort  where  he  has  been  ac¬ 
customed  to  look  for  it  among  his  friends.  He 
finds  it  not.  He  looks  up  for  it  where  he  has 
not  been  accustomed  to  seek  it.  Neither  his 
heart  nor  his  treasure  has  been  laid  up  in  hea¬ 
ven.  Yet  a  paroxysm,  of  what  may  be  termed 
natural  devotion,  gives  to  his  grief  an  air  of 
piety.  The  first  cry  of  anguish  is  commonly 
religious. 

The  lamented  object  perhaps,  through  utter 
ignorance  of  the  awful  gulf  which  was  opening 
to  receive  him,  added  to  a  tranquil  temper, 
might  have  expired  without  evincing  any  great 
distress,  and  his  happy  death  is  industriously 
proclaimed  through  the  neighbourhood,  and  the 
mourning  parents  have  only  to  wish  that  their 
latter  end  may  be  like  his.  They  cheat  at  once 
their  sorrow  and  their  souls,  with  the  soothing 
notion  that  they  shall  soon  meet  their  beloved 
child  in  Heaven.  Of  this  they  persuade  them¬ 
selves  as  firmly  and  as  fondly,  as  if  both  they 
and  the  object  of  their  grief  had  been  living  in 
the  way  which  leads  thither.  Oh,  for  that  un¬ 
bought  treasure,  a  sincere,  a  real  friend,  who 
might  lay  hold  on  the  propitious  moment !  When 
the  heart  is  softened  by  sorrow,  it  might  possi¬ 
bly,  if  ever,  be  led  to  its  true  remedy.  This 
would  indeed  be  a  more  unequivocal,  because 
more  painful  act  of  friendship  than  pouring  in 
the  lulling  opiate  of  false  consolation,  which  we 
are  too  ready  to  administer,  because  it  saves  our 
own  feelings,  while  it  sooths,  without  healing, 
those  of  the  mourner. 

But  perhaps  the  integrity  of  the  friend  con¬ 
quers  his  timidity.  Alas  I  he  is  honestly  explicit 
to  unattending  or  to  offended  ears.  They  refuse 
to  hear  the  voice  of  the  charmer.  But  if  the 
mourners  will  not  endure  the  voice  of  exhorta¬ 
tion  now,  while  there  is  hope,  how  will  they  en¬ 
dure  the  sound  of  the  last  trumpet  when  hope  is 
at  an  end  1  If  they  will  not  bear  the  gentle, 
whisper  of  friendship,  how  will  they  bear  the, 
voice  of  the  accusing  angel,  the  terrible  sentence 
of  the  incensed  Judge  ?  If  private  reproof  be 
intolerable,  how  will  they  stand  the  being  made 
a  spectacle  to  angels  and  to  men,  even  to  the 
whole  assembled  universe,  to  the  whole  creation, 
of  God  ? 

But  instead  of  converting  the  friendly  warn¬ 
ing  to  their  eternal  benefit,  they  are  probably, 
wholly  bent  on  their  own  vindication.  Still  their 
character  is  dearer  to  them  than  their  soul. 
‘  We  never,’  say  they,  ‘  were  any  man’s  enemy.’ 
Yes — you  have  been  the  enemy  of  all  to  whom- 
you  have  given  a  had  example.  You  have  espe¬ 
cially  been  the  ei;iemy  to  your  children  in  whom 


490 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


you  have  implanted  no  Christian  principles. 
Still  they  insist  with  the  prophet  that  ‘  there  is 
no  iniquity  in  them  that  can  be  called  iniquity.’ 
‘We  have  wronged  no  one,’  say  they,  ‘we  have 
given  to  every  one  his  due.  We  have  done  our 
duty.’  Your  first  duty  was  to  God.  You  have 
robbed  your  Maker  of  the  service  due  to  Him. 
You  have  robbed  your  Redeemer  of  the  souls 
he  died  to  save.  You  have  robbed  your  own 
soul  and  too  probably  the  souls  of  those  whom 
you  have  so  wretchedly  educated,  of  eternal  hap¬ 
piness. 

Thus  the  flashes  of  religion  which  darted  in 
upon  their  conscience  in  the  first  burst  of  sor¬ 
row,  too  frequently  die  away ;  they  expire  be¬ 
fore  the  grief  which  kindled  them.  They  resort 
again  to  their  old  resource,  the  world,  which  if 
it  cannot  soon  heal  their  sorrow,  at  least  soon 
diverts  it. 

To  shut  our  eyes  upon  death  as  an  object  of 
terror  or  of  hope,  and  to  consider  it  only  as  a 
release  or  an  extinction,  is  viewing  it  under  a 
character  which  is  not  its  own.  But  to  get  rid 
of  the  idea  at  any  rate,  and  then  boast  that  we 
do  not  fear  the  thing  we  do  not  think  of  is  not 
difficult.  Nor  is  it  difficult  to  think  of  it  with¬ 
out  alarm  if  we  do  not  include  its  consequence.s. 
But  to  him  who  frequently  repeats,  not  me¬ 
chanically,  but  devoutly,  ‘  we  know  that  thou 
shalt  come  to  bo  our  Judge,’  death  cannot  be  a 
matter  of  indifference. 

Another  cause  of  these  happy  deaths  is  that 
many  think  salvation  a  slight  thing,  that  heaven 
is  cheaply  obtained,  that  a  merciful  God  is  easily 
pleased,  that  we  are  Christians,  and  that  mercy 
comes  of  course  to  those  who  have  always  pro¬ 
fessed  to  believe  that  Christ  died  to  purchase  it 
for  them.  This  notion  of  God  being  more  mer¬ 
ciful  than  he  has  any  where  declared  himself  to 
be,  instead  of  inspiring  them  with  more  grati¬ 
tude  to  him,  inspires  more  confidence  in  them¬ 
selves.  This  corrupt  faith  generates  a  corrupt 
morality.  It  leads  to  this  strange  consequence, 
not  to  make  them  love  God  better,  but  to  ven¬ 
ture  on  offending  him  more. 

People  talk  as  if  the  act  of  death  made  a  com¬ 
plete  change  in  the  nature,  as  well  as  in  the 
condition  of  man.  Death  is  the  vehiele  to  ano¬ 
ther  state  of  being,  but  possesses  no  power  to 
qualify  us  for  that  state.  In  conveying  us  to  a 
new  world  it  does  not  give  us  a  new  heart.  It 
puts  the  unalterable  stamp  of  decision  on  the 
character,  but  does  not  transform  it  into  a  cha- 
xacter  diametrically  opposite. 

Our  affections  themselves  will  be  rather  raised 
than  altered.  Their  tendencies  will  be  the  same, 
though  their  advancement  will  bo  Incomparably 
higher.  They  will  be  exalted  in  their  degree, 
but  not  changed  in  their  nature.  They  will  be 
purified  from  all  earthly  mixtures,  cleansed  from 
all  liuman  pollutions,  the  principle  will  be  clear¬ 
ed  from  its  imperfections,  but  it  will  not  become 
another  principle.  He  that  is  unholy  will  not 
be  made  holy  by  death.  The  heart  will  not  have 
a  new  object  to  seek,  but  will  be  directed  more 
Aitonsely  to  the  same  object. 

They  who  love  God  here  will  love  him  far 
aiore  in  heaven,  because  they  will  know  him 
for  better.  There  he  will  reign  without  a  com- 
jwtitor.  They  who  served  him  here  in  sincerity 


will  there  serve  him  in  perfection.  If ‘the  pure 
in  heart  shall  see  God,’  let  us  remember  that 
this  purity  is  not  to  be  contracted  after  we  have 
been  admitted  to  its  remuneration.  The  beati¬ 
tude  is  pledged  as  a  reward  for  the  purity,  not 
as  a  qualification  for  it  Purity  will  be  subli¬ 
mated  in  heaven,  but  will  not  begin  to  be  pro¬ 
duced  there.  It  is  to  be  acquired  by  passing 
through  the  refiner’s  fire  here,  not  through  the 
penal  and  expiatory  fire  which  human  ingenuity 
devised  to  purge  oflfending  man 

From  the  foul  deeds  done  in  his  days  of  nature. 

The  extricated  spirit  will  be  separated  from  the 
feculence  of  all  that  belongs  to  sin,  to  sense,  to 
self.  We  shall  indeed  find  ourselves  new,  be¬ 
cause  spiritualized  beings  ;  but  if  the  cast  of  the 
mind  were  not  in  a  great  measure  the  same, 
how  should  we  retain  our  identity  ?  The  soul 
will  there  become  that  which  it  here  desired  to 
be,  that  which  it  mourned  because  it  was  so  far 
from  being.  It  will  have  obtained  that  complete 
victory  over  its  corruptions  which  it  here  only 
desired,  which  it  here  only  struggled  to  obtain. 

Here  our  love  of  spiritual  things  is  superin¬ 
duced,  there  it  will  be  our  natural  frame.  The 
impression  of  God  on  our  hearts  will  he  stamped 
deeper,  but  it  will  not  be  a  different  impression. 
Our  obedience  will  be  more  voluntary,  because 
there  will  be  no  rival  propensities  to  obstruct  it. 
It  will  be  more  entire,  because  it  will  have  to 
struggle  with  no  counteracting  force. — Here  we 
sincerely  though  imperfectly  love  the  law  of 
God,  even  though  it  controuls  our  perverse  will, 
though  it  contradicts  our  corruptions.  There 
our  love  will  be  complete,  beeause  our  will  will 
retain  no  perverseness,  and  our  corruptions  will 
be  done  away. 

Repentance,  precious  at  all  seasons,  in  the 
season  of  health  is  noble.  It  is  a  generous  prin¬ 
ciple  when  it  overtakes  us  surrounded  with  the 
prosperities  of  life,  when  it  is  not  putoflP  till  dis¬ 
tress  drives  us  to  it.  Seriousness  of  spirit  is 
most  acceptable  to  God  when  danger  is  out  of 
sight,  preparations  for  death  when  death  appears 
to  be  at  a  distance. 

Virtue  and  piety  are  founded  on  the  nature 
of  things,  on  the  laws  of  God,  not  on  any  vicis¬ 
situdes  in  human  circumstances.  Irreligion, 
folly,  and  vice,  are  just  as  unreasonable  in  the 
meridian  of  life  as  at  the  approach  of  death. 
They  strike  us  differently  but  they  always  re¬ 
tain  their  own  character.  Every  argument 
against  an  irreligious  death  is  equally  cogent 
against  an  irreligious  life.  Piety  and  penitence 
may  be  quickened  by  the  near  view  of  death, 
but  the  reasons  for  practising  them  are  not 
founded  on  its  nearness.  Death  may  stimulate 
our  fears  for  the  consequences  of  vice,  but  fur¬ 
nishes  no  motive  for  avoiding  it,  which  Chris¬ 
tianity  had  not  taught  before.  The  necessity 
of  religion  is  as  urgent  now  as  it  will  be  #hen 
we  are  dying.  It  may  not  appear  so,  but  the 
reality  of  a  thing  docs  not  depend  on  appear¬ 
ances.  Besides,  if  the  necessity  of  being  reli¬ 
gious  depended  on  the  approach  of  death,  what 
moment  of  our  lives  is  there,  in  which  we  have 
any  security  against  it  7  In  every  point  of  view, 
therefore,  the  same  necessity  for  being  religious 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAN  W  AH  MORK 


491 


subsists  when  we  are  in  full  health  as  when  we 
are  about  to  die. 

We  may  then  fairly  arrive  at  this  conclusion, 
that  there  is  no  happy  death  but  that  which  con¬ 
ducts  to  a  happy  immortality  : — No  joy  in  put¬ 
ting  off  the  body,  if  we  have  not  put  on  the  Lord 
Jesus  Christ; — No  consolation  in  escaping  from 
the  miseries  of  time,  till  we  have  obtained  a  well 
grounded  hope  of  a  blessed  eternity. 


CHAP.  XX. 

On  the  Sufferings  of  Good  Men. 

Affliction  is  the  school  in  which  great  vir¬ 
tues  are  acquired,  in  which  great  characters  are 
formed.  It  is  a  kind  of  moral  Gymnasium,  in 
which  the  disciples  of  Christ  are  trained  to 
robust  exercise,  hardy  exertion,  and  severe 
conflict. 

We  do  not  hear  of  martial  heroes  in  ‘  the  calm 
and  piping  time  of  peace,’  nor  of  the  most  emi¬ 
nent  saints  in  the  quiet  and  unmolested  periods 
of  ecclesiastical  history.  We  are  far  from  deny¬ 
ing  that  the  principle  of  courage  in  the  warrior, 
or  of  piety  in  the  saint  continues  to  subsist,  ready 
to  be  brought  into  action  when  perils  beset  the 
country  or  trials  assail  the  church  ;  but  it  must 
be  allowed  that  in  long  periods  of  inaction,  both 
are  liable  to  decay. 

The  Christian,  in  our  comparatively  tranquil 
day,  is  happily  exempt  from  the  trials  and  the 
terrors  which  the  annals  of  persecution  record. 
Thanks  to  the  establishment  of  a  pure  Chris¬ 
tianity  in  the  church,  thanks  to  the  infusion  of 
the  same  pure  principle  into  our  laws,  and  to  the 
mild  and  tolerating  spirit  of  both — a  man  is  so 
far  from  being  liable  to  pains  and  penalties  for 
his  attachment  to  his  religion,  that  he  is  pro¬ 
tected  in  its  exercise  ;  and  were  certain  existing 
statutes  enforced,  hb  would  even  incur  penalties 
for  his  violation  of  religious  duties,  rather  than 
for  his  observance  of  them.* 

Yet  still  the  Christian  is  not  exempt  from  his 
individual,  his  appropriate,  his  undefined  trials. 
We  refer  not  merely  to  those  ‘  cruel  mockings,’ 
which  the  acute  sensibility  of  the  apostle  led  him 
to  rank  in  the  same  catalogue  with  bonds,  im¬ 
prisonments,  exile  and  martyrdom  itself.  We 
allude  not  altogether  to  those  misrepresentations 
and  calumnies  to  which  the  zealous  Christian  is 
peculiarly  liable  ;  nor  exclusively  to  those  diffi¬ 
culties  to  which  his  very  adherence  to  the  prin¬ 
ciples  he  professes,  must  necessarily  subject 
him  ;  nor  entirely  to  those  occasional  sacrifices 
of  credit,  of  advancement,  of  popular  applau.se, 
to  which  his  refusing  to  sail  with  the  tide  of 
popular  opinion  may  compel  him  ;  nor  solely  to 
the  disadvantages  which  under  certain  circum¬ 
stances  his  not  preferring  expediency  to  princi¬ 
ple  may  expose  him.  But  the  truly  good  man 
is  not  only  often  called  to  struggle  with  trials  of 
large  dimensions,  with  exigencies  of  obvious 
difficulty,  but  to  encounter  others  which  are 
better  understood  than  defined. 

♦  We  allude  to  the  laws  against  swearing,  attending 
.public  worship,  &e. 


And  duller  would  he  be  than  the  fat  weed 
That  rots  itself  at  ease  on  Lethe’s  wharf, 

were  he  left  to  batten  undisturbed,  in  peacefiiS 
security,  on  the  unwholesome  pastures  of  rank 
prosperity.  The  thick  exhalations  drawn  up 
from  this  gross  soil  render  the  atmosphere  so 
heavy  as  to  obstruct  the  ascent  of  piety,  her 
flagging  pinions  are  kept  down  by  the  influence 
of  this  moist  vapour;  she  is  prevented  from 
soaring, 

- to  live  insphered 

In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air. 

Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot  ' 

Which  men  call  earth. 

The  pampered  Christian  thus  continually  gra¬ 
vitating  to  the  earth,  would  have  his  heart  solely 
bent  to 

Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish  being. 
Unmindful  of  the  crown  religion  gives, 

After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  servants. 

It  is  an  unspeakable  blessing  that  no  events 
are  left  to  the  choice  of  beings,  who  from  their 
blindness  would  seldom  fail  to  choose  amiss. 
Were  circumstances  at  our  own  disposal  we 
should  allot  ourselves  nothing  but  ease  and  suc¬ 
cess,  but  riches  and  fame,  but  protracted  youth, 
peroetual  health,  unvaried  happiness. 

All  this  as  it  would  not  be  very  unnatural,  so 
perhaps  it  would  not  be  very  wrong,  for  beings 
who  were  always  to  live  on  earth.  But  for  be¬ 
ings  who  are  placed  here  in  a  state  of  trial  and 
not  established  in  their  final  home,  whose  con- 
dition  in  eternity  depends  on  the  use  they  make 
of  time,  nothing  would  be  more  dangerous  than 
such  a  power,  nothing  more  fatal  than  the  con¬ 
sequences  to.whicli  such  a  power  would  lead. 

If  a  surgeon  were  to  put  in  the  hand  of  a 
wounded  patient  the  probe  or  the  lancet,  witji 
how  much  false  tenderness  would  he  treat  him¬ 
self!  How  skin-deep  would  be  the  examina¬ 
tion,  how  slight  the  incision !  The  patient 
would  escape  the  pain,  but  the  wound  might 
prove  mortal.  The  practitioner  therefore  wisely 
uses  his  instruments  himself.  He  goes  deep 
perhaps,  but  not  deeper  than  the  case  demands. 
The  pain  may  be  acute  but  the  life  is  preserved. 

Thus  He  in  whose  hands  wo  are,  is  too  good, 
and  loves  us  too  well  to  trust  us  with  ourselves. 
He  knows  that  we  will  not  contradict  our  own 
inclinations,  that  we  will  not  impose  on  ourselves 
any  thing  unpleasant,  that  we  will  not  inflict  on 
ourselves  any  voluntary  pain,  however  necessary 
the  infliction,  however  salutary  the  effect.  God 
graciously  does  this  for  us  himself,  or  he  knows 
it  would  never  be  done. 

A  Christian  is  liable  to  the  same  sorrows  and 
sufferings  with  other  men  :  he  has  no  where 
any  promise  of  immunity  from  the  troubles  of 
life,  but  ho  has  a  mercifbl  promise  of  support 
under  them.  He  considers  them  in  another 
view,  he  bears  them  with  another  spirit,  he  irn 
proves  them  to  other  purposes  than  those  whose 
views  are  bounded  by  this  world.  Whatever 
may  be  the  instruments  of  his  sufferings,  whether 
sickness,  losses,  calumnies,  persecutions,  he 
knows  that  it  proceeds  from  God  ;  all  means  are 
Ills  instruments.  All  inferior  causes  operate  bv 
HIS  directing  hand. 


492 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


We  said  that  a  Christian  is  liable  to  the  same  > 
sufferings  with  other  men.  Might  we  not  re¬ 
peat  what  we  have  before  said,  that  his  very 
Christian  profession  is  often  thei  cause  of  his 
sufferings  ?  They  are  the  badge  of  his  disciple- 
ship,  the  evidences  of  his  Father’s  love ;  they 
are  at  once  the  marks  of  God’s  favour,  and  the 
materials  of  his  own  future  happiness. 

What  were  the  arguments  of  worldly  advan¬ 
tage  held  out  through  the  whole  New  Testa¬ 
ment,  to  induce  the  world  to  embrace  the  religion 
it  taught  1  What  was  the  condition  of  St.  Paul’s 
introduction  to  Christianity  ?  It  was  not — I  will 
crown  him  with  honour  and  prosperity,  with 
dignity  and  pleasure,  but — I  will  show  him  how 
great  things  he  must  suffer  for  my  name’s  sake.’ 

What  were  the  virtues  which  Christ  chiefly 
taught  in  his  discourses  ?  What  were  the  graces 
he  most  recommended  by  his  example  ?  Self- 
denial,  mortification,  patience,  long-suffering, 
.renouncinsf  ease  and  pleasure.  These  are  the 
marks  which  have  ever  since  its  first  appearance, 
distinguished  Christianity  from  all  the  religions 
in  the  world,  and  on  that  account  evidently  prove 
its  divine  original.  Ease,  splendour,  external 
prosperity,  conquest,  made  no  part  of  its  esta¬ 
blishment.  Other  empires  have  been  founded 
in  the  blood  of  the  vanquished. — the  dominion 
of  Christ  was  founded  in  his  own  blood.  Most 
of  the  beatitudes  which  infinite  compassion  pro¬ 
nounced,  have  the  sorrows  of  earth  for  their 
subject,  but  the  joys  of  heaven  for  their  com¬ 
pletion. 

To  establish  this  religion  in  the  world,  the 
Almighty,  as  his  own  word  assures  u«,  subverted 
kingdoms  and  altered  the  face  of  nations.  ‘  For 
thus  saith  the  Lord  of  Hosts,’  (by  his  prophet 
Haggai)  ‘  yet  once,  it  is  a  little  while,  and  I  will 
shake  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  the  sea 
and  the  dry  land  ;  and  I  will  shake  all  nations, 
and  the  desire  of  all  nations  shall  come.’  Could 
a  religion,  the  kingdom  of  which  was  to  be 
founded  by  such  awful  means,  be  established,  be 
perpetuated,  without  involving  the  sufferings  of 
its  subjects. 

If  the  Christian  course  had  been  meant  for  a 
path  of  roses,  would  the  life  of  the  author  of 
Christianity  have  been  a  path  strewed  with 
thorns  ?  ‘  He  made  for  us,’  says  bishop  Jeremy 

Taylor,  ‘  a  covenant  of  sufferings,  his  very  pro¬ 
mises  were  sufferings  ;  his  rewards  were  suffer¬ 
ings,  and  his  arguments  to  invite  men  to  follow 
him  were  only  taken  from  sufferings  in  this  life, 
and  the  reward  of  sufferings  hereafter. 

But  if  no  prince  but  the  Prince  of  Peace  ever 
set  out  with  the  proclamation  of  the  reversionary 
nature  of  his  empire — if  no  other  king,  to  allay 
avarice  and  check  ambition,  ever  invited  sub¬ 
jects  by  the  unalluring  declaration  that  ‘  his 
kingdom  was  not  of  this  world’ — if  none  other 
ever  declared  that  it  was  not  dignity  or  honours, 
valour  or  talents  that  made  them  ‘  worthy  of 
him,’  but  ‘  taking  up  the  cross’ — if  no  other  ever 
made  the  sorrows  which  would  attend  his  fol¬ 
lowers  a  motive  for  their  attachment  yet  no 
other  ever  had  the  goodness  to  promise,  or  the 
power  to  make  his  promise  good,  that  he  would 
give  ‘  rest  to  the  heavy  laden.’  Other  sovereigns 
have  ‘  overcome  the  world’  for  their  own  ambi¬ 
tion,  but  none  besides  ever  thought  of  making 


the  ‘  tribulation’  which  should  be  the  effect  of 
that  conquest,  a  ground  for  animating  the  fidelity 
of  his  followers — ever  thought  of  bidding  them 
‘  be  of  good  cheer,’  because  he  had  overcome  tils' 
world  in  a  sense  which  was  to  make  his  subjects’ 
lose  all  hope  of  rising  in  it. 

The  apostle  to  the  Philippians  enumerated  it 
among  the  honours  and  distinctions  prepared' 
for  his  most  favoured  converts,  not  only  that 
‘  they  should  believe  in  Christ,’ ^but  that  they 
should  also  ‘  suffer  for  him.’  Any  other  religion 
would  have  made  use  of  such  a  promise  as  an 
argument  to  deter,  not  to  attract.  That  a  reli¬ 
gion  should  flourish  the  more  under  such  dis- 
couraging  invitations,  with  the  threat  of  even 
degrading  circumstances  and  absolute  losses,  is 
an  unanswerable  evidence  that  it  was  of  no  hu¬ 
man  origin.  »  ,  i,  i  u 

It  is  among  the  mercies  of  God,  that  he 
strengthens  the  virtues  of  his  servants  by  hard¬ 
ening  them  under  the  cold  and  bracing  climate 
of  adverse  fortune,  instead  of  leaving  them  to 
languish  under  the  shining  but  withering  sun 
of  unclouded  prosperity.  When  they  cannot  be 
attracted  to  him  by  gentler  influences,  he  sends 
these  salutary  storms  and  tempests,  which  purify 
while  they  alarm.  Our  gracious  Father  knows 
that  eternity  is  long  enough  for  his  children  to. 
be  happy  in. 

The  character  of  Christianity  may  be  seen  by 
the  very  images  of  military  conflict,  under  which 
the  Scriptures  so  frequently  exhibit  it.  ^  Suffering 
is  the  initiation  into  a  Christian’s  calling.  It  is 
his  education  for  heaven.  Shall  the  scholar  re¬ 
bel  at  the  discipline  which  is  to  fit  him  for  his 
profession ;  or  the  soldier  at  the  exercise  which 
is  to  qualify  him  for  victory  ? 

But  the  Christian’s  trials  do  not  all  spring 
from  without.  He  would  think  therii  compara¬ 
tively  easy,  had  he  only  the  opposition  of  men. 
to  struggle  against,  or  even  the  severer  dispen¬ 
sations  of  God  to  sustain.  If  he  has  a  conflict 
with  the  world,  he  has  a  harder  conflict  with  sin* 
His  bosom  foe  is  his  most  unyielding  enemy  : 

His  warfare  is  within,  there  unfatigued 
His  fervent  spirit  labours. 

This  it  is  which  makes  his  other  trials  heavy 
which  makes  his  power  of  sustaining  them  weak, 
which  renders  his  conquest  over  them  slow  and 
inconclusive ;  which  too  often  solicits  him  to 
oppose  interest  to  duty,  indolence  to  resistance, 
and  self-indulgence  to  victory. 

This  world  is  the  stage  on  which  worldly  men 
more  exclusively  act,  and  the  things  of  the  world, 
and  the  applause  of  the  world,  are  the  rewards 
which  they  propose  to  themselves.  These  they 
often  attain— with  these  they  are  satisfied.  They 
aim  at  no  higher  end,  and  of  their  aim  they  are 
not  disappointed.  But  let  not  the  Christian  lu¬ 
pine  at  the  success  of  those  whose  motives  he 
rejects,  whose  practices  he  dares  not  adopt, 
whose  ends  he  deprecates.  If  he  feel  any  dis- 
position  to  murmur  when  he  sees  the  irreligious 
in  great  prosperity,  let  him  ask  himself  I’® 
would  tread  their  path  to  attain  their  end— it  be 
would  do  their  work  to  obtain  their  wages  .  lie 
knows  he  would  not.  Let  him  then  chcerfu  y 
leave  them  to  scramble  for  the  prizes,  and  fosue 
for  the  places,  which  the  world  temptingly  holds 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


493 


out,  but  which  he  will  not  purchase  at  the 
world’s  price. 

Consult  the  page  of  history,  and  observe,  not 
only  if  the  best  men  have  been  the  most  suc¬ 
cessful,  but  even  if  they  have  not  often  eminent¬ 
ly  failed  in  great  enterprizes,  undertaken  per¬ 
haps  on  the  purest  principles ;  while  unworthy 
instruments  have  been  often  employed,  not  only 
to  produce  dangerous  revolutions,  but  to  bring 
about  events  ultimately  tending  to  the  public 
benefit ;  enterprizes  in  which  good  men  feared 
to  engage,  which  perhaps  they  were  not  com- 
. potent  to  effect,  or  in  effecting  which  they  might 
have  wounded  their  conscience  and  endangered 
their  souls. 

Good  causes  are  not  always  conducted  by 
good  men.  A  good  cause  may  be  connnected 
with  something  that  is  not  good,  with  party  for 
linstance.  Party  often  does  that  for  virtue, 
which  virtue  is  not  able  to  do  for  herself ;  and 
thus  the  right  cause  is  promoted  and  effected  by 
some  subordinate,  even  by  some  wrong  motive. 
,A  worldly  man,  connecting  himself  with  a  re- 
ligious  cause,  gives  it  that  importance  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  which  neither  its  own  recti¬ 
tude,  nor  that  of  its  religious  supporters  had 
been  able  to  give  it.  Nay  the  very  piety  of  its 
advocates — for  worldly  men  always  connect 
piety  with  imprudence — had  brought  the  wis- 
hom,  or  at  least  the  expediency  of  the  cause  into 
suspicion,  and  it  is  at  last  carried  by  a  means 
foreign  to  itself.  The  character  of  the  cause 
must  be  lowered,  we  had  almost  said,  it  must  in 
•a  certain  degree  be  deteriorated,  to  suit  the 
general  taste,  even  to  obtain  the  approbation  of 
that  multitude  for  whose  benefit  it  is  intended. 

How  long,  as  we  have  had  occasion  to  ob¬ 
serve  in  another  connexion,  had  the  world 
groaned  under  the  most  tremendous  engine 
which  superstition  and  despotism,  in  dreadful 
confederation,  ever  contrived  to  force  the  con¬ 
sciences,  and  torture  the  bodies  of  men  ;  where 
racks  were  used  for  persuasion,  and  flames  for 
arguments !  The  best  of  men  for  ages  have 
been  mourning  under  this  dread  tribunal,  with¬ 
out  being  competent  to  effect  its  overthrow  ;  the 
worst  of  men  have  been  able  to  accomplish  it 
with  a  word. — It  is  a  humiliating  lesson  for  good 
men,  when  they  thus  see  how  entirely  instru¬ 
mentality  may  be  separated  from  personal  virtue. 

We  still  fall  into  the  error  of  which  the  pro¬ 
phet  so  long  ago  complained,  ‘we  call  the  proud 
happy,’  and  the  wicked  fortunate,  and  our  hearts 
are  too  apt  to*rise  at  their  successes.  We  pre¬ 
tend  indeed  that  they  rise  with  indignation;  but 
is  it  not  to  be  feared  that  with  this  indignation 
is  mixed  a  little  envy,  a  little  rebellion  against 
God  ?  We  murmur,  though  we  know  that  when 
the  instrument  has  finished  his  work,  the  divine 
employer  throws  him  by,  cuts  him  off,  lets  him 
perish. 

But  you  envy  him  in  the  midst  of  that  work, 
to  accomplish  which  ho  has  sacrificed  every 
principle  of  justice,  truth,  and  mercy.  Is  this 
a  man  to  be  envied  Is  this  a  prosperity  to  be 
grudged  /  Would  you  Incur  the  penalties  of  that 
happiness  at  which  you  are  not  ashamed  to 
murmur  ? 

But  is  it  happiness  to  commit  sin,  to  bo  ab- 
uorred  by  good  men,  to  offend  God,  to  ruin  his 


own  soul  ?  Do  you  really  consider  a  temporary 
success  a  recompence  for  deeds  which  will  en¬ 
sure  eternal  woe  to  the  perpetrator  ?  Is  the  suc¬ 
cessful  bad  man  happy  ?  Of  what  materials 
then  is  happiness  made  up  ?  Is  it  composed  of  a 
disturbed  mind  and  an  unquiet  conscience  ? 
Are  doubt  and  difficulty,  are  terror  and  appre¬ 
hension,  are  distrust  and  suspicion,  felicities  for 
which  a  Christian  would  renounce  his  peace, 
would  displease  his  Maker,  would  risk  his  soul  ? 
— Think  of  the  hidden  vulture  that  feeds  on  the 
vitals  of  successful  wickedness,  and  your  repin- 
your  envy,  if  you  are  so  unhappy  as  to  feel 
envy,  will  cease.  Year  indignation  will  be  con¬ 
verted  into  compassion,  your  execrations  into 
prayer. 

But  if  he  feel  neither  the  scourge  of  conscience 
nor  the  sting  of  remorse,  pity  him  the  more. 
Pity  him  for  the  very  want  of  that  addition  to 
his  unhappiness;  for  if  he  added  to  his  miseries 
that  of  anticipating  his  punishment,  he  might 
be  led  by  repentance  to  avoid  it.  Can  you 
reckon  the  blinding  the  eyes  and  the  hardening 
his  heart,  any  part  of  his  happiness  ?  This 
opinion,  however,  you  practically  adopt,  when¬ 
ever  you  grudge  the  propensity  of  the  wicked. 
God,  by  delaying  the  punishment  of  bad  men, 
for  which  we  are  so  impatient,  may  have  de¬ 
signs  of  mercy  of  which  w'e  know  nothing  ; — 
mercy  perhaps  to  them,  or  if  not  to  them,  yet 
mercy  to  those  who  are  suffering  by  them,  and 
whom  he  intends  by  these  bad  instruments  to 
punish,  and  by  punishing,  eventually  to  save. 

There  is  another  sentiment  which  prosperous 
wickedness  excites  in  certain  minds  ;  that  is 
almost  more  preposterous  than  envy  itself, — 
and  that  is  respect ;  but  this  feeling  is  never 
raised  unless  both  the  wickedness  and  the  pros¬ 
perity  be  on  a  grand  scale. 

This  sentiment  also  is  founded  in  secret  im¬ 
piety,  in  the  belief  either  that  God  does  not 
govern  human  affairs,  or  that  the  motives  of 
action  are  not  regarded  by  him,  or  that  pros¬ 
perity  is  a  certain  proof  of  his  favour,  or  that 
where  there  is  success  there  must  be  worth. 
These  flatterers  however  forsake  the  prosperous 
with  their  good  fortune ;  their  applause  is  with¬ 
held  with  the  success  which  attracted  it.  As 
they  were  governed  by  events  in  their  admira¬ 
tion,  so  events  lead  them  to  Vvithdraw  it. 

But  in  this  admiration  there  is  a  bad  taste  as 
well  as  a  bad  principle.  If  ever  wickedness 
pretends  to  excite  any  idea  of  sublimity,  it  must 
be,  not  in  its  elevation  but  its  fall.  If  ever 
Caius  Marius  raises  any  such  sentiment,  it  is 
not  when  he  carried  the  world  before  him,  it  is 
not  in  his  seditious  and  bloody  triumphs  at 
Rome,  but  it  is  when  in  poverty  and  exile  his 
intrepid  look  caused  the  dagger  to  drop  from 
the  hand  of  the  executioner  ; — it  is  when  sitting 
among  the  venerable  ruins  of  Carthago  ho  en¬ 
joined  a  desolation  so  congenial  to  his  own — 
Dionysius,  in  the  plenitude  of  arbitrary  power, 
raises  our  unmixed  abhorrence.  Wo  detest 
the  oppressor  of  the  people  while  he  continued 
to  trample  on  them,  wc  execrate  the  monster 
who  was  not  ashamed  to  sell  Plato  as  a  slave. 
If  ever  we  feel  any  thing  like  interest  on  tliis 
subject,  it  is  not  with  the  tyrant  of  Syracuse 
but  with  the  school-master  of  Corinth. 


494 


THE  WORKS  OF’  HANNAH  MORE. 


But  though  Ood  may  be  patient  with  triumph¬ 
ant  wickedness,  he  does  not  wink  or  connive  at 
it.  Between  being  permitted  and  supported, 
between  being  employed  and  approved,  the  dis¬ 
tance  is  wider  than  we  are  ready  to  acknow¬ 
ledge.  Perhaps  ‘  the  iniquity  of  the  Arnorites  is 
not  yet  full.’  God  has  always  the  means  of 
punishment  as  well  as  of  pardon  in  his  own 
hands.  But  to  punish  just  at  the  moment  when 
we  would  hurl  the  bolt,  might  break  in  on  a 
Boheme  of  Previdence  of  wide  extent  and  in¬ 
definite  consequences.  ‘  They  have  drunk  their 
hemlock,’  says  a  fine  w’riter,  ‘  but  the  poison  does 
not  yet  work.’  Perhaps  the  convulsion  may  be 
the  more  terrible  for  the  delay.  Let  us  not  be  im¬ 
patient  to  accomplish  a  sentence  which  infinite 
justice  sees  right  to  defer;  it  is  always  time 
enough  to  enter  into  hell.  Let  us  think  more 
of  restraining  our  own  vindictive  tempers,  than 
of  precipitating  their  destruction.  They  may 
yet  repent, of  their  crimes  they  are  perpetrating. 
God  may  still  by  some  scheme,  intricate,  and 
unintelligible  to  us,  pardon  the  sin  which  we 
think  exceeds  the  limits  even  ofhis  mercy. 

But  we  contrive  to  make  revenge  itself  look 
like  religion.  We  call  down  thunder  on  many 
a  head  under  pretence,  that  those  on  whom  we 
invoke  it  are  God’s  enemies,  when  perhaps  we 
invoke  it  because  they  are  ours. 

But  though  they  should  go  on  with  a  full 
tide  of  prosperity  to  the  end,  will  it  not  cure 
our  impatience  that  that  end  must  come  ?— 
Will  it  not  satisfy  us  that  they  must  die, 
that  they  must  come  to  judgment  ?  Which 
is  to  be  envied,  the  Christian  who  dies  and  his 
brief  sorrows  have  a  period,  or  he  who  closes  a 
prosperous  life  and  enters  on  a  miserable  eter- 
nity  ?  The  one  has  nothing  to  fear  if  the  pro¬ 
mises  of  the  Gospel  be  true,  the  other  nothing  to 
hope  if  they  be  not  false.  The  work  of  God 
must  be  a  lie,  heaven  a  fable,  hell  an  invention, 
before  the  impenitent  sinner  can  be  safe.  Is 
that  man  to  be  envied  whose  security  depends  on 
their  falsehood  1  Is  the  other  to  be  pitied  whose 
hope  is  founded  on  their  reality  ?  Can  that  state 
be  happiness,  which  results  from  believing  that 
there  is  no  God,  no  future  reckoning  ?  Can  that 
state  be  misery  which  consists  in  knowing  that 
there  is  both  ? 

In  estimating  the  comparative  happiness  of 
good  and  bad  men,  we  should  ever  bear  in  mind 
that  of  all  the  calamities  which  can  be  inflicted 
or  suffered,  sin  is  the  greatest,  and  of  all  punish¬ 
ments  insensibility  to  sin  is  the  heaviest  which 
the  wrath  of  God  inflicts  in  this  world  for  the 
commission  of  it.  God  so  far  then  from  approv¬ 
ing  a  wicked  man,  because  he  suffers  him  to  go 
on  triumphantly,  seems  rather  by  allowing  him 
to  continue  his  smooth  and  prosperous  course, 
to  have  some  awful  destiny  in  store  for  him, 
which  will  not  perhaps  be  revealed  till  his  rfi- 
pentance  is  too  late;  then  his  knowledge  ofGod’s 
displeasure,  and  the  dreadful  consequences  of 
that  displeasure,  may  be  revealed  together,  may 
be  revealed  when  there  is  no  room  for  mercy. 

But  without  looking  to  futurity — consulting 
only  the  present  condition  of  suffering  virtue, — 
if  we  put  the  inward  consolation  derived  from 
communion  with  God,  the  humble  confidence 
of  prayer,  the  devout  trust  in  the  divine  protec- 


fion,  supports  commonly  reserved  for  the  afflict¬ 
ed  Christian,  and  eminently  bestowed  in  his 
greatest  exigence  ;  if  we  place  these  feelings  in 
the  opposite  scale  with  all  that  unjust  power 
ever  bestowed  or  guilty  wealth  possessed ;  we 
shall  have  no  hesitation  in  deciding  on  which 
side  even  present  happiness  lies. 

With  a  mind  thus  fixed,  with  a  faith  thus 
firm,  one  great  object  so  absorbs  the  Christian, 
that  his  peace  is  not  tossed  about  with  the  things 
which  discompose  ordinary  men.  ‘  My  for¬ 
tune,’  may  he  say,  ‘  it  is  true,  is  shattered ;  but 
as  I  made  not  ‘  fine  gold  my  confidenee’  while 
I  possessed  it,  in  losing  it  I  have  not  lost  myselfi 
I  leaned  noton  power,  for  I  knew  its  instability. 
Had  prosperity  been  my  dependence,  my  sup¬ 
port  being  removed,  I  must  fall.’ 

In  the  case  of  the  afflicted  Christian  you  la 
ment  perhaps  with  the  wife  of  the  persecuted 
hero,  that  he  suffers  being  innocent.  But  would 
it  extract  the  sting  from  suffering,  were  guilt 
added  to  it !  Out  of  two  worlds  to  have  all  sor¬ 
row  in  this  and  no  hope  in  the  next  would  be 
indeed  intolerable.  Would  you  have  him  pur¬ 
chase  a  reprieve  from  suffering  by  sinful  com¬ 
pliances  ?  Think  how  ease  would  be  destroyed 
by  the  price  paid  for  it !  for  how  short  a  time 
he  would  enjoy  it,  even  if  it  were  not  bought  at 
the  expence  of  his  soul ! 

It  would  be  preposterous  to  say  that  suffering 
is  the  recompence  of  virtue,  and  yet  it  may  with 
truth  be  asserted  that  the  eapacily  for  enjoying- 
ing  the  reward  of  virtue  is  enlarged  by  suffering, 
and  thus  it  becomes  not  only  the  instrument  of 
promoting  virtue,  but  the  instrument  of  reward¬ 
ing  it.  Besides,  God  chooses  for  the  confirma¬ 
tion  of  our  faith,  as  well  as  for  the  consumma¬ 
tion  of  his  gracious  plans,  to  reserve  in  his  own 
hand  this  most  striking  proof  of  a  future  retri¬ 
bution.  To  suppose  that  ho  cannot  ultimately 
recompense  his  virtuous  afflicted  children,  is  to 
believe  him  less  powerful  than  an  earthly  fa¬ 
ther  ;  to  suppose  that  he  will  not  is  to  believe 
him  less  merciful. 

Great  trials  are  oftener  proofs  of  favour  than 
of  displeasure.  An  inferior  officer  will  suffice 
for  inferior  expeditions,  but  the  sovereign  se¬ 
lects  the  ablest  general  for  the  most  difficult 
service.  And  not  only  does  the  king  evidence 
his  opinion  by  the  selection,  but  the  soldier 
proves  his  attachment  by  rejoicing  in  the  pre¬ 
ference.  His  having  gained  one  victory  is  no 
reason  for  his  being  set  aside.  Conquest,  which 
qualifies  him  for  new  attacks,  suggests  a  reason 
for  his  being  again  employed. 

The  sufferings  of  good  men  by  no  means 
contradict  the  promises  that  ‘  Godliness  has  the 
promise  of  the  life  that  now  is,’  nor  that  pro¬ 
mise  ‘  that  the  meek  shall  inherit  the  earth.’ 
They  possess  it  by  the  spirit  in  which  they  en¬ 
joy  its  blessings,  by  the  spirit  with  which  they 
resign  them. 

The  belief  too  that  trials  will  facilitate  salva¬ 
tion  is  another  source  of  consolation.  Suffer¬ 
ings  also  abate  the  dread  of  death  by  cheapen¬ 
ing  the  price  of  life.  The  affections  even  of  the 
real  Christian  are  too  much  drawn  downwards. 
His  heart  too  fondly  cleaves  to  the  dust,  though 
he  knows  that  trouble  springs  out  of  it.  How 
would  it  be,  if  he  invariably  possessed  present 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


4D5 


enjoyments,  and  if  a  long  vista  of  delights  lay 
always  open  before  him  ?  He  has  a  farther 
comfort  in  his  own  honest  consciousness ;  a 
bright  conviction  that  his  Christian  feeling  un¬ 
der  trials,  is  a  cheering  evidence  that  his  piety 
is  sincere.  The  gold  has  been  melted  down, 
and  its  purity  is  ascertained. 

Among  his  other  advantages,  the  afflicted 
Christian  has  that  of  being  able  to  apply  to  the 
mercy  of  God :  not  as  a  new  and  untried,  and 
therefore  an  uncertain  resource.  He  does  not 
come  as  an  alien  before  a  strange  master,  but  as 
a  child  into  the  well  known  presence  of  a  tender 
father.  He  did  not  put  off  prayer  till  this  press¬ 
ing  exigence.  He  did  not  make  his  God  a  sort 
of  dernier  resort,  to  be  had  recourse  to  only  in 
the  great  water-floods.  He  had  long  and  dili¬ 
gently  sought  him  in  the  calm ;  he  had  adhered 
to  him,  if  the  phrase  may  be  allowed,  before  he 
was  driven  to  it.  He  had  sought  God’s  favour 
while  he  enjoyed  the  favour  of  the  world.  He 
did  not  wait  for  the  day  of  evil  to  seek  the  su¬ 
preme  Good.  He  did  not  defer  his  meditations 
on  heavenly  things  to  the  disconsolate  hour  when 
earth  has  nothing  for  him.  He  can  cheerfully 
associate  religion  with  those  formei'  days  of  feli¬ 
city,  when  with  every  thing  before  him  out  of 
which  to  choose,  he  chose  God.  He  not  only 
feels  the  support  derived  from  his  present  pray, 
ers,  but  the  benefit  of  all  those  which  he  offered 
up  in  the  day  of  joy  and  gladness.  He  will  es¬ 
pecially  derive  comfort  from  the  supplications 
he  had  made  for  the  anticipated  though  unknown 
trial  of  the  present  hour,  and  which  in  such 
a  world  of  vicissitudes,  it  was  reasonable  to 
expect. 

Let  us  confess,  then,  that  in  all  the  trying 
circumstances  of  this  changeful  scene,  there  is 
something  infinitely  soothing  to  the  feelings  of 
a  Christian,  something  inexpressibly  tranquiliz- 
ing  to  his  mind,*  to  know  that  he  has  nothing  to 
do  with  events,  but  to  submit  to  them  ;  that  he 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  revolutions  of  life  but 
to  acquiesce  in  them,  as  the  dispensations  of 
eternal  wisdom  ;  that  he  has  not  to  take  the  ma¬ 
nagement  out  of  the  hands  of  Providence,  but 
submissively  to  follow  the  divine  leading  ;  that 
he  has  not  to  contrive  for  to-morrow,  but  to  ac¬ 
quiesce  to-day ;  not  to  condition  about  events 
yet  to  come,  but  to  meet  those  which  are  pre¬ 
sent  with  cheerful  resignation.  Let  him  be 
thankful  that  as  he  could  not  by  foreseeing,  pre¬ 
vent  them,  so  he  was  not  permitted  to  foresee 
them,  thankful  for  ignorance  where  knowledge 
would  only  prolong  without  preventing  suffer¬ 
ing;  thankful  for  that  grace  which  has  promised 
that  our  strength  shall  be  proportioned  to  our 
day,  thankful  that  as  he  is  not  responsible  for 
trials  which  he  has  not  brought  on  himself,  so 
by  the  goodness  of  God  these  trials  may  be  im¬ 
proved  to  the  noblest  purposes.  The  quiet  ac¬ 
quiescence  of  the  heart,  the  annihilation  of  tlie 
will  under  actual  circumstances,  be  the  trial 
great  or  small,  is  more  acceptable  to  God,  more 
indicative  of  true  piety,  than  the  strongest  ge¬ 
neral  resolutions  of  firm  acting  and  deep  sub¬ 
mission  under  the  most  trying  unborn  events. 
In  the  remote  case  it  is  the  imagination  which 
submits :  in  the  actual  case  it  is  tJie  will. 

We  are  too  ready  to  imagine  that  there  is  no 


other  way  of  serving  God  but  by  active  exer¬ 
tions  ;  exertions  which  are  often  made  because 
they  indulge  our  natural  taste,  and  gratify  our 
own  inclinations. — But  it  is  an  error  to  imagine 
that  God,  by  putting  us  in  any  supposable  situa¬ 
tion,  puts  it  out  of  our  power  to  glorify  him  5 
that  he  can  place  us  under  any  circumstances 
which  may  not  be  turned  to  some  account,  either 
for  ourselves  or  others.  Joseph  in  his  prison, 
under  the  strongest  disqualifications,  loss  of  li¬ 
berty,  and  a  blasted  reputation,  made  way  for 
both  his  own  high  advancement  and  for  the  de- 
liverance  of  Israel.  Daniel  in  his  dungeon,  not 
only  the  destined  prey,  but  in  the  very  jaws  of 
furious  beasts,  converted  the  king  of  Babylon, 
and  brought  him  to  the  knowledge  of  the  true 
God.  Could  prosperity  have  effected  the  for¬ 
mer  ?  Would  not  prosperity  have  prevented  the 
latter  ? 

But  to  descend  to  more  familiar  instances - 
It  is  among  the  ordinary,  though  most  mysteri 
ous  dispensations  of  Providence,  that  many  of 
his  appointed  servants  who  are  not  only  emi 
nently  fitted,  but  also  most  zealously  disposed, 
to  glorify  their  Redeemer,  by  instructing  and 
reforming  their  fellow  creatures,  are  yet  dis¬ 
qualified  by  disease,  and  set  aside  from  that  pub¬ 
lic  duty  of  which  the  necessity  is  so  obvious, 
and  of  which  the  fruits  were  so  remarkable ; 
whilst  many  others  possess  uninterrupted  health 
and  strength,  for  the  exercise  of  those  func¬ 
tions  for  which  they  are  little  gifted  and  less 
disposed. 

But  God’s  ways  are  not  as  our  ways.  He  is 
not  accountable  to  his  creatures.  The  caviller 
would  know  why  it  is  right.  The  suffering 
Christian  believes  and  feels  it  to  be  right.  H© 
humbly  acknowledges  the  necessity  of  the  afflic¬ 
tion  which  his  friends  are  lamenting;  he  feels 
the  mercy  of  the  measure  which  others  are  sus¬ 
pecting  of  injustice.  With  deep  humility  he  is 
persuaded  that  if  the  affliction  is  not  yet  with 
drawn,  it  is  because  it  has  not  yet  accomplished 
the  purpose  for  which  it  was  sent.  The  priva¬ 
tion  is  probably  intended  both  for  the  individual 
interest  of  the  sufferer,  and  for  the  reproof  of 
those  who  have  neglected  to  profit  by  his  labours. 
Perhaps  God  more  especially  thus  draws  still 
nearer  to  himself,  him  who  had  drawn  so  many 
others. 

But  to  take  a  more  particular  view  of  the  case, 
we  are  too  ready  to  consider  suffering  as  an  in¬ 
dication  of  God’s  displeasure,  not  so  much 
against  sin  in  general,  as  against  the  individual 
sufferer.  Were  this  the  case,  then  would  those' 
saints  and  martyrs  who  have  pined  in  exile,  and 
groaned  in  dungeons,  and  expired  on  scaffolds, 
have  been  the  objects  of  God’s  peculiar  wrath 
instead  of  his  special  favour.  But  the  truth  is, 
some  little  tincture  of  latent  infidelity  mixes  it¬ 
self  in  almost  all  our  reasonings  on  these  topics. 
We  do  not  constantly  .take  into  the  account  a 
future  state.  We  want  God,  if  I  may  hazard 
the  expression,  to  clear  himself  as  he  goes.  Wo 
cannot  give  him  such  long  credit  as  the  period 
of  human  life.  He  must  every  moment  be  vin¬ 
dicating  his  character  against  every  sceptical 
cavil ;  he  must  unravel  his  plans  to  e*ery  shal- 
low  Clitic,  he  must  anticipate  the  knowledge  of 
his  design  before  its  aperations  are  completed. 


496 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


If  we  may  adopt  a  phrase  in  use  among  the  vul¬ 
gar,  we  will  trust  him  no  farther  than  we  can 
«ee  him.  Though  he  has  said,  ‘judge  nothing 
before  the  time,  we  judge  instantly,  of  course 
lashly,  and  in  general  falsely.  Were  the  brevity 
of  earthly  prosperity  and  suffering,  the  certainty 
of  retributive  justice,  and  the  eternity  of  future 
blessedness  perpetually  kept  in  view,  we  should 
have  more  patience  with  God, 

Even  in  judging  fictitious  compositions,  we 
■are  more  just.  During  the  perusal  of  a  tragedy, 
or  any  work  of  invention,  though  we  feel  for  the 
■distresses  of  the  personages,  yet  we  do  not  form 
an  ultimate  judgment  of  the  propriety  or  injus¬ 
tice  of  their  su^erings.  We  wait  for  the  catas¬ 
trophe.  We  give  the  poet  credit  either  that  he 
will  extricate  them  from  their  distresses,  or 
eventually  explain  the  justice  of  them.  We  do 
not  condemn  him  at  the  end  of  every  scene  for 
the  trials  of  that  scene,  which  the  sufferers  do 
not  appear  to  have  deserved  ;  for  the  sufferings 
which  do  not  always  seem  to  have  arisen  from 
their  own  misconduct.  We  behold  the  trials  of 
the  virtuous  with  synvpathy,  and  the  successes 
of  the  wicked  with  indignation  ;  but  w’e  do  not 
pass  our  final  sentence  till  the  poet  has  passed 
his.  We  reserve  our  decisive  judgment  till  the 
last  scene  closes,  till  the  curtain  drops.  Shall 
we  not  treat  'the  schemes  of  Infinite  Wisdom 
with  as  much  respect  as  the  plot  of  a  drama? 

But  to  borrow  our  illustrations  from  realities. 

• — In  a  court  of  justice  the  by-standers  do  not 
give  their  sentence  in  the  midst  of  a  trial.  We 
wait  patiently  till  all  the  evidence  is  collected, 
n.nd  circumstantially  detailed,  and  finally  sum¬ 
med  up.  And — to  pursue  the  illusion — imper¬ 
fect  as  human  decisions  may  possibly  be,  fallible 
as  we  must  allow  the  most  deliberate  and  honest 
verdict  must  prove,  we  commonly  applaud  the 
justice  of  the  jury,  and  the  equity  of  the  judge. 
The  felon  they  condemn,  we  rarely  acquit;  where 
they  remit  judgment,  we  rarely  denounce  it. — 
It  is  only  infinite  wisdom  on  whose  purposes 
we  cannot  rely  ;  it  is  only  infinite  mercy  whose 
operations  we  cannot  trust.  It  is  only  ‘  the 
Judge  of  all  the  earth’  who  cannot  do  right.  We 
reverse  the  order  of  God  by  summoning  Him 
at  our  bar,  at  whose  awful  bar  we  shall  soon  be 

But  to  return  to  our  more  immediate  point — 
the  apparently  unfair  distribution  of  prosperity 
"between  good  and  bad  men.  As  their  case  is 
opposite  in  every  Ijiing — the  one  is  constantly 
deriving  his  happiness  from  that  which  is  the 
.source  of  the  other’s  misery,  a  sense  of  the  di¬ 
vine  omniscience.  The  eye  of  God  if  a  ‘  pillar 
of  light’  to  the  one,  ‘  and  a  cloud  and  darkness’ 
to  the  otlier.  It  is  no  less  a  terror  to  him  who 
dreads  His  justice,  than  a  joy  to  him  who  derives 
all  his  support  from  the  awful  thought,  Thou 

UOD  SEEST  ! 

But  as  we  have  already  observed,  can  we  want 
a  broader  line  of  discrimination  between  them 
than  their  actual  condition  here,  independently 
of  the  different  portions  reserved  for  them  here¬ 
after  1  Is  it  not  distinction  enough,  that  the 
one,  though  sad,  is  safe  ;  that  the  other,  though 
confident,  is  insecure  ?  Is  not  the  one  as  far 
from  rest  as  he  is  from  virtue,  as  far  from  the 
enjoyment  of  quiet  as  from  the  hope  of  heaven, 


as  far  from  peace  as  he  is  from  God  ?  Is  it  no¬ 
thing  that  every  day  brings  the  Christian  nearer 
to  his  irown,  and  that  the  sinner  is  every  day 
working  his  way  nearer  to  his  ruin  ?  The  hour 
of  death  which  the  one  dreads  as  something 
worse  than  extinction,  is  to  the  other  the  hour 
of  his  nativity,  the  birth-day  of  immortality.  At 
the  height  of  his  sufferings,  the  good  man  knows 
that  they  will  soon  terminate.  In  the  zenith  of 
his  success  the  sinner  has  a  similar  assurance. 
But  how  different  is  the  result  of  the  same  con¬ 
viction  !  An  invincible  faith  sustains  the  one, 
in  the  severest  calamities,  while  an  inextin¬ 
guishable  dread  gives  the  lie  to  the  proudest 
triumphs  of  the  other. 

He  then,  after  all,  is  the  only  happy  man, — 
not  whom  worldly  prosperity  renders  apparently 
happy,  but  whom  no  change  of  worldly  circum¬ 
stances  can  make  essentially  miserable  ;  whose 
peace  depends  not  on  external  events,  but  on  an 
internal  support ;  not  on  that  success  which  is 
common  to  all,  but  on  that  hope  which  is  the 
peculiar  privilege,  on  that  promise  which  is  the 
sole  prerogative  of  a  Christian. 


CHAP.  XXI. 

The  temper  and  conduct  of  the  Christian  in  Sick¬ 
ness  and  in  Death. 

The  pagan  philosophers  havq  given  many  ad¬ 
mirable  precepts  both  for  resigning  blessings 
and  for  sustaining  misfortunes  ;  but  wanting  the 
motives  and  sanctions  of  Christianity,  though 
they  excite  much  intellectual  admiration,  they 
produce  little  practical  effect.  The  stars  which 
glittered  in  their  moral  night,  though  bright,  im¬ 
parted  no  ^armth.  Their  most  beautiful  dis¬ 
sertations  on  death  had  no  charjn  to  extract  its 
sting.  We  receive  no  support  from  their  most 
elaborate  treatises  on  immortality,  for  want  of 
Him  who  ‘  brought  life  and  immortality  to  light.’ 
Their  consolatory  discussion  could  tiot  strip  the 
grave  of  its  terrors,  for  to  them  it  was  not  ‘  swal¬ 
lowed  up  in  victory.’  To  conceive  of  the  soul 
as  an  immortal  principle,  without  proposing  a 
scheme  for  the  pardon  of  its  sins,  was  but  cold 
consolation.  Their  future  state  was  but  a  happy 
guess  :  their  heaven  but  a  fortunate  conjecture. 

When  we  peruse  their  finest  compositions,  we 
admire  the  manner  in  which  the  medicine  is  ad¬ 
ministered,  but  we  do  not  find  it  effectual  for 
the  cure,  nor  even  for  the  mitigation  of  our  dis¬ 
ease.  The  beauty  of  the  sentiment  we  applaud, 
but  our  heart  continues  to  ache.  There  is  no 
healing  balm  in  their  elegant  prescription. 
These  four  little  words,  ‘  thy  will  be  done,’ 
contain  a  charm  of  more  powerful  efficacy  than 
all  the  discipline  of  the  stoic  school !  They  cut 
up  a  long  train  of  clear  but  cold  reasoning,  and 
supercede  whole  volumes  of  argument  on  fate 
and  necessity. 

What  sufferer  ever  derived  any  ease  from  the 
subtle  distinction  of  the  hair-splitting  casuist, 
who  allowed ‘that  pain  was  very  troublesome, 
but  resolved  never  to  acknowledge  it  to  be  an 
evil  ?’  There  is  an  equivocation  in  his  manner 
of  stating  the  proposition.  He  does  not  directly 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


497 


^ay  that  pain  is  not  an  evil,  but  by  a  sophistical 
'turn  professes  that  philosophyl^ill  never  confess 
it  to  be  an  evil.  But  what  consolation  does  the 
sufferer  draw'  from  the  quibbling  nicety?  ‘  What 
difference  is  there,’  as  archbishop  Tillotson  well 
inquires,  ‘  between  things  being  troublesome  and 
'being  evils,  when  all  the  evil  of  an  affliction  lies 
in  the  trouble  it  creates  to  us  V 

Christianity  knows  none  of  these  fanciful  dis- 
'linctions.  She  never  pretends  to  insist  that  pain 
•IS  not  an  evil,  but  she  does  more  ;  she  converts 
it  into  a  gooeL  Christianity  therefore  teaches  a 
fortitude  as  much  more  noble  than  philosophy, 
as  meeting  pain  with  resignation  to  the  hand 
that  inflicts  it,  is  more  heroic  than  denying  it 
to  be  an  evil. 

To  submit  on  the  mere  human  ground  that 
there  is  no  alternative,  is  not  resignation,  but 
hopelessness.  To  bear  affliction  solely  beeause 
impatience  will  not  remove  it  is  but  an  inferior, 
though  a  just  reason  for  bearing  it.  It  savours 
rather  of  despair  than  submission,  when  not 
sanctioned  by  a  higher  principle. — *  It  is  the 
Lord,  let  him  do  what  seemeth  him  good,’  is  at 
once  a  motive  of  more  powerful  obligation,  than 
all  the  documents  which  philosophy  ever  sug¬ 
gested  ;  a  firmer  ground  of  support  than  all  the 
energies  that  natural  fortitude  ever  supplied. 

Under  any  visitation,  sickness  for  instance, 
God  permits  us  to  think  the  affliction  ‘  not  joy¬ 
ous  but  grievous,’  But  though  he  allows  us  to 
feel,  we  must  not  allo\v  ourselves  to  repine. 
'There  is  again  a  sort  of  heroism  in  bearing  up 
against  affliction,  which  some  adopt  on  the 
ground  that  it  raises  their  character,  and  confers 
dignity  on  their  suffering.  This  philosophic 
firmness  is  far  from  being  the  temper  which 
Christianity  inculcates. 

When  we  are  compelled  by  the  hand  of  God 
to  endure  sufferings,  or  driven  by  a  conviction 
of  the  vanity  of  the  world  to  renounce  its  enjoy¬ 
ments,  we  must  not  endure  the  one  on  the  low 
principle  of  its  being  inevitable,  nor,  in  flying 
from  the  other  must  we  retire  to  the  contempla¬ 
tion  of  our  own  virtues.  We  m^ust  not,  with  a 
sullen  intrepidity,  collect  ourselves  into  a  centre 
of  our  own  ;  into  a  cold  apathy  to  all  without, 
and  a  proud  approbation  of  all  within.  We  must 
not  contract  our  scattered  faults  into  a  sort  of 
dignified  selfishness ;  nor  concentrate  our  feel¬ 
ings  into  a  proud  magnanimity,  we  must  not 
adopt  an  independent  rectitude.  A  gloomy  sto¬ 
icism  is  not  Christian  heroism. '  A  melancholy 
non-resistance  is  not  Christian  resignation. 

Nor  must  we  indemnify  ourselves  for  our  out¬ 
ward  self-control  by  secret  murmurings.  We 
may  be  admired  for  our  resolution  in  this  in¬ 
stance,  as  for  our  generosity  and  disinterested¬ 
ness  in  other  instances ;  but  we  deserve  little 
commendation  for  whatever  we  give  up,  if  we 
do  not  give  up  our  own  inclination.  It  is  in¬ 
ward  repining  that  wo  must  endeavour  to  re¬ 
press  ;  it  is  the  discontent  of  the  heart,  the  un¬ 
expressed  but  not  unfelt  murmur,  against  which 
we  must  pray  for  grace  and  struggle  fir  resist¬ 
ance.  We  must  not  smother  our  discontents 
before  others,  and  feed  on  them  in  private.  It 
is  the  hidden  rebellion  of  the  will  we  must  sub¬ 
due,  if  we  would  submit  as  Christies.  Nor  must 
we  justify  our  impatience  by  saying  that  if  our 
VoL.  I.  I  2 


affliction  did  not  disqualify  us  from  being  useful 
to  our  families,  and  active  in  the  service  of  God, 
we  could  more  cheerfully  bear  it.  Let  us  rather 
be  assured  that  it  does  not  disqualify  us  for  that 
duty  which  we  most  need,  and  to  which  God 
calls  us  by  the  very  disqualification. 

A  constant  posture  of  defence  against  the  at¬ 
tacks  of  our  great  spiritual  enemy,  is  a  better 
security  than  an  incidental  blow,  or  even  an  oc¬ 
casional  victory.  It  is  also  a  better  preparation 
'  for  all  the  occurrences  of  life.  It  is  not  some 
signal  act  of  mortification,  but  an  habitual  state 
of  discipline  which  will  prepare  us  for  great 
trials.  A  soul  ever  on  the  watch,  fervent  in  pray¬ 
er,  diligent  in  self-inspection,  frequent  in  medi- 
tation,  fortified  against  the  vanities  of  time  by 
repeated  views  of  eternity,  all  the  avenues  to 
such  a  heart  will  be  in  a  good  measure  shut 
against  temptation,  barred  in  a  great  degree 
against  the  the  tempter.  ‘  Strong  in  the  Lord 
and  in  the  power  of  his  might,’  it  will  be  enna- 
bled  to  resist  the  one,  to  expel  the  other.  To  a 
mind  so  prepared,  the  thoughts  of  sickness  will 
not  be  new,  for  he  knows  it  is  the  ‘  condition  of 
the  battle ;  the  prospect  of  death  will  not  be  sur 
prising,  for  he  knows  it  is  its  termination. 

The  period  is  now  come  when  w'e  must  sum 
mon  all  the  fortitude  of  the  rational  being,  all  the 
resignation  of  the  Christian.  The  principles  we 
have  been  learning  must  now  be  made  practical. 
The  speculations  we  have  admired  we  must 
now  realize.  All  that  we  have  been  studying 
was  in  order  to  furnish  materials  for  this  grand 
exigence. — All  the  strength  we  have  been  col¬ 
lecting  must  now  be  brought  into  action.  We 
must  now  draw  to  a  point  all  the  scattered  argu- 
nients,  all  the  several  motives,  all  the  individual 
supports,  all  the  cheering  promises  of  religion. 
We  must  exemplify  all  the  rules  we  have  given 
to  others  ;  we  must  embody  all  the  resolutions 
we  have  formed  for  ourselves  ;  we  must  reduce 
our  precepts  to  experience  ;  we  must  pass  from 
discourses  on  submission  to  its  exercise;  from 
dissertations  on  suffering  to  sustaining  it.  We 
must  heroically  call  up  the  determinations  of 
our  better  days.  We  must  recollect  what  we 
have  said  of  the  supports  of  faith  and  hope 
when  our  strength  was  in  full  vigour,  when  our 
heart  was  at  ease,  and  our  mind  undisturbed. 
Let  us  collect  all  that  remains  to  us  of  mental 
strength.  Let  us  implore  the  aid  of  holy 
hope  and  fervent  faith,  to  show  that  religion 
is  not  a  beautiful  theory,  but  a  soul-sustaining 
truth. 

Endeavour  without  harrassing  scrutiny  or 
distressing  doubt,  to  act  on  the  principles  which 
your  sounder  judgment  formerly  admitted.  The 
strongest  faith  is  wanted  in  the  hardest  trials. 
Under  those  trials,  to  the  confirmed  Christian 
the  highest  degree  of  grace  is  commonly  im¬ 
parted.  Impair  not  that  faith  on  which  you 
rested  when  your  mind  was  strong,  by  suspect¬ 
ing  its  validity  now  it  is  weak.  That  which 
had  your  full  assent  in  perfect  health,  which 
was  then  firmly  rooted  in  your  spirit,  and 
grotmded  in  your  understanding,  must  not  bo 
unfixed  by  the  doubts  of  an  enfeebled  reason 
and  the  scruples  of  an  impaired  judgment.  You 
may  not  now  be  able  to  determine  on  the  rea¬ 
sonableness  of  propositions,  but  you  may  derive 


498 


THE  WORKS  OF 

■trong  consolation  from  conclusions  which  were 
once  fully  established  in  your  mind. 

The  reflecting’  Christian  will  consider  the  na- 
tural  evil  of  sickness  as  the  consequence  and 
punishment  of  moral  evil.  He  will  mourn,  not 
only  that  he  suffers  pain,  but  because  that  pain 
IS  the  effect  of  sin.  If  man  had  not  sinned,  he 
would  not  have  suffered.  The  heaviest  aggra- 
vation  of  his  pain  is  to  know  that  he  has  de- 
served  it.  But  it  is  a  counterbalance  to  this 
trial  to  know  that  our  merciful  Father  has  no 
pleasure  in  the  sufferings  of  his  children  ;  that 
he  chastens  them  in  love;  that  he  never  in¬ 
flicts  a  stroke' which  he  could  safely  spare  ;  that 
he  inflicts  it  to  purify  as  well  as  to  punish,  to 
caution  as  well  as  to  cure,  to  improve  as  well  as 

to  chastise  .  , 

What  a  support  in  t'ne  dreary  season  of  siclr- 
ness  is  it  to  reflect,  that  the  Captain  of  our  sal¬ 
vation  was  made  perfect  through  suffering; 
that  if  we  suffer  with  him  we  shall  also  reign 
with  him,  which  implies  also  the  reverse,  that 
if  we  do  not  suffer  with  him,  we  shall  not  reign 
with  him  ;  that  is,  if  we  suffer  merely  because 
we  cannot  help  it,  without  refei'ence  to  him, 
without  suffering  for  his  sake  and  in  his  spirit. 
If  it  be  not  sanctified  suffering  it  will  avml  but 
little.  We  shall  not  be  paid  for  having  suffered, 
as  is  the  creed  of  too  many,  but  our  meetness 
for  the  kingdom  of  glory  will  be  increased  if  we 
suffer  according  to  his  will  and  after  his  exam- 

He  who  is  brought  to  serious  reflection  by  the 
salutary  affliction  of  a  sick  bed,  will  look  back 
with  astonishment  on  his  former  false  estimate 
of  worldly  tilings.  Riches!  Beauty!  Pleasure. 
Genius !  Fame  !— What  are  they  in  the  eyes 
of  the  sick  and  the  dying  ? 

Riches  !  These  are  so  far  From  affording  him 
a  moment’s  ease,  that  it  will  be  well  if  no  former 
misapplication  of  them  aggravate  his  present 
pains.  He  feels  as  if  he  only  wished  to  live 
that  he  might  henceforth  dedicate  them  to  the 
purposes  for  which  they  were  given. 

Beauty  !  What  is  beauty,  he  cries,  as  he  con¬ 
siders  his  own  sunken  eyes,  hollow  cheeks,  and 
pallid  countenance.  He  acknowledges  with 
the  Psalmist,  that  the  consuming  of  beauty  is 
‘  the  rebuke  with  which  the  Almighty  corrects 
man  for  sin.’ 

Genius!  What  is  it?  Without  religion,  ge¬ 
nius  is  only  a  lamp  on  ths  gate  of  a  palace.  It 
may  serve  to  cast  a  gleam  of  light  on  those  with¬ 
out,  while  the  inhabitant  sits  in  darkness. 

Pleasure  !  That  has  not  left  a  trace  behind 
it.  ‘It  died  in  the  birth,  and  is  not  therefore 
worthy  to  come  into  the  bill  of  Mortality.  * 

Fame  !  Of  this  his  very  soul  acknowledges 
the  emptiness.  He  is  astonished  how  he  could 
2ver  be  so  infatuated  as  to  run  after  a  sound,  to 
court  a  breath,  to  pursue  a  shadow,  to  embrace 
a  cloud.  Augustus,  asking  his  friends  as  they 
surrounded  his  dying  bed,  if  he  had  acted  his 
part  well,  on  their  answering  in  the  affirmative, 
cried  plaudite.  But  the  acclamations  of  the 
whole  universe  would  rather  mock  than  sooth 
Jie  dying  Christian  if  unsanctioned  by  the  hope 
*f  tlie  divine  approbation.  He  now  rates  at  its 


HANNAH  MORE. 

just  value  that  fame  which  was  so  often  eclipsed 
by  envy,  and  wh*»h  will  be  so  soon  forgotten  in 
death.  He  has  no  ambition  left  but  for  heaven, 
where  there  will  be  neither  envy,  death,  nor  for¬ 
getfulness.  _  .  ,  .-I,  • 

When  capable  of  reflection,  the  sick  Chris- 
tian  will  revolve  all  the  sins  and  errors  of  his 
past  life;  he  will  humble  himself  for  them  as 
sincerely  as  if  he  had  never  repented  of  them 
before  ;  and  implore  the  divine  forgiveness  as 
fervently  as  if  he  did  not  believe  they  vyere  long 
since  forgiven.  The  remembrance,  of  his  former 
oflfences  will  grieve  him,  but  the  humble  hope 
that  they  are  pardoned  will  fill  him  ‘  with  joy 
unspeakable  and  full  of  glory.’ 

Even  in  this  state  of  helplessness  he  may  im¬ 
prove  his  self-acquaintance.  He  may  detect  new 
deficiencies  in  his  character,  fresh  imperfections 
in  his  virtues.  Omissions  will  now  strike  nun 
with  the  force  of  actual  sins.  Resignaticm, 
which  he  fancied  was  so  easy  when  only  the 
sufferings  of  others  required  it,  he  now  finds  to 
be  difficult  when  called  on  to  practise  it  himself. 
He  has  sometimes  wondered  at  their  impatience, 
he  is  now  humbled  at  his  own.  He  will  not  only 
try  to  bear  patiently  the  pains  he  actually  suf¬ 
fers,  but  will  recollect  gratefully  those  from 
which  he  has  been  delivered,  and  which  he  may 
have  formerly  found  less  supportable  than  his 
present  sufferings. 

In  the  extremity  of  pain  he  feels  there  is  no 
consolation  but  in  humble  acquiescence  in  the 
divine  will.  It  may  be  that  he  can  pray  but 
little,  but  that  little  will  be  fervent.  He  can 
articulate  perhaps  not  at  all,  but  his  prayer  is 
addressed  to  one  who  sees  the  heart,  who  cam. 
interpret  its  language,  who  requires  not  words, 
but  affections.  A  pang  endured  without  a  mur¬ 
mur,  or  only  such  an  involuntary  groan  as  na¬ 
ture  e.xtorts,  and  faith  regrets,  is  itself  a  prayer. 

If  surrounded  with  ^11  the  accommodations 
of  affluence,  let  him  compare  his  own  situation 
with  that  of  thousands,  who  probably  with  great¬ 
er  merit,  and  under  severer  trials,  have  not  one 
of  his  alleviations.  When  invited  to  the  distaste¬ 
ful  remedy,  let  him  reflect  how  many  perishing 
fellow  creatures  may  be  pining  for  that  remedy, 
to  whom  it  might  be  restorative,  or  who,  lancy- 
ing  that  it  might  be  so,  suffer  additional  distress 
from  their  inability  to  procure  it. 

In  the  intervals  of  severer  pain  he  will  turn 
his  few  advantages  to  the  best  account.  He  will 
make  the  most  of  every  short  respite.  He  will 
patiently  bear  with  little  disappointments,  little 
delays,  with  the  awkwardness  of  accidental  ne¬ 
glect  of  his  attendants,  and,  thankful  for  gene¬ 
ral  kindness,  he  will  accept  good  will  instead 
of  perfection.  The  sufFering  Cliristian  will  be 
grateful  for  small  reliefs,  little  alleviations,  short 
snatches  of  rest.  To  him,  abated  pain  will  be 
positive  pleasure.  The  freer  use  of  limbs  which 
had  nearly  lost  their  activity,  will  be  enjoyments. 
Let  not  the  reader  who  is  rioting 

In  all  the  madness  of  superfluous  health, 

think  lightly  of  these  trivial  comforts.  Let  him 
not  despise  them  as  not  worthy  of  gratitude,  or 
as  not  capable  of  exciting  it.  He  may  one  day, 
and  that  no  distant  day,  be  brought  to  the  same 


♦Bishop  Hall. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE, 


499 


state  of  debility  and  pain.  May  he  experience 
the  mercies  he  now  derides,  and  may  he  feel 
higher  comforts  of  safe  grounds  ! 

The  sufferer  has  perhaps  often  regretted  that 
one  of  the  worst  effects  of  sickness  is  the  selfish¬ 
ness  it  too  naturally  induces.  The  temptation 
to  this  he  will  resist,  by  not  being  exacting  and 
unreasonable  in  his  requisitions.  Through  his 
tenderness  to  the  feelings  of  others,  he  will  be 
careful  not  to  add  to  their  distress  by  any  ap¬ 
pearance  of  discontent. 

What  a  lesson  against  selfishness  have  we 
in  the  conduct  of  our  dying  Redeemer  ! — It  was 
while  bearing  his  cross  to  the  place  of  execu¬ 
tion,  that  he  said  to  the  sorrowing  multitude, 
*  Weep  not  for  me,  but  for  yourselves  and  for 
your  children.’  It  was  while  enduring  the 
agonies  of  crucifixion  that  he  endeavoured  to 
mitigate  the  sorrows  of  his  mother  and  of  his 
friend,  by  tenderly  committing  them  to  each 
other’s  care. — It  was  while  sustaining  the 
pangs  of  dissolution,  that  he  gave  the  imme- 
diate  promise  of  heaven  to  the  expiring  crimi¬ 
nal. 

The  Christian  will  review,  if  able,  not  only 
the  sins,  but  the  mercies  of  his  past  life.  If  pre¬ 
viously  accustomed  to  unbroken  health,  he  will 
bless  God  for  the  long  period  in  which  he  has  en¬ 
joyed  it.  If  continued  infirmity  has  been  his 
portion,  he  will  feel  grateful  that  he  has  had 
Bueh  a  long  and  gradual  weaning  from  the 
world.  From  either  state  he  will  -extract  con¬ 
solation.  If  pain  be  new,  what  a  mercy  to  have 
hitherto  escaped  it !  If  habitual,  we  bear  more 
easily  what  we  have  borne  long. 

He  will  review  his  temporal  blessings  and  de¬ 
liverances  ;  his  domestic  comforts,  his  Christian 
friendships.  Among  his  mercies,  his  .  now 
‘purged  eyes’  will  reckon  his  difficulties,  his 
sorrows  and  trials.  A  new  and  heavenly  light 
will  be  thrown  on  that  passage, ‘It  is  good  for 
me  that  I  have  been  afflicted.’  It  seems  to  him 
as  if  hitherto  he  had  only  heard  it  with  the 
hearing  of  his  ear,  but  now  his  ‘  eye  seeth  it.’ 
If  he  be  a  real  Christian,  and  has  had  enemies, 
he  wili  always  have  prayed  for  them,  but  now 
he  will  be  thankful  for  them.  He  will  the  more 
earnestly  implore  mercy  for  them  as  instru¬ 
ments  which  have  helped  to  fit  him  for  his  pre¬ 
sent  state.  He  will  look  up  with  holy  gratitude 
to  the  great  Physician,  who  by  a  divine  che¬ 
mistry  in  making  up  events,  has  made  that  one 
unpalatably  ingredient,  at  the  bitterness  of 
which  he  once  revolted,  the  very  means  by 
wliich  all  other  things  have  worked  together 
for  good ;  had  they  worked  separately  they 
would  not  have  worked  efficaciously. 

Under  tlie  most  severe  visitations,  let  us  com¬ 
pare,  if  the  capacity  of  comparing  be  allowed 
us,  our  own  sufferings  with  the  cup  which  our 
Redeemer  drank  for  our  sakes — drank  to  avert 
the  divine  displeasure  from  us.  Let  us  pursue 
the  comparative  view  of  our  condition  with  that 
of  the  ^n  of  God.  He  was  deserted  in  his 
most  trying  hour ;  deserted  probably  by  those 
whose  limbs,  sight,  life,  he  had  restored,  whose 
souls  he  had  come  to  save.  We  are  surrounded 
by  unwearied  friends;  every  pain  is  mitigated 
by  sympathy,  every  want  not  only  relieved  but 
prevented;  the  ‘asking  eye’  explored;  the  in¬ 


articulate  sound  understood ;  the  ill-expressed 
wish  anticipated ;  the  but  suspeeted  want  sup¬ 
plied.  When  our  souls  are  ‘  exceeding  sorrow 
ful,’  our  friends  participate  our  sorrow ;  when 
desired  ‘  to  watch’  with  us,  they  watch  not  ‘  one 
hour,’  but  many,  not  falling  asleep,  but  both 
flesh  and  spirit  ready  and  willing  ;  not  forsak 
ing  us  in  our  ‘  agony,’  but  sympathizing  where 
they  cannot  relieve  ! 

Besides  this,  we  must  acknowledge  with  the 
penitent  malefaetor,  ‘  we  indeed  suffer  justly, 
but  this  man  hath  done  nothing  amiss.’  We 
suffer  for  our  offences  the  inevitable  penalty 
of  cur  fallen  nature.  He  bore  our  sins  and  those 
of  the  whole  human  race.  Hence  the  heart¬ 
rending  interrogation,  ‘  Is  it  nothing  to  you  all 
ye  that  pass  by  ?  Behold  and  see  if  there  be 
any  sorrow  like  unto  my  sorrow,  which  is  done 
unto  me,  wherewith  the  Lord  hath  afflicted  me 
in  the  day  of  his  fierce  anger.’ 

How  ctieering  in  this  forlorn  state  to  reflect 
that  he  not  only  suffered  for  us  then,  but  is 
sympathizing  with  us  now;  that  ‘in  all  our 
afflictions  he  is  afflicted.’  The  tenderness  of 
the  sympathy  seems  to  add  a  value  to  the  sacri¬ 
fice,  while  the  vastness  of  the  sacrifice,  endears 
the  sympathy  by  ennobling  it. 

If  the  intellectual  powers  be  mercifully  pre¬ 
served,  how  many  virtues  may  now  be  brought 
into  exercise  which  had  either  lain  dormant,  or 
been  considered  as  of  inferior  worth  in  the  pros¬ 
perous  day  of  activity.  The  Christian  temper 
indeed  seems  to  be  that  part  of  religion  which 
is  more  peculiarly  to  be  exercised  on  a  sick  bed. 
The  passive  virtues,  the  least  brilliant,  but  the 
most  difficult,  are  then  particularly  called  into 
action.  To  suffer  the  whole  will  of  God  on  the 
tedious  bed  of  languishing,  is  more  trying  than 
to  perform  the  most  shining  exploit  on  the 
theatre  of  the  world.  The  hero  in  the  field  of 
battle  has  the  love  of  fame  as  well  as  patriotism 
to  support  him.  He  knows  that  the  witnesses 
of  his  valour  will  be  the  heralds  of  his  renown. 
The  martyr  at  the  stake  is  divinely  strengthen¬ 
ed.  Extraordinary  grace  is  imparted  for  extra¬ 
ordinary  trials.  His  pangs  are  exquisite,  but 
they  are  short.’ — The  crown  is  in  sight,  it  is 
almost  in  possession.  By  faith  ‘  he  sees  the 
heavens  opened.  He  sees  the  glory  of  God,  and 
Jesus  standing  at  the  right  hand  of  God.’  But 
to  be  strong  in  faith,  and  patient  in  hope,  in  a 
long  and  lingering  sickness,  is  an  example  of 
more  general  use  and  ordinary  application,  than 
even  the  sublime  heroism  of  the  martyr.  The 
sickness  is  brought  home  to  our  feelings,  we  see 
it  with  our  eyes,  wo  apply  it  to  our  hearts.  Of 
the  martyr  wo  read,  indeed,  with  astonishment. 
Our  faith  is  strengthened,  and  our  admiration 
kindled  ;  but  we  read  it  without  that  special  ap¬ 
probation,  without  that  peculiar  reference  to 
our  own  circumstances,  which  we  feel  in  cases 
that  are  likely  to  apply  to  ourselves.  With  the 
dying  friend  we  have  not  only  a  feeling  of  pious 
tenderness,  but  there  is  also  a  community  of 
interests.  The  certain  conviction  that  his  case 
must  soon  be  our  own,  makes  it  our  own  now. 
Self  mixes  with  the  social  feeling,  and  the  Chris¬ 
tian  death  we  are  contemplating  we  do  not  so 
much  admire  as  a  prodigy,  as  propose  for  a 
model.  To  the  martyr’s  stake  we  feel  that  we 


500 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


are  not  likely  to  be  brought.  To  the  dying  bed 
we  must  inevitably  come. 

Accommodating  his  state  of  mind  to  the  na¬ 
ture  of  his  disease,  the  dying  Christian  will  de¬ 
rive  consolation  in  any  case,  either  from  think¬ 
ing  how  forcibly  a  sudden  sickness  breaks  the 
chain  which  binds  him  to  the  world,  or  how 
gently  a  gradual  decay  unties  it.  He  will  feel 
and  acknowledge  the  necessity  of  all  he  suffers 
to  wean  him  from  life.  He  will  admire  the  di¬ 
vine  goodness  which  commissions  the  infirmities 
of  sickness  to  divest  the  world  of  its  enchant¬ 
ments,  and  to  strip  death  of  some  of  its  most 
formidable  terrors.  He  feels  with  how  much 
less  reluctance  we  quit  a  body  exhausted  by  suf 
fering  than  one  in  the  vigour  of  health 

Sickness,  instead  of  narrowing  the  heart— its 
worst  effect  on  an  unrenewed  inind,  enlarges 
his.  He  earnestly  exhorts  those  around  him  to 
defer  no  act  of  repentance,  no  labour  of  love,  no 
deed  of  justice,  no  work  of  mercy,  to  that  state 
of  incapacity  in  which  he  now  lies. 

How  many  motives  has  the  Christian  to  re 
strain  his  murmurs!  Murmuring  offends  God 
both  as  it  is  injurious  to  his  goodness,  and  as  it 
perverts  the  occasion  which  God  has  now  oftered 
for  giving  an  example  of  patience.  Let  us  not 
complain  that  we  have  nothing  to  do  in  sickness, 
when  we  are  furnished  with  the  opportunity  as 
w-ell  as  called  to  the  duty  of  resignation ;  the 
duty  indeed  is  always  ours,  but  the  occasion  is 
now  more  eminently  given.  Let  us  not  say  even 
in  this  depressed  state  that  we  have  nothing  to 
ba  thankful  for.  If  sleep  be  afforded,  let  us  ac¬ 
knowledge  the  blessing  :  if  wearisome  nights  be 
our  portion,  let  us  remember  they  are  ‘  appoint- 
ed  to  us.’  Let  us  mitigate  the  grievance  of 
watchfulness,  by  considering  it  as  a  sort  of  pro¬ 
longation  of  life  ;  as  the  gift  of  more  minutes 
granted  for  meditation  and  prayer.  If  we  are 
not  able  to  employ  it  to  either  of  these  purposes, 
there  is  a  fresh  occasion  for  exercising  that  re 
fiignation  which  will  be  accepted  for  both. 

If  reason  be  continued,  yet  with  sufferings  too 
intense  for  any  religious  duty,  the  sick  Christian 
may  take  comfort  that  the  business  of  life  was 
accomplished,  before  the  sickness  began.  He 
will  not  be  terrified  if  duties  are  superseded,  if 
means  are  at  an  end,  for  he  has  nothing  to  do 
but  to  die. — This  is  the  act  for  which  all  acts, 
all  other  duties,  all  other  means,  will  have  been 
preparing  him.  He  who  has  long  been  habitu¬ 
ated  to  look  death  in  the  face,  who  has  often  an¬ 
ticipated  the  agonies  of  dissolving  nature  ;  who 
has  accustomed  himself  to  pray  for  support  un¬ 
der  them,  will  now  feel  the  blessed  effect  of 
those  petitions  which  have  long  been  treasured 
heaven.  To  those  anticipatory  prayers  he 


in 


may  perhaps  now  owe  the  humble  confidence  of 
hope  in  this  inevitable  hour.  Habituated  to  the 
contemplation,  he  will  not,  at  least,  have  the 
dreadful  additions  of  surprise  and  novelty  to  ag 
gravate  the  trying  scene.  It  has  long  been  fa 
miliar  to  his  mind,  though  hitherto  it  could  only 
operate  with  the  inferior  force  of  a  picture  to  a 
reality.  He  will  not  however  have  so  much 
scared  his  imagination  by  the  terrors  of  death, 
as  invigorated  his  spirit  by  looking  beyond  them 
to  the  blessedness  which  follows.  Faith  will 
not  so  much  dwell  on  the  opening  grave  as  shoot 


forward  to  the  glories  to  which  it  leads.  Tho 
hope  of  heaven  will  soften  the  pangs  which  lie 
in  the  way  to  it.  On  heaven  then  he  will  fix 
his  eyes  rather  than  on  the  awful  intervening 
circumstances.  He  will  not  dwell  on  the  stiug 
gle  which  is  for  a  moment,  but  on  the  crown 
which  is  forever.  He  will  endeavour  to  think 
less  of  death  than  of  its  conqueror  ;  less  of  the 
grave  than  of  its  spoiler ;  less  of  the  body  in 
ruins  than  of  the  spirit  in  glory ;  less  ol  the 
darkness  of  his  closing  day  than  of  the  opening 
dawn  of  immortality.  In  some  brighter  rno- 
ments,  when  viewing  his  eternal  redemption 
drawing  nigh,  as  if  the  freed  spirit  had  already 
burst  its  prison  walls,  as  if  the  manumission  had 
actually  taken  place,  he  is  ready  exultingly  to 
exclaim,  ‘My  soul  is  escaped,  the  snare  is  broken, 
and  I  am  delivered.’ 

If  he  ever  inclines  to  wish  for  recovery,  it  is 
only  that  he  may  glorify  God  by  his  future  life, 
more  than  he  has  done  by  the  past ;  but  as  he 
knows  the  deceitfulness  of  his  heart,  he  is  not 
certain  that  this  would  be  the  case,  and  he  there¬ 
fore  does  not  wish  to  live.  Yet  should  he  be  re- 
stored  he  humbly  resolves,  in  a  belter  strength 
than  his  own,  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  restorer. 

But  he  suffers  not  his  thoughts  to  dwell  on 
life.  Retrospections  are  at  an  end.  His  pros¬ 
pects  as  to  this  world  are  at  an  end  also.  He 
commits  himself  unreservedly  to  his  heavenly 
Father.  But  though  secure  of  the  port,  he  may 
still  dread  the  passage.  The  Christian  will  re¬ 
joice  that  his  rest  is  at  hand,  the  man  rnay  shud¬ 
der  at  tho  unknown  transit.  If  faith  is  strong, 
nature  is  weak.  Nay,  in  this  awful  exigence, 
strong  faith  is  sometimes  rendered  faint  through 
the  weakness  of  nature. 

At  the  moment  when  his  faith  is  looking  round 
for  every  additional  confirmation,  he  may  rejoice 
in  those  blessed  certainties,  those  glorious  reali¬ 
zations  which  scripture  affords.  He  may  tako 
comfort  that  the  strongest  attestations  given  by 
the  apostles  to  the  reality  of  the  heavenly  state, 
were  not  conjectural.  They,  to  use  the  words 
of  our  Saviour,  spake  what  they  knew,  and  testi¬ 
fied  what  they  had  seen.  ‘  I  reckon,’  says  St. 
Paul,  ‘  that  the  afflictions  of  this  present  life  are 
not  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the  glory  that 
shall  be  revealed.’  He  said  this  after  he  had 
been  caught  up  in  the  third  heaven ;  after  he 
had  beheld  the  glories  to  which  he  alludes.  The 
author  of  the  Apocalyptic  vision,  having  described 
the  ineffable  glories  of  the  new  Jerusalem,  thus 
puts  new  life  and  power  into  his  description. — ‘  I 
John  saw  these  things,  and  heard  iheni.’ 

The  power  of  distinguishing  objects  increases 
with  our  approach  to  them.  The  Christian  feels 
that  he  is  entering  on  a  state  where  every  care 
will  cease,  every  fear  vanish,  every  desire  be 
fulfilled,  every  sin  be  done  away,  every  grace 
perfected  :  where  there  will  be  no  more  tempta¬ 
tions  to  resist,  no  more  passions  to  subdue,  nc 
more  insensibility  to  mercies,  no  niore  deadnesa 
in  service,  no  more  wandering  in  prayer,  no 
more  sorrows  to  be  fell  for  himself,  no  tears  to 
be  shed  for  others.  He  is  going  where  his  de¬ 
votion  will  be  without  languor,  his  love  without 
alloy,  his  doubts  certainty,  his  expectation  en¬ 
joyment,  his  hope  fruition.  All  will  be  perfect, 
for  God  will  be  all  in  alL 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


501 


From  God  he  knows  that  he  shall  derive  im¬ 
mediately  all  his  happiness.  It  will  no  longer 
pass  through  any  of  those  channels  which  now 
sully  its  purity.  It  will  be  offered  him  through 
no  second  cause  which  may  fail,  no  intermediate 
agent  which  may  deceive,  no  uncertain  medium 
which  may  disappoint.  The  felicity  is  not  only 
certain,  but  perfect, — not  only  perfect,  but  eter¬ 
nal. 

As  he  approaches  the  land  of  realities,  the 
shadows  of  this  earth  cease  to  interest  or  mislead 
him.  The  films  are  removed  from  his  eyes.  Ob- 
‘ects  are  stripped  of  their  false  lustre.  Nothing 
that  is  really  little  any  longer  looks  great.  The 
mists  of  vanity  are  dispersed.  Every  thing 
which  is  to  have  an  end  appears  small,  appears 
aothing.  Eternal  things  assume  their  proper 
magnitude,  for  he  beholds  them  in  the  true  point 


I  of  vision.  He  has  ceased  to  lean  on  the  world, 
for  he  has  found  it  both  a  reed  and  a  spear ;  it 
has  failed  and  it  has  pierced  him.  He  leans  not 
on  himself,  for  he  has  long  known  his  weakness. 
He  leans  not  on  his  virtues,  for  they  can  do  no¬ 
thing  for  him.  Had  he  no  better  refuge  he  feels 
that  his  sun  would  set  in  darkness ;  his  life  close 
in  despair. 

But  he  knows  in  whom  he  has  trusted,  and 
therefore  knows  not  what  he  should  fear. — He 
looks  upward  with  holy  but  humble  confidence 
to  that  great  Shepherd,  who  having  long  since 
conducted  him  into  green  pastures, — having  by 
his  rod  corrected,  and  by  his  staff  supported 
him,  will,  he  humbly  trusts,  guide  him  through 
Hhe  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  and 
safely  land  him  on  the  peaceful  shores  of  ever, 
lasting  r@ 


I 


V 


TRAGEDIES 


PREFACE  TO  THE  TRAGEDIES. 


I  AM  desirous  to  anticipate  a  censure  which  the  critical  reader  will  be  ready  to  bring  forward, 
on  the  apparent  inconsistency  between  the  contents  of  the  latter  part  of  this  volume,  composed  of 
dramatic  pieces,  and  several  sentiments  not  unfrequently  introduced  in  some  of  my  writings,  re- 
spectincr  the  dangerous  tendency  of  certain  public  amusements,  in  which  dramatic  entertainments 
will  be°naturally° included.  The  candid  reader  will  be  able  to  solve  the  paradox  when  it  is  inti-  , 

mated  at  what  different  periods  of  life  these  different  pieces  were  written.  The  dates,  if  they  were  |j 

regularly  preserved,  would  explain  that  the  seeming  disagreement  does  not  involve  a  contradiction,  j 

as  it  proceeds  not  from  an  inconsistency,  but  from  a  revolution  in  the  sentiments  of  the  author. 

From  my  youthful  course  of  reading,  and  early  habits  of  society  and  conversation,  aided,  per¬ 
haps,  by  that  natural  but  secret  bias  which  the  inclination  gives  to  the  judgment,  I  had  been  led 
to  entertain  that  common,  but,  as  I  must  now  think,  delusive  and  groundless  hope,  that  the  stage, 
under  certain  regulations,  might  be  converted  into  a  school  of  virtue  ;  and  thus,  like  many  others,  . 

inferred,  by  a  seemingly  reasonable  conclusion,  that  though  a  bad  play  would  always  be  a  bad  ! 

thing,  yet  the  representation  of  a  good  one  might  become  not  only  harmless,  but  useful ;  and  ;j 

that  it  required  nothing  more  than  a  correct  judgment  and  a  critical  selection,  to  transform  a  i 

pernicious  pleasure  into  a  profitable  entertainment.  |l 

On  these  grounds  (while,  perhaps,  as  was  intimated  above,  it  was  nothing  more  than  the  in-  ij 

dulgence  of  a  propensity),  I  was  led  to  flatter  myself  it  might  be  rendering  that  inferior  service  ' 

to  society  which  the  fabricator  of  safe  and  innocent  amusements  may  reasonably  be  supposed  to 
confer,  to  attempt  some  theatrical  compositions,  which,  whatever  other  defects  might  be  justly  | 

imputable  to  them,  should  at  least  be  found  to  have  been  written  on  the  side  of  virtue  and  mod-  , 

esty  ;  and  which  should  neither  holdout  any  corrupt  image  to  the  mind,  nor  any  impure  descrip-  ! 

tion  to  the  fancy.  •  ,  r  vr  i  i.  '' 

As  the  following  pieces  were  written  and  performed  at  an  early  period  of  my  life,  under  the  j 

above  impressions,  I  feel  it  a  kind  of  duty  (imploring  pardon  for  the  unavoidable  egotism  to  which  | 

it  leads),  not  to  send  them  afresh  into  the  world  in  this  collection,  without  prefixing  to  them  a  I 

candid  declaration  of  my  altered  view.  In  so  doing,  I  am  fully  aware  that  I  equally  subject 
myself  to  the  opposite  censures  of  two  different  classes  of  readers,  one  of  which  will  think  that 
the  best  evidence  of  my  sincerity  would  have  been  the  suppression  of  the  tragedies  themselves, 
while  the  other  will  reprobate  the  change  of  sentiment  which  gives  birth  to  the  qualifying  preface. 

I  should,  perhaps,  have  been  inclined  to  adopt  the  first  of  these  two  opinions,  had  it  not 
occurred  to  me  that  the  suppression  would  be  thought  disingenuous  ;  and  had  I  not  been 
also  desirous  of  grounding  on  the  publication,  though  in  a  very  cursory  manner,  my  sentiments 
on  the  general  tendency  of  the  drama;  for  it  appeared  but  fair  and  candid  to  include  in  this  ; 

view  my  own  compositions  ;  and  thus,  in  some  measure,  though  without  adverting  to  them,  to  j 

involve  myself  in  the  general  object  of  my  own  anirnadversions.  ; 

I  am  not,  6V6ix  now,  about  to  controvert  the  assertion  of  some  of  the  ablest  critics,  that  a  well*  , 

written  tragedy  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  noblest  efforts  of  the  human  mind — I  am  not,  even  now,  j 

about  to  deliy.  that  of  all  public  amusements  it  is  the  most  interesting,  the  most  intellectual,  and  , 

the  most  accommodated  to  the  tastes  and  capacities  of  a  rational  being ;  nay,  that  it  is  almost  the  1 

only  one  which  has  mind  for  its  object ;  which  has  the  combined  advantage  of  addressing  itself 
to  the  imagination,  the  judgment,  and  the  heart ;  that  it  is  the  only  public  diversion  which  calls  ^ 

out  the  higher  energies  of  the  understanding  in  the  composition,  and  awakens  the  most  lively  and  | 

natural  feelings  of  the  heart  in  the  representation. 

With  all  this  decided  superiority  in  point  of  mental  pleasure  which  the  stage  possesses  over 
every  other  species  of  public  entertainment,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  its  admirers  and 
advocates,  even  the  most  respectable,  should  cherish  a  hope,  that,  under  certain  restrictions,  and 
under  an  improved  form,  it  might  be  made  to  contribute  to  instruction  as  well  as  to  pleasure  ;  and 
it  is  on  this  plausible  ground  that  we  have  heard  so  many  ingenious  defences  of  this  sjiecies  of 

amusement.  .  . 

What  the  stage  might  be  under  another  and  an  imaginary  state  of  things,  it  is  not  very  easy 
for  us  to  know,  and  therefore  not  very  important  to  inquire.  Nor  is  it,  indeed,  the  soundest  logic 


1 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


503 


to  argue  on  the  possible  goodness  of  a  thing,  which,  in  the  present  circumstances  of  society,  is 
doing  positive  evil,  from  the  imagined  good  that  thing  might  be  conjectured  to  produce  in  a  sup¬ 
posed  state  of  unattainable  improvement.  Would  it  not  be  more  safe  and  simple  to  determine 
our  judgment  as  to  the  character  of  the  thing  in  question,  on  the  more  visible,  and  therefore  more 
rational  grounds,  of  its  actual  slate,  and  from  the  effects  which  it  is  known  to  produce  in  that  state  1 

For,  unfortunately,  this  Utopian  good  cannot  be  produced,  until  not  only  the  stage  itself  has 
undergone  a  complete  purification,  but  until  the  audience  shall  be  purified  also.  Fgf  we  must 
first  suppose  a  state  of  society  in  which  the  spectators  will  be  disposed  to  relish  all  that  is  pure, 
and  to  reprobate  all  that  is  corrupt,  before  the  system  of  a  pure  and  uncorrupt  theatre  can  be 
adopted  with  any  reasonable  hope  of  success.  There  must  always  be  a  congruity  between  the 
taste  of  the  spectator  and  the  nature  of  the  spectacle,  in  order  to  effect  that  point  of  union  which 
can  produce  pleasure  :  for  it  must  be  remembered  that  people  go  to  a  play,  not  to  be  instructed^ 
but  to  be  pleased.  As  we  do  not  send  the  blind  to  an  exhibition  of  pictures,  nor  the  deaf  to  a 
concert,  so  it  would  be  leaving  the  projected  plan  of  a  pure  stage  in  a  state  cf  imperfection,  unless 
the  general  corruption  of  human  nature  itself  were  so  reformed  as  to  render  the  amusements  of 
a  perfectly  purified  stage  palatable.  If  the  sentiments  and  passions  exhibited  were  no  longer 
accommodated  to  the  sentiments  and  passions  of  the  audience,  corrupt  nature  would  soon  with¬ 
draw  itself  from  the  vapid  and  inappropriate  amusement ;  and  thin,  I  will  not  say  empty  benches 
would  too  probably  be  the  reward  of  the  conscientious  reformer. 

Far  be  it  from  me  to  wish  to  restore  that  obsolete  rubbish  of  ignorance  and  folly  with  which 
the  monkish  legends  furnished  out  the  rude  materials  of  our  early  drama  ;  I  mean  those  uncouth 
pieces,  in  which,  under  the  titles  of  mysteries  and  moralities,  the  most  sacred  persons  were  intro¬ 
duced  as  interlocutors ;  in  which  events  too  solemn  for  exhibition,  and  subjects  too  awful  for 
detail,  were  brought  before  the  audience  with  a  formal  gravity  more  offensive  than  levity  itself. 
The  superstitions  of  the  cloister  were  considered  as  suitable  topics  for  the  diversions  of  the  stage ; 
and  celestial  intelligences,  uttering  the  sentiments  and  language,  and  blended  with  the  buffoon¬ 
eries,  of  Bartholomew  fair,  were  regarded  as  appropriate  subjects  of  merrimaking  for  a  holyday 
audience.  But  from  this  holy  mummery,  at  which  piety,  taste,  and  common  sense,  would  bo 
equally  revolted,  I  return  to  the  existing  state  of  things.* 

I  I  have  never  perused  any  of  those  treatises,  excellent  as  some  of  them  are  said  to  be,  which 
pious  divines  have  written  against  the  pernicious  tendency  of  theatrical  entertainments.  The 
convictions  of  my  mind  have  arisen  solely  from  experience  and  observation.  I  shall  not,  there¬ 
fore,  go  over  the  well-trodden  ground  of  those  who  have  inveighed,  with  too  much  justice,  against 
the  immoral  lives  of  too  many  stage  professors,  allowing  always  for  some  very  honourable  excep¬ 
tions.  I  shall  not  remark  on  the  gross  and  palpable  corruptions  of  those  plays  which  are  obvi¬ 
ously  written  with  an  open  disregard  to  all  purity  and  virtue  :  nor  shall  1  a<tempt  to  show  whether 
any  very  material  advantage  would  arise  to  the  vain  and  the  dissipated,  were  they  to  exclude  the 
theatre  from  its  turn  in  their  undiscriminated  round  of  promiscuous  pleasure.  But  I  would 
coolly  and  respectfully  address  a  few  words  to  those  many  worthy  and  conscientious  persons,  who 
would  not,  perhaps,  so  early  and  incautiously  expose  their  youthful  offspring  to  the  temptations  of 
an  amusement  of  which  they  themselves  could  be  brought  to  see  and  to  feel  the  existence. 

The  question,  then,  which  with  great  deference  I  would  propose,  is  not  whether  those  who 
risk  every  thing  may  not  risk  this  also  ;  but  whether  the  more  correct  and  considerate  Christian 
might  not  find  it  worth  while  to  consider  if  the  amusement  in  question  be  entirely  compatible 
with  his  avowed  character  1  whether  it  be  entirely  consistent  with  the  clearer  views  of  one  who 
professes  to  live  in  the  sure  and  certain  hope  of  that  immortality  which  is  brought  to  light  by  the 
gospel  1 

-  For,  however  weighty  the  arguments  in  favour  of  the  superior  rationality  of  plays  may  be 
found  in  the  scale,  when  a  rational  being  puts  one  amusement  in  the  balance  against  another ; 
however  fairly  he  may  exalt  the  stage  against  other  diversions,  as  being  more  adapted  to  a  man 

■  of  sense  ;  yet  this,  perhaps,  will  not  quite  vindicate  it  in  the  opinion  of  the  more  scrupulous 
Christian,  who  will  not  allow  himself  to  think  that  of  two  evils  either  may  be  chosen.  His 
amusements  must  be  blameless,  as  well  as  ingenious  ;  safe,  as  well  as  rational ;  moral,  as  well  as 
intellectual.  They  must  have  nothing  in  them  which  may  be  likely  to  excite  any  of  the  tempers 
which  it  is  his  daily  task  to  subdue  ;  any  of  the  passions  which  it  is  his  constant  business  to  keep 
in  order.  His  chosen  amusements  must  not  deliberately  add  to  the  “  weight”  which  he  is  com¬ 
manded  “  to  lay  aside  they  should  not  irritate  the  “  besetting  sin”  against  which  he  is  strug¬ 
gling  ;  they  should  not  obstruct  that  “  spiritual  mindedness”  which  he  is  told  “  is  life  and  peace 
they  should  not  inflame  .that  “lust  of  the  flesh,  that  lust  of  the  eye,  and  that  pride  of  life,”  which 
he  is  forbidden  to  gratify.  A  religious  person  who  occasionally  indulges  in  an  amusement  not 
consonant  to  his  general  views  and  pursuits,  inconceivably  increases  his  own  difficulties  by  whet- 

*  An  enthusiast  to  the  literature  of  my  own  country,  and  so  jealous  of  its  fame  as  grudgingly  to  allow  its  com¬ 
parative  inferiority  in  any  one  instance,  I  am  yet  compelled  to  acktiowledge,  that,  as  far  as  my  slender  reading  en¬ 
ables  me  to  form  a  judgment,  the  English  dramatic  poets  are  in  general  more  licentious  than  those  of  most  other 
countries.  In  that  profligate  reign, 

“  When  all  the  Muses  were  debauched  at  court,” 

the  stage  attained  its  highest  degree  of  dissoluteness.  Mr.  Garrick  did  a  great  deal  towards  its  purification.  It  ia 
said  not  to  have  since  kept  the  ground  it  then  gained. 


504 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 

ting  tastes  and  exciting  appetites,  which  it  will  cut  him  out  sc  much  work  to  counteract,  as  will 
greatly  overbalance,  in  a  conscientious  mind,  the  short  and  trivial  enjoyment.  I  speak  now  on,> 
the  mere  question  of  pleasure.  Nay,  the  more  keen  his  relish  for  the  amusement,  the  rnore  ex¬ 
quisite  His  discernment  of  the  beauties  of  composition  or  the  graces  of  action  may  be,  the  more 
prudent  he  may  perhaps  find  it  to  deny  himself  the  gratification  which  is  enjoyed  at  the  slightest 
hazard  of  nis  higher  interests ;  a  gratification  which  to  him  will  be  the  more  dangerous,  in  pro¬ 
portion  as  It  is  more  poignantly  felt.  ...  t  ■  ^  -c 

A  Christian,  in  our  days,  is  seldom  called,  in  his  ordinary  course,  to  great  and  signal  sacrifices, . 
to  very  strikincr  and  very  ostensible  renunciations  ;  but  he  is  daily  called  to  a  quiet,  uniform,  con¬ 
stant  series  of  self-denial  in  small  things.  A  dangerous  and  bewitching,  especially  if  it  be  not  a 
disreputable  pleasure,  may  perhaps  have  a  just  place  among  those  sacrifices  :  and,  if  he  be  really 
in  earnest,  he  will  not  think  it  too  much  to  renounce  such  petty  enjoyments,  were  it  only  from 
thesincrle  consideration  that  it  is  well  to  seize  every  little  occasion  which  occurs  of  evidencing  to- 
himself  that  he  is  constantly  on  the  watch  ;  and  of  proving  to  the  world,  that  in  small  things,  as 
well  as  in  great,  he  is  a  follower  of  Him  who  “  pleased  not  himself  c  i,-  j  -i 

Little,  unobserved,  and  unostentatious  abstinences,  are  among  the  silent  deeds  of  his  daily 
warfare.  And  whoever  brings  himself  to  exercise  this  habitual  self-denial,  even  in  doubtful  cases, 
will  soon  learn,  from  happy  experience,  that  in  many  instances  abstinence  is  much  more  easily 
practised  than  temperance.  There  is  in  this  case  no  excited  sensibility  to  allay  ;  there  is  no-, 
occasional  remorse  to  be  quieted  ;  there  is  no  lost  ground  to  be  recovered  ;  no  difficult  backing  out, 
only  to  get  again  to  the  same  place  where  we  were  before.  This  observation  adopted  into  practice 
might,  it  is  presumed,  effectually  abolish  the  qualifying  language  of  many  of  the  more  sober  fre¬ 
quenters  of  the  theatre,  “  that  they  go  but  seldom,  and  never  but  to  a  good  play.”  We  give 
these  moderate  and  discreet  persons  all  due  praise  for  comparative  sobriety.  But  while  they  go 
at  all,  the  principle  is  the  same  ;  for  they  sanction,  by  going  sometimes,  a  diversion  which  is  not 
to  be  defended  on  strict  Christian  principles.  Indeed,  their  acknowledging  that  it  should  be  but 
sparingly  frequented,  probably  arises  from  a  conviction  that  it  is  not  quite  right. 

I  have  already  remarked  that  it  is  not  the  object  of  this  address  to  pursue  the  usual  track  of 
attackiiKT  bad  plays,  of  which  the  more  prudent  and  virtuous  seldom  vindicate  the  principle, 
though  they  do  not  always  scrupulously  avoid  attending  tiie  exhibition.  I  impose  rather  on  ’^7* 
self  the  unpopular  task  of  animadverting  on  the  dangerous  effects  of  those  which  come  under  the 
descrijttion  of  good  plays  ;  for  from  those  chiefly  arises  the  danger  (if  danger  there  be),  to  good  . 

people.  _  .  .  , 

Now,  with  all  the  allowed  superiority  justly  ascribed  to  pieces  of  a  better  cast,  it  does  not  seem  • 
to  be  a  complete  justification  of  the  amusement,  that  the  play  in  question  is  more  chaste  m  the  ■ 
sentiment,  more  pure  in  the  expression,  and  more  moral  in  the  tendency,  than  those  which  are  . 
avowedly  objectionable  ;  though  I  readily  concede  all  the  degrees  of  distinction,  ^d 
portant  they  are,  between  such  compositions  and  those  of  the  opposite  character.  But  the  point 
for  which  I  am  contending  is  of  another  and  of  a  distinct  nature ;  namely,  that  there  w*^^’ 
erally  speaking,  still  remain,  even  in  tragedies,  otherwise  the  most  unexceptionable,  provided 
are  sufficiently  impassioned  to  produce  a  powerful  effect  on  the  feelings,  and  have  spirit  enough . 
to  deserve  to  become  popular  ;  there  will  still  remain  an  essential  radical  defect.  W^hat  I  in^st 
on  is,  that  there  almost  inevitably  runs  through  the  whole  web  of  the  tragic  drama  (for  to  this  ■ 
least  blameable  half  of  stage  composition  I  confine  my  remarks,  as  against  comedy  still  stronger 
objections  may  be  urged),  a  prominent  thread  of  false  principle.  It  is  generally  the  lading 
object  of  the  poet  to  erect  a  standard  of  honour  in  direct  opposition  to  the  standwd  of  Chris¬ 
tianity  ;  and  this  is  not  done  subordinately,  incidentally,  occasionally  ;  but  worldly  honour  is  the 
very  soul,  and  spirit,  and  lifegiving  principle  of  the  drama.  Honour  is  the  religion  of  tragedy. 
It  is  her  moral  and  political  law.  Her  dictates  form  its  institutes.  Fear  and  shame  are  the  capi-  ■ 
tal  crimes  in  her  code.  Against  these,  all  the  eloquence  of  her  most  powerful  pleaders,  against 
these  her  penal  statutes,  pistol,  sword,  and  poison,  are  in  full  force.  Injured  honour  can  only  be 
vindicated  at  the  point  of  the  sword  ;  the  stains  of  injured  reputation  can  only  be  washed  out  m 
blood.  Love,  jealousy,  hatred,  ambition,  pride,  revenge,  are  too  often  elevated  into  the  rank  of  , 
splendid  virtues,  and  form  a  dazzling  system  of  worldly  morality,  in  direct  contradiction  to  the 
spirit  of  that  religion  whose  characteristics  are  “charity,  meekness,  peaceableness,  longsuffer- 
mg,  gentleness,  forgiveness,”  “  The  fruits  of  the  Spiiit”  and  the  fruits  of  the  stage,  if  the 
parallel  were  followed  up,  as  it  might  easily  be,  would  perhaps  exhibit  as  pointed  a  contrast  as 

human  imagination  could  conceive.  •  •  ■  r  •  •  j  n  ' 

I  by  no  means  pretend  to  assert  that  religion  is  excluded  from  tragedies  ;  it  is  often  incidentally 
introduced  ;  and  many  a  period  is  beautifully  turned,  and  many  a  moral  is  exquisitely  pointed,  with 
the  finest  sentiments  of  piety.  But  tl'.e  single  grains  of  this  counteracting  principle,  scattered  up- 
and  down  the  piece,  do  not  extend  their  antiseptic  property  in  a  sufficient  degree  to  preserve  from 
corruption  the  body  of  a  work,  the  general  spirit  and  leading  tempers  of  vvhich,  as  was  said  above, 
are  evidently  not  drawn  fiom  that  meek  religion,  the  very  essence  of  which  consists  in  “casting 
down  high  imaginations  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  leaven  of  the  predominating  evil  secretly 
works  and  insinuates  itself,  till  the  whole  mass  becomes  impregnated  by  the  pervading  principle. 
Now,  if  the  directing  principle  be  unsound,  the  virtues  growing  out  of  it  will  be  unsound  also  ; 
and  no  subordinate  merit,  no  collateral  excellences,  can  operate  with  effectual  potency  against . 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  505 

an  evil  which  is  of  prime  and  fundamental  force  and  energy,  and  which  forms  the  very  e.ssence* 
of  the  work. 

A  learned  and  witty  friend,  who  thought  differently  on  this  subject,  once  asked  me  if  I  went  so 
far  as  to  think  it  necessary  to  try  the  merit  of  a  song  or  a  play  by  the  ten  commandments.  To 
this  may  we  not  venture  to  answer,  that  neither  a  song  nor  a  play  should  at  least  contain  any 
thing  hostile  to  the  ten  commandments.  That,  if  harmless  merriment  be  not  expected  to  advance 
religion,  we  must  take  care  that  it  do  not  oppose  it ;  that  if  we  concede  that  our  amusements  are 
not  expected  to  make  us  better  than  we  are,  ought  we  not  to  condition  that  they  do  not  make  us 
worse  than  they  find  us  1  If  so,  then,  whatever  pleasantry  of  idea,  whatever  gayety  of  senti¬ 
ment,  whatever  airiness  of  expression  we  innocently  admit,  should  we  not  jealously  watch  against 
any  unsoundness  in  the  general  principle,  any  mischief  in  the  prevailing  tendency  1 

"V^'e  cannot  be  too  often  reminded,  that  we  are,  to  an  inconceivable  degree,  the  creatures  of 
habit.  Our  tempers  are  not  principally  governed,  nor  our  characters  formed,  by  single  marked 
actions  ;  nor  is  the  colour  of  our  lives  often  determined  by  prominent,  detached  circumstances  ;. 
but  the  character  is  gradually  moulded  by  a  series  of  seemingly  insignificant  but  constantly  re¬ 
curring  practices,  which,  incorporated  into  our  habits,  become  part  of  ourselves. 

Now,  as  these  lesser  habits,  if  they  take  a  wrong  direction,  silently  and  imperceptibly  eat  out 
the  very  heart  and  life  of  vigorous  virtue,  they  will  be  almost  more  sedulously  watched  by  those 
who  are  careful  to  keep  their  consciences  tenderly  alive  to  the  perception  of  sin  (however  they 
may  elude  the  attention  of  ordinary  Christians),  than  actions  which  deter  by  bold  and  decided  evil. 

When  it  is  recollected  how  many  young  men  pickup  their  habits  of  thinking,  and  their  notions 
of  morality,  from  the  playhouse,  it  is  not  perhaps  going  too  far  to  suspect,  that  the  principles  and 
examples  exhibited  on  the  stage  may  contribute  in  their  full  measure  and  proportion  towards  sup¬ 
plying  a  sort  of  regular  aliment  to  the  appetite  (how  dreadfully  increased  ! )  for  duelling,  and  even, 
suicide.  For,  if  religion  teaches,  and  experience  proves,  the  immense  importance  to  our  tempers 
and  morals  of  a  regular  attendance  on  public  worship,  which  attendance  is  only  required  of  us. 
one  day  in  a  week  ;  and  if  it  be  considered  how  much  the  heart  and  mind  of  the  attentive  hearer 
become  gradually  imbued  with  the  principles  infused  by  tliis  stated,  though  unfrequent  attend¬ 
ance  ;  who,  that  knows  any  thing  of  the  nature  of  the  human  heart,  will  deny  how  much  more 
deep  and  lasting  will  be  the  impression  likely  to  be  made  by  a  far  more  frequent  attendance  at 
those  places  where  sentiments  of  a  direct  contrary  tendency  are  exhibited ;  exhibited  too,  with 
every  addition  which  can  charm  the  imagination  and  captivate  the  senses.  Once  in  a  week,  it 
may  be,  the  young  minds  are  braced  by  the  invigorating  principles  of  a  strict  and  self-denyiiig 
religion  :  on  the  intermediate  nights,  their  good  resolutions  (if  such  they  have  made),  are  melted' 
down  with  all  that  can  relax  the  soul,  and  dispose  it  to  yield  to  the  temptations  against  which  it 
was  th6  object  of  the  Sunday’s  lecture  to  guard  and  fortify  it.  In  the  one  case,  there  is  every 
thing  held  out  which  can  inflame  or  sooth  corrupt  nature,  in  opposition  to  those  precepts  which, 
in  the  other  Jase,  were  directed  to  subdue  it.  And  this  one  grand  and  important  difference 
between  the  two  cases  should  never  be  overlooked,  that  religious  instruction,  applied  to  the 
human  heart,  is  seed  sown  in  an  uncultivated  soil,  where  much  is  to  be  cleared,  to  be  broken  up, 
and  to  be  rooted  out,  before  good  fruit  will  be  produced:  whereas  the  theatrical  seed,  by  lighting, 
on  the  fertile  soil  prepared  by  nature  for  the  congenial  implantation,  is  likely  to  shoot  deep, 
spread  wide,  and  bring  forth  fruit  in  abundance.  j 

But,  to  drop  all  metaphor. — They  are  told — and  from  whose  mouth  do  they  hear  it  1 — that 
“blessed  are  the  poor  in  spirit,  the  meek,  and  the  peacemakers.”  Will  not  these,  and  such 
like  humbling  propositions,  delivered  one  day  in  seven  only,  in  all  the  sober  and  beautiful  sim¬ 
plicity  of  our  church,  with  all  the  force  of  truth  indeed,  but  with  all  its  plainness  also,  be  more 
than  counterbalanced  by  the  speedy  and  much  more  frequent  recurrence  of  the  nightly  exhibi-- 
tion,  whose  precise  object  it  too  often  is,  not  only  to  preach,  but  to  personify  doctrines  in  dia¬ 
metrical  and  studied  opposition  to  poverty  of  spirit,  to  purity,  to  meekness,  forbearance,  and 
forgiveness  1  Doctrines,  not  simply  expressed,  as  those  of  the  Sunday  are,  in  the  naked  form  of 
axioms,  principles,  and  precepts,  but  realized,  imbodied,  made  alive,  furnished  with  organs, 
clothed,  decorated,  brought  into  lively  discourse,  into  interesting  action ;  enforced  with  all  the 
energy  of  passion,  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  language,  !ind  exhibited  with  every  aid  of  em- 
phatical  delivery,  every  attraction  of  appropriate  gesture.  To  such  a  complicated  temptation  is 
it  wise,  voluntarily,  studiously,  unnecessarily,  to  expose  frail  and  erring  creatures  1  Is  not  the 
conflict  too  severe  1  Is  not  the  competition  too  unequal  1 

It  is  pleaded  by  the  advocates  for  church  music,  that  the  organ  and  its  vocal  accompaniments 
assist  devotion,  by  enlisting  the  senses  on  the  side  of  religion  ;  and  it  is  justly  pleaded  as  an 
argument  in  favour  of  both,  because  the  affections  may  fairly  and  properly  derive  every  honest 
aid  from  any  thing  which  helps  to  draw  them  off  from  the  world  to  God.  But  is  it  not  equally 
true,  that  the  same  species  of  assistance,  in  a  wrong  direction,  will  produce  an  equally  forcible 
effect  in  its  way,  and  at  least  equally  contribute  in  drawing  off  the  soul  from  God  to  the  world '? 

I  do  not  presume  to  say  that  the  injury  will  be  inevitable,  much  less  that  it  will  be  irretrievable  ; 
but  I  dare  repeat,  that  it  is  exposing  feeble  virtue  to  a  powerful  temptation ;  and  to  a  hazard  so 
great,  that  were  the  same  reason  applied  to  any  worldly  subject,  it  would  be  thought  a  folly -to 
venture  on  any  undertaking  where  the  chances  against  our  coming  off  unhurt  were  so  obviously 
against  us.  Besides,  if  we  may  pursue  the  doctrine  of  chances  a  little  farther,  that  is  at  be^ 
VoL.  I. 


506  THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 

nlavine  a  most  unprofitable  game,  where,  if  we  even  ccwld  be  sure  that  nothing  would  be  lost,  it 
IS  clear  to  demonstration  that  nothing  can  be  gained  ;  so  that  the  certain  risk  is  not  even  coun¬ 
terbalanced  by  the  possible  success.  r  .i.  .  ■  i 

It  is  not  in  point  to  the  present  design  to  allude  to  the  multitude  of  theatrical  sentiments 
which  seem  to  be  written  as  if  in  avowed  opposition  to  such  precepts  as  “  Swear  not  at  all  :  ^ 

“  He  that  looketh  on  a  woman  to  lust  after  her,  hath  already  committed  adultery  in  his  heart, 
&c.  &c.  We  are  willing  to  allow  that  this  last  offence,  at  least,  is  generally,  I  would  it  were 
invariabiv,  confined  to  those  more  incorrect  dramas  which  we  do  not  now  P^fess  to  consider. 
Yet  it  is' to  be  feared  we  should  not  find  many  pieces  (are  we  sure  we  can  find  onej)  entirely 
exempt  from  the  first  heavy  charge.  And  it  is,  perhaps,  one  of  the  most  invincible  objections  to 
many  tragedies,  otherwise  not  very  exceptionable,  that  the  awful  and  tremendous  name  of 
infinitely  llorious  God  is  shamefully,  and  almost  incessantly,  mtroduced  m  various  scenes,  both 

in  the  way  of  asseveration  and  of  invocation.  .  _ 

Besides,  the  terms  good  and  bad  play  are  relative ;  for  we  are  so  little  exact  m  our  general 
definitions,  that  the  character  given  to  the  piece  often  takes  its  colour  from  the  character  of  him 
who  ffives  it  Passages  which  to  the  decent  moral  man  (him,  I  mean,  who  is  decent  and  moral 
•on  mere  worldly  principles)  are  to  the  “purged  eye”  of  a  Christian  disgusting  by  their  vanity, 
and  offensive  by  their  levity,  to  speak  in  the  gentlest  terms. 

But  more  especially  the  prime  animating  spirit  of  many  of  our  more  decorous  dramas  s^ms 
to  furnish  a  strong  contrast  to  the  improved  and  enlarged  .comment  of  our  Saviour  in  the  New 
Testament,  on  the  divine  prohibition  against  murder  in  the  Old,  m  the  wo  denounced  apmst 
anger,  as  containing  in  itself  the  seed  and  principle  of  murder  ;  anger,  and  its  too  usual  con¬ 
comitant,  revenge,  being  the  main  spring  on  which  some  of  our  best  tragedies  turns. 

The  eloquent  apologies,  and  the  elaborate  vindication  of  the  crimes  resulting  froin  the  point 
f  honour  and  the  dread  of  shame,  and  with  such  apologies  and  vindications  some  of  our  most 
nproved  pieces  abound,  too  temptingly  invite  the  high  unbroken  spirit  of  a  warm  youth,  from 
admiring  such  sentiments  to  adopt  them;  and  he  is  liable  to  be  stimulated  first  to  the  commis- 
mn  of  the  crime,  and,  after  he  has  committed  it,  to  the  hope  of  pvmg  his  reputation  cleared, 
DV  the  perpetual  eulogies  these  flattering  scenes  bestow  on  rash  and  intemperate  brave^ ;  on  t  e 
dignify  of  that  spirit  which  cannot  brook  an  insult ;  and  on  that  generous  sense  of  wounded 
himour  which  is  ever  on  the  watch  to  revenge  itself.  And  when  he  hears  the  bursts  of  applause 
with  which  these  sallies  of  resentment,  these  vows  of  revenge,  these  determinations  to  destroy  or 
be  destroyed,  this  solemn  obtesting  the  great  Judge  of  hearts  to  witness  the  innocence  of  per¬ 
haps  a  very  criminal  action  or  intention  when,  I  say,  a  hotheaded  young  man  witnesses  the 
enthusiasm  of  admiration  which  such  expressions  excite  in  a  transported  audience,  wi  1  it  not 
operate  as  a  kind  of  stimulus  to  him  to  adopt  a  similar  conduct,  should  he  per  be  plaped  m 
similar  circumstances  1  and  will  it  not  furnish  him  with  a  sort  of  criterion  how  such  maxirns 
would  be  received,  and  such  conduct  approved,  in  real,  life  1  For  the  danger  does  npt  he  merely 
in  his  hearing  such  sentiments  delivered  from  the  stage,  but  also  in  pemg  how  fpourably  they 
are  received  by  the  audience  ;  received,  too,  by  those  persons  who,  should  he  realize  thpe  sen¬ 
timents,  would  probably  be  the  arbiters  of  his  conduct.  These  are  p  him  a  kind  of  anticipated 
jury.  The  scene  is,  as  it  were,  the  rehearsal  of  an  acquittal  at  the  bar  of  that  world  whop 
iibunal  is,  perhaps,  unhappily  for  him,  considered  as  his  last  appeal;  for  it  is  not  probabty 
hazarding  too  much  to  conclude,  that  by  the  sort  of  character  we  are  considering,  human  opin¬ 
ion  will  be  looked  upon  as  the  highest  motive  of  action,  human  praise  p  the  highest  reward,  ana 
human  censure  as  an  evil  to  be  deprecated,  even  by  the  loss  of  his  soul.  man 

If  one  of  the  most  virtuous  of  poets  and  of  men,  by  the  cool,  deliberate,  ™  t?" 

ner  in  which  he  makes  his  Roman  hero  destroy  himself ;  this  hmo,  too,  a  ppan,  consistently 
illustrating  by  this  action  an  historical  fact,  and  acting  in  a  natural  conformity  to  his  ovra  stoical 
principles  if,  I  say,  under  all  these  palliating  circumstances,  the  ingenious  sophistiy  by  which 
the  poet  was  driven  to  mitigate  the  crime  of  suicide,  in  order  to  accommodate  the  sentapnt  to 
the  real  character  of  his  hero  ;— if  this  Christian  poet,  even  to  his  own  private  friend  and  literary 
associate,  could  appear,  by  the  specious  reasoning  of  his  famous  soliloquy,  to  vindicate  sell-mur¬ 
der,  so  that  the  unhappy  Budgell  exclaimed,  when  falling  by  his  own  hand, 

“  What  Cato  did,  and  Addison  approv’d. 

Must  sure  be  right : - ” 

If  I  say,  under  all  the  extenuating  circumstances  here  detailed,  such  a  dreadful  effect  could  ne 
produced  from  a  cause  so  little  expected  or  intended  by  its  author  to  produce  h,  how  much  more 
probably  are  similar  ill  consequences  likely  to  arise  from  similar  causes  in  the  hands  ot  a  poet 
less  guarded  and  worse  principled  ;  and  whose  heroes  have,  perhaps,  neither  the  apology  of  ac¬ 
knowledged  paganism,  nor  the  sanction  of  historic  truth  1  For  Addison,  who  m  general  has 
made  his  piece  a  vehicle  of  the  noblest  and  most  patriotic  sentiments,  could  not  avoid  makmg 
his  catastrophe  just  what  he  has  made  it,  without  violating  a  notorious  fact,  and  falsifying  tne 

character  he  exhibits.  .■  .  , 

Even  in  those  plays  in  which  the  principles  which  false  honour  teaches  are  neither  protessea  y 

inculcated  nor  vindicated ;  nay,  where  moreover  the  practices  above  aUuded  to,  ^nd  e^ec  y 
the  practice  of  duelling,  are  even  reprobated  in  the  progress  of  the  piece  ;  yet  the  he 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


507 


been  reprieved  from  sin  during  fojr  acts  by  the  sage  remonstrance  of  some  interfering  friend,  or 
the  imperious  power  of  beauty ;  beauty,  which  is  to  a  stage  hero  that  restraining  or  impelling 
power  which  law,  or  conscience,  or  scripture,  are  to  other  men ;  still,  in  the  conclusion,  when 
the  intrigue  is  dexterously  completed,  when  the  passion  is  worked  up  to  its  acme,  and  the  vale¬ 
dictory  scene  is  so  near  at  hand  that  it  becomes  inconvenient  to  the  poet  that  the  impetuosity  of 
bis  hero  should  be  any  longer  restrained  ;  when  his  own  patience  and  the  expostulating  powers 
of  his  friend  are  both  exhausted  together,  and  he  seasonably  winds  up  the  drama  by  stabbing 
either  his  worst  enemy  or  his  best  benefactor,  or,  as  it  still  more  frequently  happens,  himself ; 
-Still,  notwithstanding  his  criminal  catastrophe,  the  hero  has  been  exhibited  through  all  the  pre¬ 
ceding  scenes  as  such  a  combination  of  perfections ;  his  behaviour  has  been  so  brave  and  so  gen¬ 
erous  (and  bravery  and  generosity  are  two  qualities  which  the  world  boldly  stakes  against  both 
tables  of  the  decalogue),  that  the  youthful  spectator,  especially  if  he  have  that  amiable  warmth 
and  sensibility  of  soul  which  lay  him  so  peculiarly  open  to  seduction,  is  too  much  tempted  to  con¬ 
sider  as  venial  the  sudden  and  unpremeditated  crime  to  which  the  unresisted  impulse  of  the 
moment  may  have  driven  so  accomplished  a  character.  And  a  little  tame  tag  of  morality,  set  to 
a  few  musical  periods  by  the  unimpassioned  friend,  is  borne  down,  absorbed,  lost,  in  the  impetu¬ 
ous  but  too  engaging  character  of  the  feeling,  fiery  hero  ;  a  character,  the  errors  of  which  are 
now  consummated  by  an  act  of  murder,  so  affectingly  managed,  that  censure  is  swallowed  up  in 
pity  ;  the  murderer  is  absolved  by  the  weeping  auditory,  who  are  ready,  if  not  to  justify  the  crime, 
yet  to  vindicate  the  criminal.  The  drowsy  moral  at  the  close,  slowly  attempts  to  creep  after  the 
poison  of  the  piece  ;  bxit  it  creeps  in  vain  ;  it  can  never  expel  that  which  it  can  never  reach  ;  for 
one  stroke  of  feeling,  one  natural  expression  of  the  passions,  be  the  principle  right  or  wrong, 
carries  away  the  affections  of  the  auditor  beyond  any  of  the  poet's  force  of  reasoning  to  control. 
And  they  know  little  of  the  power  of  the  dramatic  art,  or  of  the  conformation  of  the  human  mind, 
who  do  not  know  that  the  heart  of  the  feeling  spectator  is  always  at  the  command  of  the  passions 
in  the  hand  of  a  true  poet ;  who  snatches  him  with  uncontrolled  dominion 

“  To  Thebes  and  Athens  when  he  will,  and  where.” 

Now,  to  counteract  the  bias  given  by  the  passions,  all  the  flowers  of  rhetoric,  all  the  flights 
of  mere  poetry,  and  all  the  blunted  weapons  of  logic  united,  are  ineffectual.  Of  course,  the  con¬ 
cluding  antidote  never  defeats  the  mischief  of  the  piece  ;  the  effect  of  the  smooth  moral  is  in¬ 
stantly  obliterated,  while  that  of  the  indented  passion  is  perhaps  indelible. 

Let  me  now  for  a  moment  turn  to  the  younger  part  of  that  sex,  to  whose  service  I  have 
generally  devoted  my  principal  attention.  A  virtuous  young  woman,  it  will  be  said,  who  has 
been  correctly  educated,  will  turn  with  abhorrence  from  the  unchaste  scenes  of  a  loose  play. 
It  is  indeed  so  to  be  hoped  ;  and  yet  many  plays  which  really  deserve  that  character,  escape 
that  denomination.  But  I  concede  this  point,  and  proceed  to  the  more  immediate  object  of  my 
animadversions.  The  remark  may  be  thought  preposterous,  should  I  observe,  that,  to  a  chaste 
and  delicate  young  mind,  there  is  in  good  plays  one  danger  which,  I  will  venture  to  assert,  is 
almost  more  formidable  than  that  which  is  often  attached  to  pieces  more  obviously  censurable. 
The  more  refined  and  delicate  the  passion  of  love  is  made  to  appear,  the  more  insinuating,  and, 
■of  course,  the  more  dangerous,  will  the  exquisite  and  reiterated  representation  of  that  passion 
be  found.  Now,  love  being  the  grand  business  of  plays,  those  young  ladies  who  are  frequently 
attending  them,  will  be  liable  to  nourish  a  feeling  which  is  often  strong  enough  of  itself,  without 
this  constant  supply  of  foreign  fuel,  namely,  that  love  is  the  grand  business  of  life  also.  If  the 
passion  be  avowedly  illicit,  her  well-instructed  conscience  wilt  arm  her  with  scruples,  and  her 
sense  of  decorum  will  set  her  on  her  guard.  While,  on  the  other  hand,  the  greater  the  purity 
with  which  the  passion  is  exhibited,  provided  the  exhibition  be  very  touching  and  warm,  the  more 
deep  and  irresistible  will  be  its  effect  on  a  tender  and  inexperienced  heart ;  nay,  the  more  likely 
will  the  passion  acted  on  the  stage  be  to  excite  a  corresponding  passion  in  the  heart  of  the  young 
spectatress.  If  she  have  not  yet  felt  the  passion-she  sees  so  finely  portrayed,  she  will  wish  to 
feel  it ;  and,  the  not  having  felt  it,  she  will  consider  as  something  wanting  to  the  perfection  of 
her  nature.  She  will  ascribe  the  absence  of  it  to  a  defect  in  her  own  heart  which  must  be  sup¬ 
plied,  or  to  some  untowardness  in  her  own  circumstances  which  must  be  removed.  Thus  her 
imagination  will  do  the  work  of  the  passions,  and  the  fancy  will  anticipate  the  feelings  of  the 
heart :  the  source  this,  of  some  of  the  most  fatal  disorders  in  the  female  character  ! 

Now,  to  captivate  such  a  tender  and  affectionate  heart  as  that  we  are  considering,  the  semblance 
of  virtue  is  necessary  ;  for,  while  she  will  conceive  of  criminal  passion  as  censurable,  she  will  be 
equally  apt  to  consider  even  the  most  imprudent  passion  as  justifiable,  so  long  as  the  idea  of 
absolute  crime  is  kept  at  a  distance.  If  the  love  be  represented  as  avowedly  vicious,  instead 
of  lending  herself  to  the  illusion,  she  will  allow  it  ought  to  be  sacrificed  to  duty ;  but  if  she 
thinks  it  innocent,  she  persuades  herself  that  every  duty  should  be  sacrificed  to  it.  Nay,  she 
will  value  herself  in  proportion  as  she  thinks  she  could  imitate  the  heroine  who  is  able  to  love 
with  so  much  violence  and  so  much  purity  at  the  same  time.  By  frequent  repetition,  especially 
if  there  be  a  taste  for  romance  and  poetry  in  the  innocent  young  mind,  the  feelings  are  easily 
transplanted  from  the  theatre  to  the  closet ;  they  are  made  to  become  a  standard  of  action,  and 
are  brought  home  as  the  regulators  of  life  and  manners.  The  heart  being  thus  filled  with  the 
pleasures  of  love  a  new  era  takes  place  in  her  mind,  and  she  carries  about  with  her  an  aptitude 


508  *  THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 

to  receive  any  impression  herself,  and  a  constantly  waking  and  active  desire  to  make  this  im- 
nression  in  return.  The  plain  and  sober  duties  of  life  begin  to  be  uninteresting ;  she  wishes 
[hem  to  be  diversified  with  events,  and  enlivened  by  heroes.  Though  she  retains  her  virtue,  her 
sobermindedneks  is  impaired  ;  for  she  longs  to  be  realizing  those  pains  and  pkasures,  and  to  be 
actina  over  those  scenes  and  sacrifices,  which  she  so  often  sees  represented.  If  the  evils  arising 
from'frequent  scenic  representations  to  a  young  woman  were  limited  to  this  single  inconvenience, 
that  it  makes  her  sigh  to  be  a  heroine,  it  would  be  a  strong  reason  why  a  discreet  and  pious 

mother  should  be  slow  in  introducing  her  to  them.  r 

I  purposely  forbear,  in  this  place,  repeating  any  of  those  higher  arguments  drawn  from  the 
utter  irreconcileableness  of  this  indulgence  of  the  fancy,  of  this  gratification  of  the  senses,  this 
unbounded  roving  of  the  thoughts,  with  the  divine  injunction  of  bringing  “  every  thought  into 

the  obedience  of  Christ.”  .  , ,  ,  j  r  * 

But  it  will  be  said,  perhaps,  all  this  rigour  may  be  very  suitable  to  enthusiasts  and  fanatics,  to 
the  vultrar  the  retired,  and  the  obscure :  but  would  you  exclude  the  more  liberal  and  polished 
part  of” society  from  the  delight  and  instruction  which  may  be  derived  from  the  great  masters 
of  the  human  heart,  from  Shakspeare  particularly  1  ,  .  .  ,  ,, 

On  this  subject  I  think  myself  called  upon  to  offer  my  opinion  (such  as  it  is)  as  unreservedly 
as  1  have  taken  the  liberty  of  doing  on  the  points  considered  in  the  former  part  of  this  preface. 

I  think,  then,  that  there  is  a  substantial  difference  between  seeing  and  reading  a  dramatic  com¬ 
position;  and  that  the  objections  which  lie  so  strongly  against  the  one,  are  not,  at  least  in  the 
Line  degree,  applicable  to  the  other.  Or,  rather,  while  there  is  an  essential  and  inseparable 
danger  attendant  on  dramatic  exhibitions,  let  the  matter  of  the  drama  be  ever  so  innocent,  the 
danger  in  reading  a  play  arises  solely  from  the  sentiments  contained  in  it. 

To  read  a  moral  play  is  little  different  from  reading  any  other  innocent  poem ;  the  dialogue 
form  being  a  mere  accident,  and  no  way  affecting  the  moral  tendency  of  the  piece.  Nay,  some 
excellent  poets  have  chosen  that  form  on  account  of  its  peculiar  advantages,  even  when  the  nature 
of  their  subjects  precluded  the  idea  of  theatrical  exhibition.  Thus  BuchMan  vvrote  his  fine 
tragediesof  “The  Baptist,”  and  “  Jephthah,”  Grotius  that  of  “Christ  Suffering,”  and  Milton 
that  of  “  Samson  Agonistes  ;”  not  to  name  the  “  Joseph,”  the  “  Bethuha  Delivered,  and  some 
other  pieces  of  the  amiable  Metastasio.  Nothing,  therefore,  could  be  more  unreasonable,  than  to 
proscribe  from  the  study  or  the  closet  well-selected  dramatic  poetry.  It  maybe  read  with  safety,. 
Lcause  it  can  there  be  read  with  soberness.  The  most  animated  speeches  subside  into  com¬ 
parative  tameness,  and,  provided  they  are  perfectly  pure,  produce  no  ruffle  of  the  passions,  no 
agitation  of  the  senses,  but  merely  afford  a  pleasant,  and,  it  may  be,  a  not  unsalutary  exercise  to 

In  alf  the  different  kinds  of  poetry,  there  will  be  a  necessity  for  selection  ;  and  where  could 
safer  poetical  amusement  be  found  than  in  the  works  of  Racine,  whose  Athaha,  m  particular  (as 
we  have  had  occasion  elsewhere  to  observe),  most  happily  illustrates  an  interesting  piece  of  scrip¬ 
ture  history,  at  the  same  time  that,  considered  as  a  composition,  it  is  itself  a  model  of  poetical 
perfection.  I  may  motion,  as  an  exquisite  piece,  the  Masque  of  Comus,  and,  as  interesting 
Lems  in  the  dramaticfform  also,  the  Caractacus,  and  Elfrida,  of  Mason  ;  the  passing  over  which 
pieces  in  the  volumes  of  that  virtuous  poet,  merely  because  they  are  in  a  dramatic  form,  would 
L  an  instance  of  scrupulosity  which  one  might  venture  to  say  no  well-informed  conscience  could. 

ifet  neither,  then,  the  devout  and  scrupulous,  on  the  one  hand,  nor  the  captious  caviller,  on 
the  other,  object  to  this  distinction  ;  I  mean  between  reading  a  dramatic  composition,  and  seeing 
a  theatrical  exhibition,  as  if  it  were  fanciful  or  arbitrary.  In  the  latter,  is  it  the  mere  repetition, 
of  the  speeches  which  implies  danger  1  is  it  this  which  attracts  the  audience  I  No  :  were  even 
the  best  reader,  if  he  did  not  bring  m  aid  the  novelty  of  a  foreign  language,  to  read  the  whole 
play  himself,  without  scenic  decorations,  without  dress,  without  gesticulation,  would  such  an  ex¬ 
hibition  be  numerously,  or  for  any  length  of  time,  attended!  What  then  chiefly  draws  the 
multitude  ^  It  is  the  semblance  of  real  action  which  is  given  to  the  piece,  by  different  persons 
supporting  the  different  parts,  and  by  their  dress,  their  tones,  their  gestures,  heightening  the  repre¬ 
sentation  into  a  kind  of  enchantment.  It  is  the  concomitant  pageantry,  it  is  the  splendour  of 
the  spectacle,  and  even  the  show  of  the  spectators  these  are  the  circumstances  which  alto- 
-  gether  fill  the  theatre— which  altogether  produce  the  effect— which  altogether  create  the  danger. 
These  give  a  pernicious  force  to  sentiments  which,  when  read,  merely  explain  the  mysterious 
action  of  the  human  heart,  but  which,  when  thus  uttered,  thus  accompanied,  become  conUgious 
and  destructive.  These,  in  short,  make'-up  a  scene  of  temptation  and  seductiop,  of  overwrought 
voluptuousness  and  unnerving  pleasure,  which  surely  ill  accords  with  “working  out  our  salvation 
with  fear  and  trembling,”  or  with  that  frame  of  mind  which  implies  that  the  world  is  crucified 

to  us,  and  we  to  the  world.”  .  .  .i.  v.  t  . 

I  trust  I  have  sufficiently  guarded  against  the  charge  of  inconsistency,  even  though  1  venture 
to  hazard  an  opinion  that,  in  company  with  a  judicious  friend  or  parent,  many  scenes  ol  bhak- 
sneare  may  be  read  not  only  without  danger,  but  with  improvement.  I  ar  be  it  from  me  to  wish 
to  abridge  the  innocent  delights  of  life,  where  they  may  be  enjoyed  with  benefit  to  the  under¬ 
standing!  and  without  injury  to  the  principles.  Women,  especially,  whose  walk  in  life  is  so 
circumscribed,  and  whose  avenues  of  information  are  so  few,  may,  I  conceive,  learn  to  know 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


509 


•world  with  less  danger,  and  to  study  human  nature  with  more  advantage,  from  the  perusal  of 
selected  parts  of  this  incomparable  genius,  than  from  most  other  attainable  sources.  I  would  in 
“this  view  consider  Shakspeare  as  a  philosopher  as  well  as  poet,  and  I  have  been  surprised  to  hear 
"many  pious  people  universally  confound  and  reprobate  this  poet  with  the  common  herd  of  drama¬ 
tists  and  novelists.  To  his  acute  and  sagacious  mind  every  varied  position  of  the  human  heart, 
every  shade  of  discrimination  in  the  human  character,  all  the  minuter  delicacies,  all  the  exquisite 
touches,  all  the  distinct  affections,  all  the  contending  interests,  all  the  complicated  passions  of 
the  heart  of  man,  seem,  as  far  as  is  allowed  to  human  inspection  to  discern  them,  to  be  laid 
open.  Though  destitute  himself  of  the  aids  of  literature,  and  of  the  polish  of  society,  he  seems 
to  have  possessed  by  intuition  all  the  advantages  that  various  learning  and  elegant  society  can 
bestow ;  and  to  have  combined  the  warmest  energies  of  passion,  and  the  boldest  strokes  of  im¬ 
agination,  with  the  justest  proprieties  of  reasoning,  and  the  exactest  niceties  of  conduct.  He 
makes  every  description  a  picture,  and  every  sentiment  an  axiom.  He  seems  to  have  known 
how  every  being  which  did  exist  would  speak  and  act  under  every  supposed  circumstance  and 
every  possible  situation ;  and  how  every  being  which  did  no(  exist  must  speak  and  act,  if  ever 
he  were  to  be  called  into  actual  existence. 

From  the  discriminated,  the  guarded,  the  qualified  perusal  of  such  an  author,  it  would  be 
impossible,  nor  does  it  appear  to  be  necessary,  to  debar  accomplished  and  elegantly  educated 
young  persons.  Let  not  the  above  eulogmm  be  censured  as  too  strong  or  too  bold.  In  almost 
every  library  they  will  find  his  writings ;  in  almost  every  work  of  taste  and  criticism,  the  young 
reader  will  not  fail  to  meet  the  panegyric  of  Shakspeare.  The  frequent  allusions  to  him,  and  the 
beautiful  quotations  from  him,  will,  if  they  light  upon  a  corresponding  taste,  inflame  it  with  a 
curiosity  to  peruse  all  his  works.  Now,  would  it  not  be  safer  to  anticipate  the  danger  which 
might  result  from  a  private  and  unqualifled  perusal,  for  the  parent  to  select  such  pieces  as  have 
in  them  the  fewest  of  those  corruptions,  which  truth  must  allow  that  Shakspeare  possesses  in 
common  with  other  dramatic  poets  1  For  who  will  deny  that  all  the  excellences  we  have  ascribed 
to  him  are  debased  by  passages  of  offensive  grossness '!  are  tarnished  with  indelicacy,  false  taste, 
and  vulgarity  1  This  is  not  the  place  for  a  discussion  of  those  faults,  too  obvious  to  be  over¬ 
looked,  too  numerous  to  be  detailed,  too  strong  to  be  palliated.  Let  me,  however,  be  permitted 
to  observe,  that  though  Shakspeare  often  disgusts  by  single  passages  and  expressions  (which  I 
will  not  vindicate  by  ascribing  them  to  the  false  taste  of  the  age  in  which  he  wrote  ;  for  though 
that  may  extenuate  the  fault  of  the  poet,  it.  does  not  diminish  the  danger  of  the  reader),  yet 
perhaps  the  general  tendency  of  his  pieces  is  less  corrupt  than  that  of  the  pieces  of  almost  any 
dramatist ;  and  the  reader  rises  from  the  perusal  of  Shakspeare  without  those  distinct  images  of 
«vil  on  his  mind,  without  having  his  heart  so  dissolved  by  amatory  scenes,  or  his  mind  so  warped 
by  corrupt  reasoning,  or  his  heart  so  inflamed  with  seducing  principles,  as  he  will  have  expe¬ 
rienced  from  other  writers  of  the  same  description,  however  exempt  their  works  may  be  from  the 
more  broad  and  censurable  vices  of  composition  which  disfigure  many  parts  of  Shakspeare.  Lest 
I  be  misrepresented,  let  it  be  observed,  that  I  am  now  distinguishing  the  general  result  arising 
from  the  tendency  of  his  pieces,  from  the  effect  of  particular  passages  ;  and  this  is  the  reason 
why  a  discriminated  perusal  is  so  important.  For,  after  all,  the  general  disposition  of  mind  with 
which  we  rise  from  the  reading  of  a  work,  is  the  best  criterion  of  its  utility  or  mischief.  To 
the  tragedies  of  Shakspeare,  too,  belongs  this  superiority,  that  his  pieces  being  faithful  histories 
of  the  human  heart,  and  portraits  of  the  human  character,  love  is  only  introduced  as  one  passion 
among  many  which  enslave  mankind ;  whereas  by  most  other  play  writers,  it  is  treated  as  the 
monopolizing  tyrant  of  the  heart. 

It  is  not  because  I  consider  Shakspeare  as  a  correct  moralist  and  an  unerring  guide,  that  I  sug¬ 
gest  the  advantage  of  having  the  youthful  curiosity  allayed  by  a  partial  perusal,  and  under  prudent 
inspection  :  but  it  is  for  this  very  different  reason,  lest,  by  having  that  curiosity  stimulated  by  the 
incessant  commendation  of  this  author,  with  which  both  books  and  conversation  abound,  young 
persons  should  be  excited  to  devour  in  secret  an  author  who,  if  devoured  in  the  gross,  will  not 
fail,  by  many  detached  passages,  to  put  a  delicate  reader  in  the  situation  of  his  own  ancient  Pistol 
when  eating  the  leek ;  that  is,  to  swallow  and  execrate  at  the  sanii  time. 

But  to  conclude, — which  I  will  do  with  a  recapitulation  of  the  principal  objects  already  touched 
upon.  That  I  may  not  be  misunderstood,  let  me  repeat  that  this  preface  is  not  addressed  to  the 
gay  and  dissolute  ;  to  such  as  profess  themselves  to  be  “  lovers  of  pleasure  more  than  lovers  of 
^od  — ^but  it  is  addressed  to  the  more  soberminded  ;  to  those  who  believe  the  gospel  of  Jesus 
Christ ;  who  wish  to  be  enlightened  by  its  doctrines,  to  be  governed  by  its  precepts,  and  who 
profess  to  be  “seeking  a  better  country,  even  a  heavenly  ohe.”  The  question  then  which  we 
have  been  asking  is,  whether  the  stage,  in  its  present  state,  be  a  proper  amusement  for  such  a 
character  1  What  it  would  be,  if  perfectly  reformed,  and  cast  into  the  Christian  mould,  we  have 
considered  as  another  question,  which  it  will  be  time  enough  to  answer  when  the  reformation 
itself  takes  place. 

Neither  (as  has  been  observed)  is  it  to  the  present  purpose  to  insist  that  theatrical  amuse¬ 
ments  are  the  most  rational ;  for  the  question  we  have  undertaken  to  agitate  is,  whether  they 
are  blameless  1  In  this  view,  the  circumstance  of  going  but  seldom  cannot  satisfy  a  conscien¬ 
tious  mind  :  for  if  the  amusement  be  right,  we  may  partake  of  it  with  moderation,  as  of  othf.r 
awful  pleasure*  ;  if  wrong,  we  should  never  partake  of  it. 


510  THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 

Some  individuals  may  urge  that  the  amusements  of  the  theatre  never  had  the  bad  effects  on 
their  minds  which  they  are  said  to  have  on  the  minds  of  others  ;  but  supposing  this  to  be  really 
the  case  (which  however  may  admit  of  doubt),  ought  not  such  persons  to  reflect,  that  by  their 
presence  they  sanction  that  which  is  obviously  hurtful  to  others,  and  which  must,  if  so,  be  dis- 

^  The^tao-e  is  by  universal  concurrence  allowed  to  be  no  indifferent  thing.  The  impres^ons  it 
makes  on  the  mind  are  deep  and  strong  ;  deeper  and  stronger,  perhaps,  than  are  made  by  any 
other  amusement.  If  then  such  impressions  be  in  the  general  hostile  to  Christianity,  the  whole 
resolves  itself  into  this  short  question — Should  a  Christian  frequent  it 


rin  addition  to  what  has  here  been  advanced  on  the  subject  of  theatrical  amusements,  the 
editor  hopes  to  be  excused  for  inserting  the  conclusion  of  Jeremy  Collier  s  “  Short  View  of  the 
Immorality  and  Profaneness  of  the  English  Stage  printed  m  1699. 

“  These  entertainments  are,  as  it  were,  literally  renounced  in  baptism.  They  are  the  ®anthci 
of  the  wicked  world,  and  the  works  of  the  devil,  in  the  most  open  and  emphaUcal  signihcation. 
What  communion  has  light  with  darkness,  and  what  concord  has  Christ  with  Belial .  Call  you 
this  diversion  1  can  profaneness  be  such  an  irresistible  delight  1  Does  the  crime  of  the  perform¬ 
ance  make  the  spirit  of  the  satisfaction,  and  is  the  scorn  of  Christianity  the  entertainment  of 
Christians  ’  Is  it  such  a  pleasure  to  hear  the  scriptures  burlesqued  1  Is  ribaldry  so  very  obli- 
eincr,  and  atheism  so  charming  a  quality  1  Are  we  indeed  willing  to  quit  the  privilege  of  our 
Lture,  to  surrender  our  charter  of  immortality,  and  throw  up  the  pretences  to  another  life!  It 
may  be  so  •  but  then  we  should  do  well  to  remember  that  nothing  is  not  m  our  power.  Our 
desires  did  not  make  us,  neither  can  they  unmake  us.  But  I  hope  our  wishes  are  not  so  mean, 
and  that  we  have  a  better  sense  of  the  dignity  of  our  being.  And  if  so,  how  can  we  be  pleased 
with  those  things  which  would  degrade  us  into  brutes,  which  ridicule  our  creed,  and  turn  all  our 

expectations  into  romance.  ^  •  j  •  ■  •  *  „  j  , 

‘‘  And  after  all,  the  jest  on’t  is,  these  men  would  make  us  believe  their  design  is  virtue  and 
reformation  In  good  time  !  they  are  likely  to  combat  vice  with  success,  who  destroy  the  princi¬ 
ples  of  good  and  evil !  Take  them  at  the  best,  and  they  do  no  more  than  expose  a  little  humour 
and  formality.  But  then,  as  the  matter  is  managed,  the  correction  is  much  worse  than  the  fault. 
They  laugh  at  pedantry  and  teach  atheism ;  cure  a  pimple,  and  give  the  plague.  I  heartily 
wish  they  would  have  let  us  alone.  To  exchange  virtue  for  behaviour,  is  a  hard  bargain.  Is 
not  plain  honesty  much  better  than  hypocrisy  well  dressed  1  what’s  sight  good  for,  without  sub¬ 
stance’  whatvis  a  wellbred  libertine,  but  a  wellbred  knave’  One  that  can’t  prefer  conscience 
to  pleasure,  without  calhng  himself  fool ;  and  will  sell  his  friend,  or  his  father,  if  need  be,  for 

his  convenience.  » 

“In  short :  nothing  can  be  more  disserviceable  to  probity  and  religion  than  the  management 
of  the  STAGE.  It  cherishes  those  passions,  and  rewards  those  vices,  which  ’tis  the  business  of 
reason  to  discountenance.  It  strikes  at  the  root  of  principle,  draws  off  the  inclinations  frpna 
virtue,  and  spoils  good  education.  It  is  the  most  effectual  means  to  emasculate  people’s  spirits, 
and  debauch  their  manners.  How  many  of  the  unwary  have  these  sirens  devoured  1  and  how 
often  has  the  best  blood  been  tainted  with  this  infection  ’  what  disappointments  of  parents,  what 
confusion  in  families,  and  what  beggary  in  estates,  have  been  hence  occasioned!  and,  which  is 
still  worse,  the  mischief  spreads  daily,  and  the  malignity  grows  more  envenomed.  The  fever 
works  up  towards  madness,  and  will  scarcely  endure  to  be  touched.  And  what  hope  is  there  of 
health,  when  the  patidnt  strikes  in  with  the  disease,  and  flies  in  the  face  of  the  remedy  .  Can 
religion  retrieve  us  1  yes,  when  we  don’t  despise  it.  But  while  our  notions  are  naught,  our 
lives  will  hardly  be  otherwise.  What  can  the  assistance  of  the  church  signify  to  those  who  are 
more  ready  to  rally  the  preacher,  than  practise  the  sermon  ’  to  those  who  are  overgrown  with 
pleasure,  and  hardened  in  ill  custom’  who  have  neither  patience  to  hear,  nor  conscience  to  take 
hold  of  1  you  may  almost  as  well  feed  a  man  without  a  mouth,  as  give  advice  where  there  s  no 
disposition  to  receive  it.  Itiis  true,  as  long  as  there  is  life  there’s  hope.  Sometimes  the  force 
of  Lgument,  and  the  grace  of  God,  and  the  anguish  of  affliction,  may  strike  through  the  preju¬ 
dice,  and  make  their  way  into  the  soul.  But  these  circumstances  don’t  always  meet,  and  then 
the  case  is  extremely  dangerous.  For  this  miserable  temper,  we  may  thank  the  stage,  in  a 
great  measure  ;  and,  therefore,  if  I  mistake  not,  they  have  the  least  pretence  to  favour,  and  the 
most  need  of  repentance  of  all  men  living.”] 


THE  INFLEXIBLE  CAPTIVEr 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

AS  IT  •WAS  ACTED  IN  1774,  AT  THE  THEATRE  ROYAL  AT  BATH. 

“  The  man  resolv’d,  and  steady  to  his  trust. 

Inflexible  to  ill,  and  obstinately  just.” 


TO 

THE  HON.  MRS.  BOSCAWEN. 

Dear  Madam, 

It  seems  somewhat  extraordinary,  that  although,  with  persons  of  great  merit  and  delicacy,, 
no  virtue"  stands  in  higher  estimation  than  truth ;  yet,  in  such  an  address  as  the  present,  there 
would  be  some  danger  of  offending  them,  by  a  strict  adherence  to  it :  I  mean,  by  uttering  truths 
so  generally  acknowledged,  that  every  one  except  the  person  addressed  would  acquit  the  writer 
of  flattery.  And  it  will  be  a  singular  circumstance  to  see  a  dedication  without  praise,  to  a  lady 
possessed  of  every  quality  and  accomplishment  which  can  justly  entitle  her  to  it. 

I  am,  dear  madam,  with  great  respect, 

'  Your  most  obedient,  and  very  obliged  humble  servant, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE  ARGUMENT. 

Among  the  great  names  which  have  done  honour  to  antiquity  in  general,  and  to  the  Roman 
Republic  in  particular,  that  of  Mhrcus  Attilius  Regulus  has,  by  the  general  consent  of  all  ages, 
been  considered  as  one  of  the  most  splendid,  since  he  not  only  sacrificed  his  labours,  his  liberty, 
and  his  life,  for  the  good  of  his  country,  but,  by  a  greatness  of  soul  almost  peculiar  to  himself,, 
contrived  to  make  his  very  misfortunes  contribute  to  that  glorious  end. 

After  the  Romans  had  met  with  various  successes  in  the  first  Punic  war,  under  the  command 
of  Regulus,  victory  at  length  declared  for  the  opposite  party — the  Roman  army  was  totally 
overthrown,  and  Regulus  himself  taken  prisoner  by  Xantippus,  a  Lacedsemonian  general  in  the 
servk  e  of  the  Carthaginians :  the  victorious  enemy,  exulting  in  so  important  a  conquest,  kept 
him  many  years  in  close  imprisonment,  and  loaded  him  with  the  most  cruel  indignities.  They 
thought  it  was  now  in  their  power  to  make  their  own  terms  with  Rome,  and  determined  to  send 
Regulus  thither,  with  their  ambassador,  to  negotiate  a  peace',  or  at  least  an  exchange  of  captives, 
thinking  he  would  gladly  persuade  his  countrymen  to  discontinue  a  war  which  necessarily  pro¬ 
longed  his  captivity.  They  previously  exacted  from  him  an  oath  to  return,  should  his  embassy 
prove  unsuccessful ;  at  the  same  time  giving  him  to  understand,  that  he  must  expect  to  suffer  a 
cruel  death  if  he  failed  in  it :  this  they  artfully  intimated,  as  the  strongest  motive  for  him  to 
leave  no  means  unattempted  to  accomplish  their  purpose. 

At  the  unexpected  arrival  of  this  venerable  hero,  the  Romans  expressed  the  wildest  transports 
of  joy,  and  would  have  submitted  to  almost  any  conditions,  to  procure  his  enlargement ;  but 
Regulus,  so  far  from  availing  himself  of  his  influence  with  the  senate  to  obtain  any  personal 
advantages,  employed  it  to  induce  them  to  reject  proposals  so  evidently  tending  to  dishonour 
their  country,  declaring  his  fixed  resolution  to  return  to  bondage  and  death,  rather  than  violate 
his  oath. 

He  at  last  extorted  from  them  their  consent ;  and  departed  amid  the  tears  of  his  family,  the 
importunities  of  his  friends,  the  applauses  of  the  senate,  and  the  tumultuous  opposition  of  the 
people  :  and,  as  a  great  poet  of  his  own  nation  beautifully  observes,  “  he  embarked  for  Carthago 
fts  calm  and  unconcerned,  as  if,  on  finishing  the  tedious  lawsuits  of  his  clients,  he  was  retiring 
to  Venafrian  fields,  or  the  sweet  country  of  Tarentum.” 


This  piece  is  a  pretty  close  imitation  of  the  AttilioRegolo  of  Metastasio,  but  enlarged 
and  extended  into  a  tragedy  of  five  acts.  Historical  truth  has  in  general  been  followed,  except 
in  some  less  essential  instances,  particularly  that  of  placing  the  return  of  Regulus  to  Rome  pos¬ 
terior  to  the  death  of  his  wife.  The  writer  herself  never  considered  the  plot  as  sufficiently 
hustling  and  dramatic  for  representation. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 
PROLOGUE. 

WRITTEN  By  THE  REV.  DR.  LANGHOKNB. 


Deep  in  the  bosom  of  departed  days,  - 

MTiere  the  first  gems  of  human  glory  blaze  ; 
Where,  crown’d  with  flowers,  in  wreaths  im¬ 
mortal  dress’d, 

The  sacred  shades  of  ancient  virtue  rest ; 

With  joy  they  search,  who  joy  can  feel,  to  find 
Some  honest  reason  still  to  love  mankind. 

There  the  fair  foundress  of  the  scene  to-night, 
Explores  the  paths  that  dignify  delight ; 

The  regions  of  the  mighty  dead  pervades  ; 

The  sibyl  she  that  leads  us  to  the  shades. 

O  may  each  blast  of  ruder  breath  forbear 
To  waft  her  light  leaves  on  the  ruthless  air ; 
Since  she,  as  heedless,  strives  not  to  maintain 
This  tender  offspring  of  her  teeming  brain  ! 

For  this  poor  birth  was  no  provision  made, 

A  flower  that  sprung  and  languish’d  in  the  shade. 


On  Avon’s  banks,  forsaken  and  forlorn. 

This  careless  mother  left  her  elder  bom  ; 

And  though  unlike  what  Avon  hail’d  of  yore. 
Those  giant  sons  that  Shakspeare’s  banners 
bore. 

Yet  may  we  yield  this  little  offspling  grace, 

And  love  the  last  and  least  of  such  a  race. 
Shall  the  strong  scenes,  where  senatorial  Rome 
Mourn'd  o’er  the  rigour  of  a  patriot’s  doom  ; 
Where  melting  nature,  aw’d  by  virtue’s  eyb, 

.  Hid  the  big  drop,  and  held  the  bursting  sigh. 
Where  all  that  majesty  of  soul  can  give, 

Truth,  honour,  pity,  fair  affection  live  : 

Shall  scenes  like  these,  the  glory  of  an  age. 
Gleam  from  the  press,  nor  triumph  on  the  stage? 
Forbid  it,  Britons  !  and,  as  Romans  brave, 

Like  Romans  boast  one  citizen  to  save. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 


R'egxjlus. — Mr.  Henderson. 
Publius,  his  son. — Mr.  Dimond. 
Manlius,  the  Consul. — Mr.  Blissett 
Licinius,  a  Tribune. — Mr.  Brown 


Guards,  Lictors,  People,  &.c 
Scene.— -Near  the  Gales  of  Rome. 


Hamilcar,  the  Carthaginian  Ambassador.— 
Mr.  Rowhotkam. 

Attilia,  daughter  of  Regulus. — Miss  Mansell. 
Barce,  a  Carthaginian  captive. — Miss  Wheeler. 


ACT  I. 

Scene — A  Hall  in  the  CorisuVs  Palace. 
Enter  Licinius,  Attilia,  Lictors,  and  People. 

Lie.  Attilia  waiting  here  1  Is't  possible  1 
Is  this  a  place  for  Regulus’s  daughter  1 
Just  gods  !  must  that  incomparable  maid 
Associate  here  with  Lictors  and  Plebeians  1 
Alt.  Yes,  on  this  threshold  patiently  I  wait 
The  consul’s  coming  ;  I  would  make  him  blush 
To  see  me  here  his  suiter.  O,  Licinius, 

This  is  no  time  for  form  and  cold  decorum  ; 
Five  lagging  years  have  crept  their  tedious  round. 
And  Regulus,  alas  !  is  still  a  slave  ; 

A  wretched  slave,  unpitied,  and  forgotten  ; 

No  other  tribute  paid  his  memory. 

Than  the  sad  tears  of  his  unhappy  child  ; 

If  she  be  silent,  who  will  speak  for  Regulus  1 
Lie.  Let  not  her  sorrows  make  my  fair  unjust. 
Is  there  in  Rome  a  heart  so  dead  to  virtue. 
That  does  not  beat  in  Regulus’s  cause  1 
That  wearies  not  the  gods  for  his  return  1 
That  does  not  think  all  subjugated  Afric, 

A  slender,  unimportant  acquisition, 

If,  in  return  for  this  extended  empire. 

The  freedom  of  thy  father  be  the  purchase  1 
These  are  the  feelings  of  imperial  Rome  ; 

My  own,  it  were  superfluous  to  declare. 

For  if  Licinius  were  to  weigh  his  merit. 

That  he’s  thy  father  were  sufficient  glory. 

He  was  my  leader,  train’d  me  up  to  arms  ; 
And,  if  I  boast  a  spark  of  Roman  honour, 

I  owe  it  to  his  precepts  and  his  virtues. 

Ait.  And  yet  I  have  not  seen  Licinius  stir. 


Lie.  Ah  !  spare  me  thy  reproaches — ^what, 
when  late 

A  private  citizen,  could  I  attempt  : 

’Twas  not  the  lust  of  power,  or  pride  of  rank. 
Which  made  me  seek  the  dignity  of  tribune  ; 
No,  my  Attilia,  but  I  fondly  hop’d 
’Twould  strengthen  and  enforce  the  just  request, 
Which,  as  a  private  man,  I  vainly  urg’d ; 

But  now,  the  people’s  representative, 

I  shall  demand,  Attilia,  to  be  heard. 

Att.  Ah  !  let  us  not  too  hastily  apply 
This  dangerous  remedy  ;  I  would  not  rouse 
Fresh  tumults  ’twixt  the  people  and  the  senate : 
Each  views  with  jealousy  the  idol,  power, 
W^hich,  each  possessing,  would  alike  abuse. 
What  one  demands,  the  other  still  denies. 
Might  I  advise  you,  try  a  gentler  method  ; 

I  know  that  every  moment  Rome  expects 
Th’  ambassador  of  Carthage,  nay,  ’tis  said 
The  conscript  fathers  are  already  met 
To  give  him  audience  in  Bellona’s  temple. 

There  might  the  consul  at  my  suit,  Licinius, 
Propose  the  ransom  of  my  captive  father. 

Lk.  Ah  !  think,  Attilia,  who  that  consul  is, 
Manlius,  thy  father’s  rival,  and  his  foe  : 

His  ancient  rival,  and  his  foe  profess’d  : 

To  hope  in  him,  my  fair,  vwere  fond  delusion. 

Att.  Yet  tho’ his  rival,  Manlius,  \s  a  Roman: 
Nor  will  he  think  of  private  enmities. 

Weigh’d  in  the  balance  with  the  good  of  Rome, 
Let  me  at  least  make  trial  of  his  honour. 

Lie.  Be  it  so,  my  fair !  but  elsewhere  ffiako 
thy  suit ; 

Let  not  the  consul  meet  Attilia  here^ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


513 


Confounded  with  the  refuse  of  the  people. 

All.  Yes,  I  will  see  him  Aerc,  e’en  here,  Lici- 
nius. 

Let  Manlius  blush,  not  me  :  here  will  I  speak. 
Here  shall  he  answer  me. 

Lie.  Behold,  he  comes. 

All.  Do  thou  retire. 

Lie.  0,  bless  me  with  a  look. 

One  parting  look,  at  least. 

Alt.  Know,  my  Licinius, 

That  at  this  moment  I  am  all  the  daughter. 

The  filial  feelings  now  possess  my  soul, 

And  other  passions  find  no  entrance  there. 

Lie.  O  sweet,  yet  powerful  influence  of  virtue. 
That  charms  though  cruel,  though  unkind  sub- 
And  what  was  love  exalts  to  admiration  !  [dues. 
Yes,  ’tis  the  privilege  of  souls  like  thine 
To  conquer  most  when  least  they  aim  at  conquest. 
Yet,  ah  !  vouchsafe  to  think  upon  Licinius, 

Nor  fear  to  rob  thy  father  of  his  due ; 

For  surely  virtue  and  the  gods  approve 
Unwearied  constancy  and  spotless  love. 

[Exit  Licinius. 

Enter  Manlius. 

Alt.  Ah  !  Manlius,  stay,  a  moment  stay,  and 
hear  me. 

Man.  I  did  not  think  to  meet  thee  here,  Attilia ; 
The  place  so  little  worthy  of  the  guest. 

Alt.  It  would,  indeed,  have  ill  become  Attilia, 
While  still  her  father  was  a  Roman  citizen  ; 
But  for  the  daughter  of  a  slave  to  Carthage, 

It  surely  is  most  fitting. 

Man.  Say,  Attilia, 

What  is  the  purpose  of  thy  coming  hither  1 
Alt.  What  is  the  purpose,  patience,  pitying 
Heaven ! 

Tell  me,  how  long,  to  Rome’s  eternal  shame. 
To  fill  with  horror  all  the  wond’ring  world. 

My  father  still  must  groan  in  Punic  chains. 

And  waste  the  tedious  hours  in  cruel  bondage  1 
Days  follow  days,  and  years  to  years  succeed. 
And  Rome  forgets  her  hero,  is  content 
That  Regulus  b^e  a  forgotten  slave. 

What  is  his  crime  1  is  it  that  he  preferr’d 
His  country’s  profit  to  his  children’s  good  1 
Is  it  th’  unshaken  firmness  of  his  soul. 

Just,  uncorrupt,  and,  boasting,  let  me  speak  it, 

.  Poor  in  the  highest  dignities  of  Rome  1 
Illustrious  crime  !  0  glorious  poverty  i 
Man.  But  know,  Attilia — 

Ait.  0,  have  patience  with  me. 

And  can  ungrateful  Rome  so  soon  forget  1 
Can  those  who  breathe  the  air  he  breath’d  forget 
The  great,  the  godlike  virtues  of  my  father  1 
There’s  not  a  part  of  Rome  but  speaks  his  praise. 
Tlie  streets — thro’  them  the  hero  pass’d  trium- 
The /orum — there  the  legislator A  [phant : 
The  wisest,  purest  laws — the  senate-house — 
There  spoke  the  -patriot  Roman — there  his  voice 
Secur’d  the  public  safety  :  Manlius,  yes  ; 

The  wisdom  of  his  counsels  match’d  his  valour. 
Enter  the  temples — mount  the  capitol — 

And  tell  me,  Manlius,  to  what  hand  but  his 
They  owe  their  trophies,  and  their  ornaments. 
Their  foreign  banners,  and  their  boasted  ensigns, 
Tarentine,  Punic,  and  Sicilian  spoils  1 
Nay,  e’en  those  lictors  who  precede  thy  steps, 
VoL.  I. 


This  consul’s  purple  which  invests  thy  limbs, 
All,  all  were  Regulus’s,  were  my  father’s. 

And  yet  this  hero,  this  exalted  patriot. 

This  man  of  virtue,  this  immortal  Roman, 

In  base  requital  for  his  services, 

Is  left  to  linger  out  a  life  in  chains. 

No  honours  paid  him  but  a  daughter’s  tears. 

0  Rome  !  0  Regulus  !  0  thankless  citizens ! 
Man.  Just  are  thy  tears thy  father  well 
deserves  them ; 

But  knoW’  thy  censure  is  unjust,  Attilia. 

The  fate  of  Regulus  is  felt  by  all ; 

We  know  and  mourn  the  cruel  woes  he  suffers 
From  barbarous  Carthage. 

Alt.  Manlius,  you  mistake  ; 

Alas  !  it  is  not  Carthage  which  is  barbarous  ; 
’Tis  Rome,  ungrateful  Rome,  is  the  barbarian ; 
Carthage  but  punishes  a  foe  profess’d. 

But  Rome  betrays  her  hero  and  her  father  : 
Carthage  remembers  how  he  slew  her  sons. 

But  Rome  forgets  the  blood  he  shed  for  her : 
Carthage  revenges  an  acknowledged  foe. 

But  Rome  with  basest  perfidy  rewards 
The  glorious  hand  that  bound  her  brow  with 
laurels. 

Which  now  is  the  barbarian,  Rome  or  Carthage ! 
Man.  What  can  be  done  1 
Att.  A  woman  shall  inform  you. 

Convene  the  senate  ;  let  them  straight  propose 
A  ransom,  or  exchange  for  Regulus, 

To  Africa’s  ambassador.  Do  this. 

And  heav’n’s  best  blessings  crown  your  days 
with  peace. 

Man.  Thou  speakestlike  a  daughter,  I,  Attilia, 
Must  as  a  consul  act ;  I  must  consult 
The  good  of  Rome,  and  with  her  good,  her  glory. 
Would  it  not  tarnish  her  unspotted  fame. 

To  sue  to  Carthage  on  the  terms  thou  wishesti 
Att.  Ah !  rather  own  thou’rt  still  my  father’s 
foe. 

Man.  Ungen’rous  maid!  no  fault  of  mine 
concurr’d 

To  his  destruction.  ’Twas  the  chance  of  war. 
Farewell !  ere  this  the  senate  is  assembled — 
My  presence  is  requir’d. — Speak  to  the  fathers. 
And  try  to  soften  their  austerity ; 

My  rigour  they  may  render  vain,  for  know, 

I  am  Rome’s  consul,  not  her  king,  Attilia. 

[Exit  Manlius  with  the  lictors,  &c. 
Alt.  {alone.)  This  flattering  hope,  alas  !  has 
prov’d  abortive. 

One  consul  is  our  foe,  the  other  absent. 

What  shall  the  sad  Attilia  next  attempt  1 
Suppose  I  crave  assistance  from  the  people  ! 

Ah  !  my  unhappy  father,  on  what  hazards. 
What  strange  vicissitudes,  what  various  turns, 
Thy  life,  thy  liberty,  thy  all  depends  ! 

Enter  Barce  {m  haste). 

Bar.  Ah,  my  Attilia  ! 

Att.  Whence  this  eager  haste  1 

Bar.  Th’  ambassador  of  Carthage  is'  arriv’d. 
Att.  And  why  does  that  excite  such  won¬ 
drous  transport  1 

Bar.  I  bring  another  cause  of  greater  still. 
Alt.  Name  it,  my  Barce. 

Bar.  Regulus  comes  with  him. 

Att.  My  father  !  can  it  be  1 

2  K 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


514 

gar.  Thy  father — Regulus. 

Att.  Thou  art  deceiv’d,  or  thou  deceiv’st  thy 
frieitfi. 

Bar.  Indeed  I  saw  him  not,  but  every  tongue 
Speaks  the  glad  tidings. 

Enter  Publius. 

Att.  See  where  Publius  conies. 

Pub.  My  sister.  I’m  transported  !  Oh  Attilia, 
He’s  here,  our  father — Regulus  is  come ! 

Att.  I  thank  you,  gods  :  O  my  full  heart . 
where  is  he  I 

Hasten,  my  brother,  lead,  0  lead  me  to  him. 
Pub.  It  is  too  soon :  restrain  thy  fond  impa¬ 
tience. 

With  Africa’s  ambassador  he  waits. 

Until  th’  assembled  senate  give  him  audience. 
Att.  Where  was  he,  Publius,  when  thou 
saw’st  him  first  1 

Pub.  You  know,  in  quality  of  Roman  questor. 
My  duty  ’tis  to  find  a  fit  abode 
For  all  ambassadors  of  foreign  states. 

Hearing  the  Carthaginian  was  arriv’d, 

I  hasten’d  to  the  port,  when,  O  just  gods ! 

No  foreigner,  no  foe,  no  African 
Salutes  my  eye,  but  Regulus— my  father ! 

Att.  Oh  mighty  joy  !  too  exquisite  delight ! 
What  said  the  hero  1  tell  me,  tell  me  all. 

And  ease  my  anxious  breast. 

Pub.  Ere  I  arriv’d. 

My  father  stood  already  on  the  shore. 

Fixing  his  eyes  with  anxious  eagerness, 

As  straining  to  descry  the  capitol. 

I  saw,  and  flew  with  transport  to  embrace  him. 
Pronounced  with  wildest  joy  the  name  of  father — 
With  reverence  seiz’d  his  venerable  hand. 

And  would  have  kiss’d  it ;  when  the  awful  hero. 
With  that  stern  grandeur  which  made  Carthage 
tremble. 

Drew  back — stood  all  collected  in  himself. 

And  said  austerely,  Know,  thou  rash  young  man. 
That  slaves  i»  Rome  have  not  the  rights  of  fa¬ 
thers. 

Then  asked,  if  yet  the  senate  was  assembled. 
And  where  1  which  having  heard,  without  in¬ 
dulging 

The  fond  effusions  of  his  soul,  or  mine,  ■ 

He  suddenly  retired.  I  flew  with  speed 
To  find  the  consul,  but  as  yet,  success 
Attends  not  my  pursuit.  Direct  ine  to  him. 
Bar.  Publius,  you’ll  find  him  in  Bellona’s 
temple. 

Att.  Then  Regulus  returns  to  Rome  a  sla,ve  . 
Pub.  Yes,  but  be  comforted  ;  I  know  he  brings 
Proposals  for  a  peace  ;  his  will  s  his  fate. 

Att.  Rome  may  perhaps  refuse  to  treat  of 
peace. 

Pub.  Didst  thou  behold  the  universal  joy 
At  his  return,  thou  wouldst  not  doubt  success. 
TI.ere’s  not  a  tongue  in  Rome  but,  wild  with 
transport. 

Proclaims  aloud  that  Regulus  is  come  ! 

The  streets  are  filled  with  thronging  multitudes. 
Pressing  with  eager  gaze  to  catch  a  look. 

The  happy  man  who  can  descry  him  first. 
Points  him  to  his  next  neighbour,  ho  to  his ; 


Then  what  a  thunder  of  applause  goes  ronna ; 
What  music  to  the  ear  of  filial  love  ! 

Attilia  !  not  a  Roman  eye  was  seen. 

But  shed  pure  tears  of  exquisite  delight. 

Judge  of  my  feelings  by  thy  own,  my  sister. 

By  the  large  measure  of  thy  fond  affection, 

Judge  mine. 

Att.  Where  is  Licinius  1  find  him  out ; 

My  joy  is  incomplete  till  he  partakes  it. 

When  doubts  and  fears  have  rent  my  anxious 
In  all  my  woes  he  kindly  bore  a  part :  [hearty 
Felt  all  my  sorrows  with  a  soul  sincere. 

Sigh’d  as  I  sigh’d,  and  number’d  tear  for  tear : 
Now  favouring  heav’n  my  ardent  vows  has  blest. 
He  shall  divide  the  transports  of  my  breast. 

[Exit  Attilia. 

Pub.  Barce,  adieu ! 

Bar.  Publius,  a  moment  hear  me. 

Know’st  thou  the  name  of  Africa’s  ambassador? 
Pub.  Hamilcar  1 
Bar.  Son  of  Hanno  ? 

Pub.  Y es  !  the  same. 

Bar.  Ah  me  !  Hamilcar ! — How  shall  I  sup¬ 
port  it !  {aside.) 

Pub.  Ah,  charming  maid  !  the  blood  forsakes 
thy  cheek : 

Is  he  the  rival  of  thy  Publius  ?  speak. 

And  tell  me  all  the  rigour  of  my  fate. 

Bar.  Hear  me,  my  lord.  Since  I  have  been 
thy  slave, 

Thy  goodness,  and  the  friendship  of  Attilia, 
Have  soften’d  all  the  horrors  of  my  fate. 

Till  now  I  have  not  felt  the  weight  of  bondage. 
Till  now — ah,  Publius  ! — think  me  not  un¬ 
grateful, 

I  would  not  wrong  thee — I  will  be  sincere — 

I  will  expose  the  weakness  of  my  soul. 

Know  then,  my  lord — how  shall  I  tell  thee  all  ? 
Pub.  Stop,  cruel  maid,  nor  wound  thy  Publius 
more  ; 

I  dread  the  fatal  frankness  of  thy  words  : 

Spare  me  the  pain  of  knowing  I  am  scorn’d  ; 
And  if  thy  heart’s  devoted  to  another. 

Yet  do  not  tell  it  me  ;  in  tender  pity 
Do  not,  my  fair,  dissolve  the  fond  illusion. 

The  dear  delightful  visions  I  have  form’d 
Of  future  joy,  and  fond  exhaustless  love. 

[Exit  Publius. 
Bar.  {alone.)  And  shall  I  see  him  then,  see 
my  Hamilcar, 

Pride  of  my  soul,  and  lord  of  all  my  wishes  ? 
The  only  man  in  all  our  burning  Afric 
Who  ever  taught  my  bosom  how  to  love  ! 
Down,  foolish  heart  !  be  calm,  my  busy- 
thoughts  ! 

If  at  his  name  I  feel  these  strange  emotions, 
How  shall  I  see,  how  meet  my  conqueror  ? 

0  let  not  those  presume  to  judge  of  joy  [gives. 
Who  ne’er  have  felt  the  pangs  which  absence 
Such  tender  transport  those  alone  can  prove. 
Who  long,  like  me,  have  known  disastrous  love  j 
The  tears  that  fell,  the  sighs  that  once  were  paid. 
Like  grateful  incense  on  his  altar  laid  ; 

The  lambent  flame  rekindle,  not  destroy. 

And  woes  remember’d  heighten  present  joy. 

[Exit: 


THE  WOKKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


515 


ACT  II. 

Scene — The  inside  of  the  Temple  of  Bcllona — 
Seats  for  the  Senators  and  Ambassadors — 
Lictors  guarding  the  entrance. 

Manlius,  Publius,  and  Senators. 

Man.  Let  Regulus  be  sent  for  to  our  presence ; 
And  with  him  the  ambassador  o^  Carthage. 

Is  it  then  true  the  foe  would  beat  of  peace  I 
Pub.  They  wish  at  least  our  captives  were 
exchang’d. 

And  send  my  father  to  (declare  their  wish  : 

If  he  obtain  it,  well ;  A  not,  then  Regulus 
Returns  to  meet  the  vengeance  of  the  foe. 

And  pay  for  your  refusal  with  his  blood  : 

He  ratified  this  treaty  with  his  oath, 

And,  ere  he  quitted  Carthage,  heard,  unmov’d, 
The  dreadfiu  prepArations  for  his  death,  [men  ! 
Should  he  return.  O  Romans  !  0  my  country- 
Can  you  resign  your  hero  to  your  foe  1 
Say,  can  you  give  up  Regulus  to  Carthage  I 
Man.  Peace,  Publius,  peace,  for  see,  thy 
father  comes. 

Enter  Hamilcar  and  Regulus. 

Ham.  Why  dost  thou  stopi  dost  thou  forget 
this  temple  1 

I  thought  these  walls  had  been  well  known  to 
Regulus  1 

Reg.  Hamilcar !  I  was  thinking  what  I  was 
When  last  I  saw  them,  and  what  now  I  am. 
Ham.  {to  the  consul.)  Carthage,  by  me,  to 
Rome  this  greeting  sends  ; 

That,  wearied  out,  at  length,  with  bloody  war. 
If  Rome  inclines  to  peace,  she  offers  it. 

Man.  We  will  at  leisure  answer  thee.  Be 
seated. 

Come,  Regulus,  resume  thine  ancient  place. 
Reg.  {pointing  to  the  senators.)  Who  then 
are  these  1 

Man.  The  senators  of  Rome. 

Reg.  And  who  art  thou  1 
Man.  What  mean’st  thou  1  Pm  her  consul ; 
Hast  thou  so  soon  forgotten  Manlius  1  ■  [Rome, 
Reg.  And  shall  a  slave  then  have  a  place  in 
Ymong  her  consuls  and  her  senators'! 

Man.  Yes  ! — For  her  heroes  Rome  forgets 
Softens  their  harsh  austerity  for  thee,  [her  laws ; 
To  whom  she  owes  her  conquest  and  her  tri¬ 
umphs.  [bers. 

Reg.  Rome  may  forget,  but  Regulus  remem- 
Man.  Was  ever  man  so  obstinately  good! 

{Aside.) 

Pub.  {rising.)  Fathers,  your  pardon.  I  can  sit 
no  longer.  {To  the  senators.) 

Reg.  Publius,  what  dost  thou  mean  1 
Pub.  To  do  my  duty  ; 

Where  Regulus  must  stand,  shall  Publius  sit  1 
Reg.  Alas  !  O  Rome,  how  are  thy  manners 
chang’d  ! 

When  last  I  left  thee,  ere  I  sail’d  for  Afric, 

It  was  a  crime  to  think  of  private  duties 
When  public  cares  requir’d  attention. — Sit, 

<To  Pub.)  And  learn  to  occupy  thy  place  with 
honour. 

Pub.  Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  refuse  obedience  ; 
My  heart  o’erflows  with  duty  to  my  father. 


Reg.  Know,  Publius,  that  thy  duty’s  at  an 
Thy  father  died  when  he  became  a  slave,  [end  ; 
Man.  Now  urge  thy  suit,  Hamilcar,  we  at¬ 
tend.  *  [senger ; 

Ham.  Afric  hath  chosen  Regulus  her  me.s- 
In  him,  both  Carthage  and  Hamilcar  speak. 
Man.  {to  Reg.)  We  are  prepar’d  to  hear  thee. 
Ham.  {to  Reg.)  Ere  thou  speak’st 

Maturely  weigh  what  thou  hast  sworn  to  do. 
Should  Rome  refuse  to  treat  with  us  of  peace. 

Reg.  What  I  have  sworn  I  will  fulfil,  Ham- 
Be  satisfied.  [ilcar. 

Pub.  Ye  guardian  gods  of  Rome, 

With  your  own  eloquence  inspire  him  now  ! 

Reg.  Carthage  by  me  this  embassy  has  sent ; 
If  Rome  will  leave  her  undisturb’d  possession 
Of  all  she  now  enjoys,  she  offers  peace  ; 

But  if  you  rather  wish  protracted  war. 

Her  next  proposal  is,  exchange  of  captives ; — 
If  you  demand  advice  of  Regulus, 

Reject  them  both. — 

Ham.  What  dost  thou  mean! 

Pub.  My  father  ! 

Man.  Exalted  fortitude  !  I’m  lost  in  wonder. 
{Aside.)  [breath, 

Reg.  Romans!  I  will  not  .idly  spend  my 
To  show  the  dire  effects  of  such  a  peace  ; 

The  foes,  who  beg  it,  show  their  dread  of  war. 
Man.  But  the  exchange  of  prisoners  thou  pro- 
posest !  [nic  fraud. 

Reg.  That  artful  scheme  conceals  some  Pu- 
Ham.  Roman,  beware  !  hast  thou  so  soon 
forgotten  1 

Reg.  I  will  fulfil  the  treaty  I  have  sworn  to. 
Pub.  All  will  be  ruined. 

Reg.  Conscript  fathers  !  hear  me. —  [ills, 
Though  this  exchange  teems  with  a  thousand 
Yet  ’tis  th’  example  I  would  deprecate. 

This  treaty  fix’d,  Rome’s  honour  is  no  more ; 
Should  her  degenerate  sons  be  promis’d  life. 
Dishonest  life,  and  worthless  liberty. 

Her  glory,  valour,  military  pride. 

Her  fame,  her  fortitude,  her  all  were  lost. 

What  honest  captive  of  them  all  would  wish 
With  shame  to  enter  her  imperial  gates. 

The  flagrant  scourge  of  slavery  on  his  back ! 
None,  none,  my  friends,  would  wish  a  fate  so  vile. 
But  those  base  cowards  who  resign’d  their  arms. 
Unstain’d  with  hostile  blood,  and  poorly  sued. 
Through  ignominious  fear  of  death,  for  bond- 
age  ; 

The  scorn,  the  laughter,  of  th’  insulting  foe. 

0  shame  I  shame  !  shame  !  eternal  infamy  1 
Man.  However  hurtful  this  exchange  may  be, 
The  liberty,  the  life  of  Regulus, 

More  than  compensates  for  it. 

Reg.  Thou  art  mistaken. — 

This  Regulus  is  a  mere  mortal  man. 

Yielding  apace  to  all  th’  infirmities 
Of  weak,  decaying  nature. — I  am  old. 

Nor  can  my  future,  feeble  services. 

Assist  my  country  much  ;  but  mark  me  well ; 
The  young  fierce  heroes  you’d  restore  to  Car¬ 
thage, 

In  lieu  of  this  old  man,  are  her  chief  bulwarks. 
Fathers  !  in  vig’rous  youth  this  well-strung  arm 
Fought  for  my  country,  fought  and  conquer’d 
for  her : 


616 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


That  was  the  time  to  prize  its  service  high. 

Now,  weak  and  nerveless,  let  the  foe  possess  it, 

For  it  can- harm  them  in  the  field  no  more. 

Let  Carthage  have  the  poor,  degrading  triumph, 

To  close  these  failing  eyes  ;  but,  O,  my  coun¬ 
trymen  !  ■  ■  Kf  ■ 

Check  their  vain  hopes,  and  show  aspiring  Atric 
That  heroes  ^re  the  common  growth  ot  Koine. 
Man.  Unequall’d  fortitude. 

Pub.  O  fatal  virtue  !  [founds  me. 

Ham.  What  do  I  hearl  this  constancy  con- 
Man.  {to  the  senators.)  Let  honour  be  the 
spring  of  all  our  actions. 

Not  interest,  fathers.  Let  no  selfish  views 
Preach  safety  at  the  price  of  truth  and  justice. 
Reg.  If  Rome  would  thank  me,  I  will  teach 
her  how. 

—Know,  fathers,  that  these  savage  Africans 
Thought  me  so  base,  so  veiy  low  of  soul, 

That  the  poor,  wretched  privilege,  of  breathing, 
Would  force  me  to  betray  my  country  to  them. 
Have  these  barbarians  any  tortures  left. 

To  match  the  cruelty  of  such  a  thought  1 
Revenge  me,  fathers  !  and  I’m  still  a  Roman. 
Arm,  arm  yourselves,  prepare  your  citizens. 
Snatch  your  imprison’d  eagles  from  their  fanes. 
Fly  to  the  shores  of  Carthage,  force  her  gates. 

Die  every  Roman  sword  in  Punic  blood 
And  do  such  deeds — that  when  I  shall  return 
(As  I  have  sworn,  and  am  resolved  to  do), 

I  may  behold  with  joy,  reflected  back. 

The  terrors  of  your  rage  in  the  dire  visages 
Of  my  astonish’d  executioners.  [in  wonder  . 
Ham.  Surprise  has  chill’d  my  blood!  I’m  lost 
Pub.  Does  no  one  answer  1  must  my  father 
perish !  [question  . 

Man.  Romans,  we  must  defer  th’  important 
Maturest  counsels  must  determine  on  it. 

Rest  we  awhile  : — Nature  requires  some  pause 
From  high-rais’d  admiration.  Thou,  Hamilcar, 
Shalt  shortly  know  our  final  resolution. 
Meantime,  we  go  to  supplicate  the  gods. 

Reg.  Have  you  a  doubt  remaining  1  Man¬ 
lius,  speak. 

Man.  Yes,  Regulus,  I  think  the  danger  less 
To  lose  th’  advantage  thy  advice  suggests. 

Than  would  accrue  to  Rome  in  losing  thee. 
Whose  wisdcr.n  might  direct,  whose  valour 
guard  her. 

Athirst  for  glory  thou  wouldst  rush  on  death. 
And  for  thy  country’s  sake  wouldst  greatly  perish. 
Too  vast  a  sacrifice  thy  zeal  requires. 

For  Rome  must  bleed  when  Regulus  expires. 

Exeunt  consul  and  senators. 

Manent  Regulus,  Publius,  Hamilcar  ;  to 
them  enter  Attilia  and  Licinius. 

Ham.  Does  Regulus  fulfil  his  promise  thus  1 
Reg.  I’ve  promis’d  to  return,  and  I  will  do.it. 
Att.  My  father  !  think  a  moment. 

Lie.  Ah  !  my  friend  ! 

Lie.  and  Alt.  0,  by  this  hand,  we  beg — 

Hcg.  Away  !  no  more. 

Thanks  to  Rome’s  guardian  gods.  I’m  yet  a  slave. 
And  will  be  still  a  slave,  to  make  Rome  free  ! 
Att.  Was  the  exchange  refused  1  Oh!  ease 
my  fears. 

Reg.  Publius  !  conduct  Hamilcar  and  myselt 


To  the  abode  thou  hast  for  each  provided. 

Att.  A  foreign  residence  1  a  strange  abode  1 
And  will  my  father  spurn  his  household  gods  1 
Pub.  My  sire  a  stranger  1— Will  he  taste  no 
more 

The  smiling  blessings  of  his  cheerful  home  I 
Reg.  Dost  thou  not  know  the  laws  of  Romo 
A  foe’s  ambissador  within  her  gates  1  [forbid 
Pub.  This  ligid  law  does  not  extend  to  thee. 
Reg.  Yes  ;  dd  it  not  alike  extend  to  all, 
’Twere  tyranny. — The  law  rights  every  man, 
lit  favours  none. 

Att.  Ihen,  0  my  father. 

Allow  thy  daughter  to  prrtake  thy  fate  ! 

Reg.  Attilia  !  no.  The  present  exigence 
Demands  far  other  thoughts,  ^han  the  soft  cares, 
The  fond  effusions,  the  delightful  weakness. 

The  dear  affections  ’twixl  the  c'lfld  and  parent. 

•  Att.  How  is  my  father  chang'4  from  what 
I’ve  known  him  !  [Regulus, 

Reg.  The  fate  of  Regulus  is  cha-rg’d,  not 
I  am  the  same  ;  in  laurels  or  in  chains. 

’Tis  the  same  principle  ;  the  same  fix’d  sool. 
Unmov’d  itself,  though  circumstances  change. 

The  native  vigour  of  the  free-born  mind 
Still  struggles  with,  still  conquers,  adverse  fos- 
tune ; 

Soars  above  chains,  invincible  though  van¬ 
quish’d. 

[Exeunt  Regulus  and  Publius. 

Attilia,  Hamilcar,  going,  enter  Barce. 

Bar.  Ah  !  my  Hamilcar. 

Ham.  Ah  !  my  long-lost  Barce  . 

Again  I  lose  thee  ;  Regulus  rejects 
Th’  exchange  of  prisoners  Africa  proposes. 

My  heart’s  too  full.  Oh,  I  have  much  to  say  ! 
Bar.  Yet  you  unkindly  leave  me,  and  say 
nothing.  [loves, 

Ham.  Ah  !  didst  thou  love  as  thy  Hamilcar 
Words  were  superfluous  ;  in  my  eyes,  my  Barce, 
Thou’dst  read  the  tender  eloquence  of  love, 

Th’  uncounterfeited  language  of  niy  heart. 

A  single  look  betrays  the  soul’s  soft  feelings, 
And  shews  imperfect  speech  of  little  worth. 

[Exit  Hamilcar. 

Att.  My  father  then  conspires  his  own  de¬ 
ls  it  not  sol  [struction. 

Bar.  Indeed,  I  fear  it  much ; 

But  as  the  senate  has  not  yet  resolv’d,  [ment ; 
There  is  some  room  for  hope ;  lose  not  a  mo- 
And,  ere  the  conscript  fathers  are  assembled. 
Try  all  the  powers  of  winning  eloquence. 

Each  gentle  art  of  feminine  persuasion. 

The  love  of  kindred,  and  the  faith  of  friends. 

To  bend  the  rigid  Romans  to  thy  purpose. 

All.  Yes,  Barce,  I  will  go  ;  I  will  exert 
My  little  pow’r,  though  hopeless  of  success. 
Undone  Attilia !  fall’n  from  hope’s  gay  heights 
Down  the  dread  precipice  of  deep  despair. 

So  some  tir’d  mariner  the  coast  espies. 

And  his  lov’d  home  explores  with  straining  eyes ; 
Prepares  with  joy  to  quit  the  treacherous  deep, 
Hush’d  every  wave,  and  every  wind  asleep ; 
But,  ere  he  lands  upon  the  well-known  shore. 
Wild  storms  arise,  and  furious  billows  roar. 
Tear  the  fond  wretch  from  all  his  hopes  away, 
And  drive  his  shatter’d  bark  again  to  sea. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


617 


ACT  III. 

Scene — A  Portico  of  a  Palace  without  the 
gates  of  Rome. — The  abode  of  the  Cartha¬ 
ginian  ambassador. 

Enter  Regulus  and  Publius  meeting. 

Reg.  Ah  !  Publius  here  at  such  a  time  as 
this  1  [senate 

Know’st  thou  the  important  question  that  the 

This  very  hour  debate  1 — Thy  country’s  glory, 
Thy  father’s  honour,  and  the  public  good  1 
Dost  thou  know  this,  and  fondly  linger  here  1 
Pub,  They’re  not  yet  met,  my  father. 

Reg.  Haste — away — 

Support  my  counsel  in  th’  assembled  senate. 
Confirm  their  wav’ring  virtue  by  thy  courage. 
And  Regulus  shall  glory  in  his  boy;  [task. 

Pub.  Ah  !  spare  thy  son  the  most  ungrateful 
What ! — supplicate  the  ruin  of  my  father  1 
Reg.  The  good  of  Rome  can  never  hurt  her 
sons. 

Pub.  In  pity  to  thy  children,  spare  thyself. 
Reg.  Dost  thou  then  think  that  mine’s  a 
frantic  bravery  1 

That  Regulus  would  rashly  seek  his  fate  1 
Publius  !  how  little  dost  thou  know  thy  sire  ! 
Misjudging  youth  !  learn,  that  like  other  men, 

I  shun  the  evil,  and  I  seek  the  good ; 

But  that  I  find  in  guilt,  and  this  in  virtue. 

Were  it  not  guilt,  guilt  of  the  blackest  die. 

Even  to  think  of  freedom  at  th’  expense 
Of  my  dear  bleeding  country  1  to  me,  therefore. 
Freedom  and  life  would  be  the  heaviest  evils  ; 
But  to  preserve  that  country,  to  restore  her, 

To  heal  her  wounds,  though  at  the  price  of  life, 
Or,  what  is  dearer  far,  the  price  of  liberty. 

Is  virtue — therefore,  slavery  and  death 
Are  Regulus’s  good — his  wish — his  choice. 

Pub.  Yet  sure  our  country - 

Reg.  Is  a  whole,  my  Publius, 

Of  which  we  all  are  farts,  nor  should  a  citizen 
Regard  his  interests  as  distinct  from  hers ; 

No  hopes  or  fears  should  touch  his  patriot  soul. 
But  what  affect  her  honour  or  her  shame. 

E’en  when  in  hostile  fields  he  bleeds  to  save  her, 
’Tis  not  his  blood  he  loses,  ’tis  his  country's ; 

He  only  pays  her  back  a  debt  he  owes. 

To  her  he’s  bound  for  birth  and  education : 

Her  laws  secure  him  from  domestic  feuds. 

And  from  the  foreign  foe  her  arms  protect  him. 
She  lends  him  honours,  dignity,  and  rank. 

His  wrongs  revenges,  and  his  merit  pays  ; 

And,  like  a  tender  and  indulgent  mother. 

Loads  him  with  comforts,  and  would  make  his 
state 

As  blest  as  nature  and  the  gods  design’d  it. 

Such  gifts,  my  son,  have  their  alloy  of  pain. 

And  let  th’  unworthy  wretch,  who  will  not  bear 
His  portion  of  the  public  burden,  lose 
Th’  advantages  it  yields  ; — let  him  retire 
From  the  dear  blessings  of  a  social  life. 

And  from  the  sacred  laws  which  guard  those 
blessings ;  , 

Renounce  the  civiliz’d  abodes  of  man. 

With  kindred  brutes  one  common  shelter  seek 
In  horrid  wilds,  and  dens,  and  dreary  caves. 

And  with  their  shaggy  tenants  share  the  spoil ; 
Or,  if  the  savage  hunters  miss  their  prey, 


From  scatter’d  acorns  pick  a  scanty  meal, — • 
Far  from  the  sweet  civilities  of  life  ;  [dom; 
There  let  him  live,  and  vaunt  his  wretched  free- 
While  we,  obedient  to  the  laws  that  guard  us. 
Guard  them,  and  live  or  die  as  they  decree. 
Pub.  With  reverence  and  astonishment  I  bear 
thee ! 

Thy  words,  my  father,  have  convinc’d  my  reason, 
But  cannot  touch  my  heart ; — nature  denies 
Obedience  so  repugnant.  I’m  a  son. 

Reg.  A  poor  excuse,  unworthy  of  a  Roman  . 
Brutus,  Virginius,  Manlius — they  were  fathers. 
Pub.  »Tis  true,  they  were  ;  but  this  heroic 
This  glorious  elevation  of  the  soul,  [greatness, 
Has  been  confin’d  to  fathers, — Rome,  till  now. 
Boasts  not  a  son  of  such  unnatural  virtue. 
Who,  spurning  all  the  powerful  ties  of  blood,  • 
Has  labour’d  to  procure  his  father’s  death. 

Reg.  Then  be  the  first  to  give  the  great  ex¬ 
ample — 

Go,  hasten,  be  thyself  that  son,  my  Publius. 
Pub.  My  father,  ah  ! 

Reg.  Publius,  no  more  ;  begone— 

Attend  the  senate — let  me  know  my  fate ; 

’Twill  be  more  glorious  if  announc’d  by  thee. 
Pub.  Too  much,  too  much,  thy  rigid  virtue 
claims 

From  thy  unhappy  son.  O  nature,  nature  ! 

Reg.  Publius  !  am  I  a  stranger,  or  thy  father  1 
In  either  case  an  obvious  duty  waits  thee  ; 

If  thou  regard’st  me  as  an  alien  here. 

Learn  to  prefer  to  mine  the  good  of  Rome  ; 

If  as  a  father — ^reverence  my  commands,  [sou!. 
Pub.  Ah  !  couldst  thou  look  into  my  inmost 
And  see  how  warm  it  burns  with  love  and  duty. 
Thou  wouldst  abate  the  rigour  of  thy  words. 

Reg.  Could  I  explore  the  secrets  of  thy  breast. 
The  virtue  I  would  wish  should  flourish  there 
Were  fortitude,  not  weak,  complaining  love. 

Pub.  If  thou  requir’st  my  blood.  I’ll  shed  it  all  ; 
But  when  thou  dost  enjoin  the  harsher  task 
That  I  should  labour  to  procure  thy  death. 
Forgive  thy  son — he  has  not  so  much  virtue. 

[Exit  Publius. 

Reg.  Th’  important  hour  draws  on,  and  now 
my  soul 

Loses  her  wonted  calmness,  lest  the  senate 
Should  doubt  what  answer  to  return  to  Car 
0  ye  protecting  deities  of  Rome  !  [thage. 
Y e  guardian  gods  !  look  down  propitious  on  her 
Inspire  her  senate  with  your  sacred  wisdom. 
And  call  up  all  that’s  Roman  in  their  souls  1 

Enter  Manlius  {speaking). 

See  that  the  lictors  wait,  and  guard  the  en  • 
Take  care  that  none  intrude.  [trance — 

Reg.  Ah  !  Manlius  here  1 

What  can  this  mean  1 

Man.  Where,  where  is  Regulus  I 

The  great,  the  godlike,  the  invincible  1 
Oh,  let  me  strain  the  hero  to  my  breast. — 

Reg.  {avoiding  him.)  Manlius,  stand  off,  re¬ 
member  I’m  a  slave  1 
And  thou  Rome’s  consul. 

Man.  I  am  something  more : 

i  am  a  man  enamour’d  of  thy  virtues  ; 

Thy  fortitude  and  courage  have  subdued  me. 

I  was  thy  rival — I  am  now  thy  friend ; 


618 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Allow  me  that  distinction,  dearer  far 
Than  all  the  honours  Rome  can  give  without  it. 

Re<r.  This  is  the  temper  still  of  noble  minds, 
And  these  the  blessings  of  an  humble  fortune. 

Had  I  not  been  a  slave,  I  ne’er  had  gain  d 
The  treasure  of  thy  friendship. 

Man.  I  confess, 

Thy  grandeur  cast  a  veil  before  my 
Which  the  reverse  of  fortune  has  renaov  d. 

Oft  have  I  seen  thee  on  the  day  of  triumph, 

A  conqueror  of  nations,  enter  Rome  , 

Now,  thou  hast  conquer’d /ormne  and  thyselj. 

Thy  laurels  oft  have  mov’d  my  soul  to  envy. 

Thy  chains  awaken  my  respect,  my  reverence  ; 
Then  Regulus  appear’d  a  hero  to  me. 

He  rises  now  a  god. 

yjeg.  Manlius,  enough. 

Cease  thy  applause  ;  ’tis  dang’rous  ;  praise  like 

thine  ,  •  • 

Might  tempt  the  most  severe  and  cautious  virtue. 
Bless’d  be  the  gods,  who  gild  my  latter  days 
With  the  bright  glory  of  the  consul’s  friendship  . 
Man.  Forbid  it,  Jove  1  saidst  thou  thy  latter 
days  1 

May  gracious  heav’n  to  a  far  distant  hour 
Protract  thy  valued  life.  Be  it  my  care 
To  crown  the  hopes  of  thy  admiring  country. 

By  giving  back  her  long-lost  hero  to  her. 

I  will  exert  my  power  to  bring  about 
Th’  exchange  of  captives  Africa  proposes. 

Reg.  Manlius,  and  is  it  thus,  is  this  the  way 
Thou  dost  begin  to  give  me  proofs  of  friendship  ; 
Ah  !  if  thy  love  be  so  destructive  to  me. 

What  would  thy  hatred  be  1  ,  Mistaken  consul . 
Shall  I  then  lose  the  profit  of  my  wrongs'! 

Be  thus  defrauded  of  the  benefit 
I  vainly  hoped  from  all  my  years  of  bondage  ! 

I  did  not  come  to  show  my  chains  to  Rome, 

To  move  my  country  to  a  weak  compassion ; 

I  came  to  save  her  honour,  to  preserve  her 
From  tarnishing  her  glory ;  came  to  snatch  her 
From  offers  so  destructive  to  her  fame. 

O  Manlius  !  either  give  me  proofs  more  worthy 
A  Roman’s  friendship,  or  renew  thy  hate. 

Man.  Dost  thou  not  know,  that,  this  exchange 
Inevitable  death  must  be  thy  fate  1  [refus  d, 
Reg.  And  has  the  name  of  death  such  terror 

in  it,  , 

To  strike  with  dread  the  mighty  soul  of  Manlius  . 
’Tis  not  to-day  I  learn  that  I  am  mortal. 

The  foe  can  only  take  from  Regulus 
What  wearied  nature  would  have  shortly  yield- 
It  will  be  now  a  voluntary  gift,  [ed  ; 

’Twould  then  become  a  tribute  seiz  d,  not  offer  d. 
Yes,  Manlius,  tell  the  world  that  as  I  lived 
For  Rome  alone,  when  I  could  live  no  longer, 
’Twas  my  last  care  how,  dying,  to  assist. 

To  save  that  country  I  had  lived  to  serve. 

Man.  0  unexampled  worth !  O  godlike  Reg- 

ulus !  •  ,  I 

Thrice  happy  Rome  !  unparalleled  in  heroes  . 
Hast  thou  then  sworn,  thou  awfully  good  man  . 
Never  to  bless  the  consul  with  thy  friendship  . 
Reg.  If  thou  wilt  love  me,  love  me  like  a 
Roman. 

These  are  the  terms  on  which  I  take  thy  friend- 
We  both  must  make  a  sacrifice  to  Rome, 

I  of  my  life,  and  thou  of  Regulus  : 


One  must  resign  his  being,  one  his  friena. 

It  is  but  just,  that  what  procures  our  country 
Such  real  blessings,  such  substantial  good. 
Should  cost  thee  something — I  shall  lose  but 
little. 

Go  then,  my  friend !  but  promise,  ere  thou  goest, 
With  all  the  consular  authority. 

Thou  wilt  support  my.  counsel  in  the  senate. 

If  thou  art  willing  to  accept  these  terms,  [s^ip- 
With  transport  I  embrace  thy  proffer’d  friend- 
Man.  (after  a  pause.)  Yes,  I  do  promise. 
Reg.  Bounteous  gods,  I  thank  you . 

Ye  never  gave,  in  all  your  round  of  blessing, 

A  gift  so  greatly  welcome  to  my  soul. 

As  Manlius*  friendship  on  the  terms  of  honour ! 

Man.  Immortal  Powers !  why  am  not  I  a  slave  1 
By  heav’n  !  -t  almost  envy  thee  thy  bonds. 

Reg.  My  friend !  there’s  not  a  moment  to  be 

Ere  this,  perhaps,  the  senate  is  assembled. 

To  thee,  and  to  thy  virtues,  I  commit 
The  dignity  of, Rome— my  peace  and  honour. 
Man.  Illustrious  man,  farewell 
jlgg  Farewell,  my  friend ! 

Man.  The  sacred  flame  thou  hast  kindled  in 
my  soul 

Glows  in  each  vein,  trembles  in  every  nerve. 
And  raises  me  to  something  more  than  man. 
My  blood  is  fired  with  virtue,  and  with  Rome, 
And  every  pulse  beats  an  alarm  to  glory. 

Who  would  not  spurn  a  sceptre  when  compar  d 
With  chains  like  thine  1  Thou  man  of  every 
■  virtue, 

0  farewell !  may  all  the  gods  protect  and  bless 

[Ent  Mawlius. 


Enter  Licinius. 

Reg.  Now  I  begin  to  live  :  propitious  Heaven 
Inclines  to  favour  me. — Licinius  here  . 

Lie.  With  joy,  my  honour  d  friend,  I  seek 
thy  presence. 

Reg.  And  why  with  joy  ■! 

Because  my  heart  once  more 

Beats  high  with  flattering  hope.  In  thy  great 
I  have  been  labouring.  .  [cause 

p  „  Say’st  thou  m  my  cause  1 

Lie.  In  thine  and  Rome’s.  Does  it  excite 

thy  wonder  1  ,  /•  t  •  •  • 

Couldst  thou  then  think  so  poorly  of  Licinius, 
That  base  ingratitude  could  find  a  place 
Within  his  bosom  1 — Can  I  then  forget 
Thy  thousand  acts  of  friendship  to  my  youth  . 
Forget  them  too  at  that  important  moment 
When  most  I  might  assist  thee  '!— Regulus, 
Thou  wast  my  leader,  general,  father— aU. 

Didst  thou  not  teach  me  early  how  to  tread 
The  path  of  glory  ;  point  the  way  thyself. 

And  bid  me  follow  thee  1 

jlgg_  But  say,  Licinius, 

What  hast  thou  done  to  serve  me  1 
Bic.  I  have  defended 

Thy  liberty  and  life ! 

jlgg  Ah  !  speak — explain.— 

■  Lie.  Just  as  the  fathers  were  about  to  meet, 
I  hasten’d  to  the  temple — at  the  entrance 
Their  passage  I  retarded,  by  the  force 
Of  strong  entreaty  ;  then  address  d  myseU 
So  well  to  each,  that  I  from  each  obtam  d 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


519 


.  A  declaration,  that  his  utmost  power 
Should  be  exerted  for  thy  life  and  freedom. 

Reg.  Great  gods  !  what  do  I  hear  1  Licindus 
too ! 

Lie.  Not  he  alone  ;  no,  ’twere  indeed  unjust 
To  rob  the  fair  Attilia  of  her  claim 
To  filial  merit. — What  I  could,  I  did.  [earth, 
But  she — thy  charming  daughter — heav’n  and 
What  did  she  not,  to  save  her  father  1 
Reg.  Who  1 

Lie.  Attilia,  thy  belov’d — thy  age’s  darling ! 
Was  ever  father  bless’d  with  such  a  child  ! 
Gods  !  how  her  looks  took  captive  all  who  saw 
How  did  her  soothing  eloquence  subdue  [her  ! 
The  stoutest  hearts  of  Rome  !  How  did  she  rouse 
Contending  passions  in  the  breasts  of  all ! 

How  sweetly  temper  dignity  with  grief! 

With  what  a  soft,  inimitable  grace,  [sooth’d. 
She  prais’d,  reproach’d,  entreated,  flatter’d, 
Reg.  What  said  the  senators  1 
Lie.  ■  What  could  they  say  1 

Who  could  resist  the  lovely  conqueror  1 
See  where  she  comes — Hope  dances  in  her  eyes. 
And  lights  up  all  her  beauties  into  smiles. 

Enter  Attilia. 

Alt.  Once  more,  my  dearest  father — 

Reg.  Ah,  presume  not 

To  call  me  by  that  name.  For  know,  Attilia, 

I  number  thee  among  the  foes  of  Regulus. 

Alt.  What  do  I  hear  1  thy  foe  1  my  father’s 
foe  1  [glory- 

Reg.  His  worst  of  foes — the  murd’rer  of  his 
Alt.  Ah  !  is  it  then  a  proof  of  enmity 
To  wish  thee  all  the  good  that  gods  can  give  thee. 
To  yield  my  life,  if  needful,  for  thy  service  1 
Reg.  Thou  rash,  imprudent  girl  I  thou  little 
know’st 

The  dignity  and  weight  of  public  cares. 

Who  made  a  weak  and  inexperienc’d  woman 
The  arbiter  of  Regulus’s  fate  1 
Lie.  For  pity’s  sake,  my  Lord  ! 

Reg.  Peace,  peace,  young  man ! 

Her  silence  better  than  thy  language  pleads. 
That  bears  at  least  the  semblance  of  repentance. 
Immortal  powers  ! — A  daughter  and  a  Roman  1 
Att.  Because  1  am  a  daughter,  I  presum’d — 
Lie.  Because  I  am  a  Roman,  I  aspired 
T’  oppose  th’  inhuman  rigour  of  thy  fate. 

Reg.  Nomore,  Licinius.  How  can  he  be  call’d 
A  Roman,  who  would  live  with  infamy  1 
Or  how  can  she  be  Regulus’s  daughter. 

Whose  coward  mind  wants  fortitude  and  honour  1 
Unhappy  children  !  now  you  make  me  feel 
The  burden  of  my  chains  :  your  feeble  souls 
Have  made  me  know  I  am  indeed  a  slave. 

\_Exit  Regulus. 
Att.  Tell  me,  Licinius,  and  oh !  tell  me  truly. 
If  thou  believ’st  in  all  the  round  of  tune 
There  ever  breath’d  a  maid  so  truly  wretched  1 
To  weep,  to  mourn,  a  father’s  cruel  fate — 

To  love  him  with  soul-rending  tenderness: — 

To  know  no  peace  by  day,  or  rest  by  night — 
To  bear  a  bleeding  heart  in  this  poor  bosom, 
Which  aches  and  trembles  but  to  think  he  suffers  : 
This  is  my  crime — in  any  other  child 
*Twould  be  a  merit. 

Lie.  Oh  !  my  best  Attilia ! 


Do  not  repent  thee  of  the  pious  deed  : 

It  was  a  virtuous  error.  That  in  us 
Is  a  just  duty,  which  the  godlike  soul 
Of  Regulus  would  think  a  shameful  weakness. 
If  the  contempt  of  life  in  him  be  virtue, 

It  were  in  us  a  crime  to  let  him  perish. 

Perhaps  at  last  he  may  consent  to  live  ; 

He  then  will  thank  us  ror  our  cares  to  save  him; 
Let  not  his  anger  fright  thee.  Though  our  love 
Offend  him  now,  yet,  when  his  mighty  soul 
Is  reconcil’d  to  life,  he  will  not  chide  us. 

The  sick  man  loathes,  and  with  reluctance  takes 
The  remedy  by  which  his  health’s  restor’d. 

'  Att.  Licinius!  his  reproaches  wound  my  souL 
I  cannot  live,  and  bear  his  indignation. 

Lie.  Would  my  Attilia  rather  lose  her  father 
Than,  by  offending  him,  preserve  his  life  1 
Att.  Ah!  no.  Ifhe  but  live,  I  am  contented. 
Lie.  Yes,  he  shall  live,  and  we  again  be 
bless’d  ; 

Then  dry  thy  tears,  and  let  those  lovely  orbs 
Beam  with  their  wonted  lustre  on  Licinius, 

Who  lives  but  in  the  sunsliine  of  thy  smiles. 

l^Exit  Licinius. 
Att.  {alone.)  Oh  Fortune,  Fortune,  thou  ca- 
pi.'-"ious  goddess ! 

Thy  frowns  and  favours  have  alike  no  bounds  ; 
Unjust  or  prodigal,  in  each  extreme. 

When  thou  wouldst  humble  human  vanity, 

By  singling  out  a  wretch  to  bear  thy  wrath. 
Thou  crusliest  him  with  anguish  to  excess  ; 

If  thou  wouldst  bless,  thou  mak’st  the  happiness 
Too  poignant  for  his  giddy  sense  to  bear. — 
Immortal  gods,  who  rule  the  fates  of  men. 
Preserve  my  father !  bless  him,  bless  him, 
heav’n ! 

If  your  avenging  thunderbolts  must  fall. 

Strike  here — this  bosom  will  invite  the  blow, 

!  And  thank  you  for  it :  but  in  mercy  spare^ 

Oh  !  spare  his  sacred,  venerable  head ; 

Respect  in  him  an  image  of  yourselves  ; 

And  leave  a  world,  who  wants  it,  an  example 
Of  courage,  wisdom,  constancy,  and  truth. 

Yet  if.  Eternal  Powers  who  rule  this  ball ! 
You  have  decreed  that  Regulus  must  fall; 
Teach  me  to  yield  to  your  divine  command, 

And  meekly  bow  to  your  correcting  hand ; 
Contented  to  resign,  or  pleas’d  receive. 

What  reason  may  withhold,  or  mercy  give. 

\_Exit  Attilia. 

ACT  IV. 

Scene — Gallery  in  the  Ambassador's  Palace. 

Reg.  {alone.)  Be  calm  my  soul !  what  strange 
emotions  shake  thee  ! 

Emotions  thou  hast  never  felt  till  now. 

Thou  hast  defied  the  dangers  of  the  deep, 

Th’  impetuous  hurricane,  the  thunder’s  roar. 
And  all  the  terrors  of  the  various  war  ; 

Yet,  now  thou  tremblest,  fearful  and  dismay’d. 
With  anxious  expectation  of  thy  fate. — 

Yes,  thou  hast  amplest  reason  for  thy  fears  ; 

For  till  this  hour,  so  pregnant  with  events. 

Thy  fame  and  glory  never  were  at  stake. 

Soft — let  me  think — what  is  this  thing  called 
glory  ? 

’Tis  the  soul’s  tyrant,  that  should  be  dethron’d. 
And  learn  subjection  like  her  other  passions 


620 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Ah  no !  ’tis  false  :  this  is  the  coward’s  plea ; 
The  lazy  language  of  refining  vice. 

That  man  was  born  in  vain,  whose  wish  to  serve 
Is  circumscribed  within  the  wretched  bounds 
Of  self — a  narrow,  miserable  sphere  ! 

Glory  exalts,  enlarges,  dignifies. 

Absorbs  the  selfish  in  t^  social  claims. 

And  renders  man  a  blessing  to  mankind. — 

It  is  this  principle,  this  spark  of  deity, 

Rescues  debased  humanity  from  guilt. 

And  elevates  it  by  her  strong  excitements. — 

It  takes  off  sensibility  from  pain,  [death ; 

From  peril,  fear  ;  plucks  out  the  sting  from 
Changes  ferocious  into  gentle  manners  ; 

And  teaches  men  to  imitate  the  gods. 

It  shows, — but  see,  alas  !  where  Publius  comes. 
Ah !  he  advances  with  a  downcast  eye. 

And  step  irresolute. — 

Enter  Publius. 


Rtg.  My  Publius,  welcome  ! 

What  tidings  dost  thou  bring  1  What  says  the 
senate  1 

Is  yet  my  fate  determin’d  1  quickly  tell  me. — 
Pub.  I  cannot  speak,  and  yet,  alas  !  I  must. 
Reg.  Tell  me  the  whole. — 

Pub.  Would  I  were  rather  dumb  1 

Reg.  Publius,  no  more  delay ; — I  charge  thee 
speak.  [part. 

Pub.  The  senate  has  decreed  you  shall  de- 
Reg’.  Blest  spirit  of  Rome  !  thou  hast  at  last 
prevail’d — 

I  thank  the  gods,  I  have  not  lived  in  vain  ! 
Where  is  Hamilcar  1 — ^find  him — ^let  us  go. 

For  Regulus  has  naught  to  do  in  Rome  ; 

I  have  accomplish’d  her  important  work. 

And  must  depart. 

Pub.  Ah,  my  unhappy  father ! 

Reg.  Unhappy t  Publius  !  didst  thou  say  mti- 
happy  1 

Does  he,  does  that  blest  man  deserve  this  name. 
Who  to  his  latest  breath  can  serve  his  country  1 
Pub.  Like  thee,  my  father,  I  adore  my 


country. 

Yet  weep  with  anguish  o’er  thy  cruel  chains. 

Reg.  Dost  thou  not  know  that  life's  a  slavery  1 
The  body  is  the  chain  that  binds  the  soul ; 

A  yoke  that  every  mortal  must  endure. 

Wouldst  thou  lament — lament  the  general  fate. 
The  chain  that  nature  gives,  entail’d  on  all. 

Not  these  I  wear. 

Pub.  Forgive,  forgive  my  sorrows  : 

f  know,  alas !  too  well,  those  fell  barbarians 
Intend  thee  instant  death. 

jleg.  So  shall  my  life 

And  servitude  together  have  an  end. — 

Publius,  farewell !  nay,  do  not  follow  me. 

Pub.  Alas !  my  father,  if  thou  ever  lov’dst 
Refuse  me  not  the  mournful  consolation  [me. 
To  pay  the  last  sad  offices  of  duty 
I  e’er  can  show  thee. — 

Reg.  No  ! — thou  canst  fulfil 

Thy  duty  to  thy  father  in  a  way 
More  grateful  to  him :  I  must  straight  embark. 
Be  it  meanwhile  thy  pious  care  to  keep 
My  lov’d  Attilia  from  a  sight,  I  fear. 

Would  rend  her  gentle  heart.  Her  tears,  my  son. 
Would  dim  the  glories  of  thy  father’s  triumph. 


Her  sinking  spirits  are  subdued  by  grief. 

And,  should  her  sorrows  pass  the  bounds  of  rea- 
Publius,  have  pity  on  her  tender  age  ;  [son. 
Compassionate  the  weakness  of  her  sex ; 

We  must  not  hope  to  find  in  her  soft  soul 
The  strong  exertion  of  a  manly  courage. — 
Support  her  fainting  spirit,  and  instruct  her, 

By  thy  example,  how  a  Roman  ought 

To  bear  misfortune.  O,  indulge  her  weakness  I  ’ 

And  be  to  her  the  father  she  will  lose. 

I  leave  my  daughter  to  thee — I  do  more — 

I  leave  to  thee  the  conduct  of — thyself. 

— Ah,  Publius  !  I  perceive  thy  courage  fails-  - 
I  see  the  quivering  lip,  the  starting  tear ; — 

That  lip,  that  tear  calls  down  my  mounting  soul. 
Resume  thyself — oh  !  do  not  blast  my  hope  ! 

Yes — I’m  composed — thou  wilt  not  mock  my 
age — 

Thou  art — thou  art  a  Roman — and  my  son. 

[Exit. 

Pub.  And  is  he  gonel — ^now  be  thyself,  my 
soul — 

Hard  is  the  conflict,  but  the  triumph  glorious. 
Yes, — I  must  conquer  these  too  tender  feelings 
The  blood  that  fills  these  veins  demands  it  of 
My  father’s  great  example,  too,  requires  it.  [me  ; 
Forgive  me,  Rome,  and  glory,  if  I  yielded 
To  nature’s  strong  attack  : — I  must  subdue  it. 
Now,  Regulus,  I  feel  I  am  thy  son. 

Enter  Attilla  and  Barce. 

Att.  My  brother,  I’m  distracted,  wild  with 
fear — 

Tell  me,  0  tell  me,  what  I  dread  to  know— 

Is  it,  then,  true  1 — I  cannot  speak — my  father  ? 
Bar.  May  we  believe  the  fatal  news  1 
Pub.  Yes,  Barca 

It  is  determin’d.  Regulus  must  go. 

Att.  Immortal  powers! — What  say’st  thou?. 
Bar.  Can  it  be  1 

Thou  canst  not  mean  it. 

Att.  Then  you’ve  all  betrayed  me. 

Pub.  Thy  grief  avails  not. 

Enter  Hamilcar  and,  Licinius. 

Bar.  Pity  Hamilcar  ! 

Att.  Oh,  help,  Licinius,  help  the  lost  Attilia ! 
Ham.  My  Barce  !  there’s  no  hope. 

Bic.  Ah !  my  fair  mourner, 

lost  I 

Att.  What,  all,  Licinius  1  saidst  thou  all  ? 
Not  one  poor  glimpse  of  comfort  left  behind  t 
Tell  me  at  least  where  Regulus  is  gone  : 

The  daughter  shall  partake  the  father’s  chains,. 
And  share  the  woes  she  knew  not  to  prevent. 

[Going. 

Pub.  What  would  thy  wild  despair  ?  Attiha, 
stay. 

Thou  must  not  follow  ;  this  excess  of  grief 
Would  much  offend  him. 

j[tt.  Dost  thou  hope  to  stop  me  ? 

Pub.  I  hope  thou  wilt  resume  thy  better  self,. 
And  recollect  thy  father  will  not  bear — 

Att.  I  only  recollect  I  am  a  daughter, 

A  poor,  defenceless,  helpless,  wretched  daugh- 
A.way — and  let  me  follow.  [ter  . 

Pub.  No,  my  sister. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  ' 


521 


Att.  Detain  me  not — Ah !  while  thou  hold’st 
me  here, 

He  goes,  and  I  shall  never  see  him  more. 

Bar.  My  friend,  be  comforted,  he  cannot  go 
Whilst  here  Hamilcar  stays. 

Att.  0,  Barce,  Barce ! 

Who  will  advise,  who  comfort,  who  assist  me  1 
Hamilear,  pity  me. — Thou  wilt  not  answer  1 
Ham.  Rage  and  astonishment  divide  my  soul. 
Att.  Licinius,  wilt  thou  not  relieve  my  sor¬ 
rows! 

Lie.  Yes,  at  my  life’s  expense,  my  heart’s 
Wouldst  thou  instruct  me  how.  [best  treasure, 
Att.  My  brother,  too — 

Ah  !  look  with  mercy  on  thy  sister’s  woes  ! 
Pub.  I  will  at  least  instruct  thee  how  to 
hear  them. 

My  sister — ^yield  thee  to  thy  adverse  fate  ; 
Think  of  thy  father,  think  of  Regulus  ; 

Has  he  not  taught  thee  how  to  brave  misfortune ! 
’Tis  but  by  following  his  illustrious  steps 
Thou  e’er  canst  merit  to  be  call’d  his  daughter. 

Att.  And  is  it  thus  thou  dost  advise  thy  sister  1 
Are  these,  ye  gods,  the  feelings  of  a  son  1 
Indifference  here  becomes  impiety — 

Thy  savage  heart  ne’er  felt  the  dear  delights 
Of  filial  tenderness — the  thousand  joys 
That  flow  from  blessing  and  from  being  bless’d  ! 
No — didst  thou  love  thy  father  as  I  love  him. 
Our  'kindred  souls  would  be  in  unison ; 

And  all  my  sighs  be  echoed  back  by  thine. 
Thou  wouldst — alas ! — I  know  not  what  I  say. — 
Forgive  me,  Publius, — ^but,  indeed,  my  brother, 
I  do  not  understand  this  cruel  coldness. 

Ham.  Thou  mayst  not— but  I  understand  it 
His  mighty  soul,  full  as  to  thee  it  seems  [well. 
Of  Rome  and  glory — is  enamour’d — caught — 
Enraptur’d  with  the  beauties  of  fair  Barce. — 
She  stays  behind,  if  Regulus  departs. 

Behold  the  cause  of  all  the  well-feign’d  virtue 
Of  this  mock  patriot — curst  dissimulation  ! 

Pub.  And  canst  thou  entertain  such  vile  sus¬ 
picions  ! 

Gods  !  what  an  outrage  to  a  son  like  me. 

Ham.  Yes,  Roman  :  now  I  see  thee  as  thou 
Thy  naked  soul  divested  of  its  veil,  [art, 

Its  specious  colouring,  its  dissembled  virtues  : 
Thou  hast  plotted  with  the  senate  to  prevent 
Th’  exchange  of  captives.  All  thy  subtle  arts. 
Thy  smooth  inventions,  have  been  set  to  work — 
The  base  refinements  of  your  polish'd  land. 

Pub.  In  truth  the  doubt  is  worthy  of  an 
African.  {Contemptuously.) 

Ham.  I  know — 

Pub.  Peace,  Carthaginian,  peace,  and  hear 
Didst  thou  not  know,  that  on  the  very  man  [me. 
Thou  hast  insulted,  Barce’s  fate  depends! 

Ham.  Too  well  I  know,  the  cruel  chance  of 
war 

Gave  her,  a  blooming  captive,  to  thy  mother ; 
Who,  dying,  left  the  beauteous  prize  to  thee. 
Pub.  Now,  see  the  use  a  Roman  makes  of 
power. 

Heav’n  is  my  witness  how  I  lov’d  the  maid ! 

O  she  was  dearer  to  my  soul  than  light ! 

Dear  as  the  vital  stream  that  feeds  my  heart ! 
But  know,  my  honour's  dearer  than  my  love. 

I  do  not  even  hope  thou  wilt  believe  mo  ; 

VoL.  I 


Thy  brutal  soul,  as  savage  as  thy  clime, 

Can  never  taste  those  elegant  delights. 

Those  pure  refinements,  love  and  glory  yield',  ' 
’Tis  not  to  thee  I  stoop  for  vindication. 

Alike  to  me  thy  friendship  or  thy  hate  ; 

But  to  remove  from  others  a  pretence 
For  branding  Publius  with  the  name  of  villain  j 
That  they  may  see  no  sentiment  but  honour 
Informs  this  bosom. — Barce,  thou  art  free. 
Thou  hast  my  leave  with  him  to  quit  this  shorp. 
Now  learn,  barbarian,  how  a  Roman  loves.  {Exit. 
Bar.  He  cannot  mean  it ! 

Ham.  Oh,  exalted  virtue  ! 

Which  challenges  esteem,  though  from  a  foe. 

{Looking  after  Publius.} 
Att.  Ah !  cruel  Publius,  wilt  thou  leave  me 
Thus  leave  thy  sister !  [thus  ! 

Bar.  Didst  thou  hear,  Hamilcar ! 

Oh !  didst  thou  hear  the  godlike  youth  resign  me! 
{Hamilcar  and  Licinius  seem  lost  in  thought.} 
Ham.  Farewell,  I  will  return. 

Lie.  Farewell,  my  love  !  {to  Attilia.} 

Bar.  Hamilcar,  where — 

Att.  Alas  !  where  art  thou  going  ! 

{to  Licinius— 

Lie.  If  possible,  to  save  the  life  of  Regulus. 
Att.  But  by  what  means ! — Ah  !  how  canst 
thou  effect  it ! 

Lie.  Since  the  disease  so  desperate  is  becomej.. 
We  must  apply  a  desperate  remedy. 

Ham.  {after  a  long  pause.)  Yes,  I  will  mor¬ 
tify  this  generous  foe  ; 

I’ll  be  reveng’d  upon  this  stubborn  Roman  ; 

Not  by  defiance  bold,  or  feats  of  arms. 

But  by  a  means  more  sure  to  work  its  end; 

By  emulating  his  exalted  worth, 

And  showing  him  a  virtue  like  his  own ; 

Such  a  refin’d  revenge  as  noble  minds 
Alone  can  practise,  and  alone  can  feel. 

Att.  If  thou  wilt  go,  Licinius,  let  Attilia. 

At  least  go  with  thee. 

Lie.  No,  my  gentle  love. 

Too  much  I  prize  thy  safety  and  thy  peace. 

Let  me  entreat  thee,  stay  with  Barce  here 
Till  our  return. 

Att.  Then,  ere  ye  go,  in  pity 

Explain  the  latent  purpose  of  your  souls. 

Lie.  Soon  shall  thou  know  it  all — Farewell! 
farewell ! 

Let  us  keep  Regulus  in  Rome  or  die. 

{to  Hamilcar  as  he  goes  out.) 
Ham.  Yes. — These  smooth,  polish’d  Romans, 
shall  confess 

The  soil  of  Afric  too  produces  heroes,  [theirs,. 
What,  though  our  pride  perhaps  be  less  than. 
Our  virtue  may  be  equal ;  they  shall  own 
The  path  of  honour’s  not  unknown  to  Carthage,, 
Nor,  as  they  arrogantly  think,  confin’d 
To  their  projud  capitol : — Yes,  they  shall  learn 
The  gods  look  down  on  other  climes  than  theirs, 

{Exit. 

Att.  What!  gone,  io</i  gone !  What  can  I, 
think  or  do ! 

Licinius  leaves  me,  led  by  love  and  virtue. 

To  rouse  the  citizens  to  war  and  tumult, 

Which  may  be  fatal  to  himself  and  Rome, 

And  yet,  alas  I  not  serve  my  dearest  father. . 
Protecting  deities  !  preseifve  them  both  ! 


632 


THE  'WORKS  or  HANNAH  MORE. 


Bar.  Nor  is  thy  Barce  more  at  ease,  my  friend ; 

I  dread  the  fierceness  of  Hamilcar’s  courage  ; 
Rous’d  by  the  grandeur  of  thy  brother’s  deed, 
And  stung  by  his  reproaches,  his  great  soul 
Will  scorn  to  be  outdone  by  him  in  glory. 

Yet,  let  us  rise  to  courage  and  to  life. 

Forget  the  weakness  of  our  helpless  sex. 

And  mount  above  these  coward  woman’s  fears. 
Hope  dawns  upon  my  mind — my  prospect  clears, 
And  every  cloud  now  brightens  into  day. 

Att.  How  different  are  our  souls  !  Thy  san¬ 
guine  temper,  ^ 

Flush’d  with  the  native  vigour  of  thy  soil, 
Supports  thy  spirits  ;  while  the  sad  Attilia, 

.  Sinking  with  more  than  all  her  sex’s  fears, 

.  Sees  not  a  beam  of  hope  ;  or,  if  she  sees  it, 

’Tis  not  the  bright,  warm  splendour  of  the  sun ; 
It  is  a  sickly  and  uncertain  glimmer 
Of  instantaneous  lightning,  passing  by. 

It  shows,  but  not  diminishes  the  danger. 

And  leaves  my  poor  benighted  soul  as  dark 
As  it  had  never  shone. 

Bar.  Come,  let  us  go. 

Yes,  joys  unlook’d  for  now  shall  gild  thy  days. 
And  brighter  suns  reflect  propitious  rays. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene — A  Hall  looking  towards  the  Garden. 
Enter  B.^gxs'lvs,  speaking  to  one  0/ Hamilcar’s 
attendants. 

Where’s  your  ambassador  1  where  is  Hamilcar  1 
Ere  this  he  doubtless  knows  the  senate’s  will. 
Go  seek  him  out — tell  him  we  must  depart — 
Rome  has  no  hope  for  him,  or  vnsh  for  me. 
Longer  delay  were  criminal  in  both. 

Enter  Manlius. 

Reg.  He  comes.  The  consul  comes  !  my 
noble  friend ! 

O  let  me  strain  thee  to  this  grateful  heart. 

And  thank  thee  for  the  vast,  vast  debt,  I  owe 
thee ! 

But  for  thy  friendship  I  had  been  a  wretch — 
Had  been  compell’d  to  shameful  liberty. 

To  thee  I  owe  the  glory  of  these  chains. 

My  faith  inviolate,  my  fame  preserv’d. 

My  honour,  virtue,  glory,  bondage,— all ! 

Man.  But  we  shall  lose  thee,  so  it  is  decreed — 
Thou  must  depart ! 

Reg.  Because  I  must  depart 

You  will  not  lose  me  ;  I  were  lost  indeed 
Did  I  remain  in  Rome. 

Man.  Ah!  Regulus, 

Why,  why  so  late  do  I  begin  to  love  thee  1 
Alas  !  why  have  thS  adverse  fates  decreed, 

I  ne’er  must  give  thee  other  proofs  of  friendship. 
Than  those,  so  fatal,  and  so  full  of  wol 

Reg.  Thou  hast  perform’d  the  duties  of  a 
friend ; 

Of  a  just,  faithful,  true,  and  noble  friend  : 

Yet,  generous  as  thou  art,  if  thou  constrain  me 
To  sink  beneath  a  weight  of  obligation, 

I  could — yes,  Manlius — I  could  ask  still  more. 
Man.  Explain  thyself. 

Reg.  I  think  I  have  fulfill’d 

The  various  duties  of  a  citizen  ; 

Nor  have  I  aught  beside  to  do  for  Rome. 

Now,  notliing  for  the  public  good  remains. 


Manlius,  I  recollect  I  am  a  father ! 

My  Publius  1  my  Attilia !  ah  !  my  friend. 

They  are — (forgive  the  weakness  of  a  parent) 

To  my  fond  heart  dear  as  the  drops  that  warm  it. 
Next  to  my  country,  they’re  my  all  of  life  ; 

And,  if  a  weak  old  man  be  not  deceiv’d, 

They  will  not  shame  that  country.  Yes,  my 
The  love  of  virtue  blazes  in  their  souls,  [friend. 
As  yet  these  tender  plants  are  immature, 

And  ask  the  fostering  hand  of  cultivation ; 
Heav’n  in  its  wisdom  would  not  let  their  father 
Accomplish  this  great  work. — To  thee,  my  friend. 
The  tender  parent  delegates  the  trust : 

Do  not  refuse  a  poor  man’s  legacy  ; 

I  do  bequeath  my  orphans  to  thy  love — 

If  thou  wilt  kindly  take  them  to  thy  bosom. 
Their  loss  will  be  repaid  with  usury. 

O,  let  the  father  owe  his  glory  to  thee. 

The  children  their  protection  ! 

Man.  Regulus, 

With  grateful  joy  my  heart  accepts  the  trust ; 
Oh  !  I  will  shield  with  jealous  tenderness. 

The  precious  blossoms  from  a  blasting  world. 

In  me  thy  children  shall  possess  a  father. 
Though  not  as  worthy,  yet  as  fond  as  thee. 

The  pride  be  mine  to  fill  their  youthful  breasts 
W^ith  every  \  irtue — ’twill  not  cost  me  much  :  ■ 

I  shall  have  naught  to  teach,  nor  they  to  learn. 
But  the  great  history  of  their  godlike  sire. 

Reg.  I  will  not  hurt  the  grandeur  of  thy  virtue, 
By  paying  thee  so  poor  a  thing  as  thanks. 

Now  all  is  over,  and,  I  bless  the  gods, 

I’ve  nothing  more  to  do. 

% 

Enter  Publius  in  haste. 

Pub.  O  Regulus ! 

Reg.  Say  what  has  happen’d  1 
Pub.  Rome  is  in  a  tumult — 

There’s  scarce  a  citizen  but  runs  to  arms— • 
They  will  not  let  thee  go. 

Beg.  Is’t  possible! 

Can  Rome  so  far  forget  her  dignity 
As  to  desire  this  infamous  exchange  1 
I  blush  to  think  it  1 

Pub.  Ah  !  not  so,  my  father. 

Rome  cares  not  for  the  peace,  nor  for  th’  ex- 
She  only  wills  that  Regulus  shall  stay,  [change  ; 

Reg.  How,  stay!  my  oath— my  faith — my 
Do  they  forget !  [honour !  ah  ! 

Pub.  No  ;  Every  man  exclaims. 

That  neither  faith  nor  honour  should  be  kept 
With  Carthaginian  perfidy  and  fraud. 

Reg.  Gods  !  gods !  on  what  vile  principles 
they  reason ! 

Can  guilt  in  Carthage  palliate  guilt  in  Rome. 
Or  vice  in  one  absolve  it  in  another! 

Ah !  who  hereafter  shall  be  criminal. 

If  precedents  are  used  to  justify 
The  blackest  crimes ! 

Pub.  Th’  infatuated  people 

Have  called  the  augurs  to  the  sacred  fane. 
There  to  determine  this  momentous  point. 

Reo-.  I  have  no  need  of  oracles,  my  son ; 
Hcmmr's  the  oracle  of  honest  men. 

I  gave  my  promise,  which  I  will  observe 
With  most  religious  strictness.  Rome,  ’tis  true. 
Had  power  to  choose  the  peace,  or  change  of 
But  whether  Regulus  return  or  not,  [slaves  ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


I 


523 


Is  AiV  concern,  not  the  concern  of  Rome.  ^ 
T'hat  was  a  public,  this  a  private  care. 

Publius  !  thy  father  is  not  what  he  was ; 

/.am  the  slave  oi .Carthage,  nor  has  Rome 
Power  to  dispose  of  captives  not  her  own. 
Guards  !  let  us  to  the  port. — Farewell,  my 
friend.  [thou  go 

Man.  Let  me  entreat  thee  stay  ;  for  shouldst 
To  stem  this  tumult  of  the  populace,  , 

They  will  by  force  detain  thee  ;  then,  alas ! 
Both'Regulus  and  Rome  must  break  their  faith. 
Reg.  What !  must  I  then  remain  I 
Man.  No,  Regulus, 

I  will  not  check  thy  great  career  of  glory : 
Thou  shall  depart ;  meanwhile.  I’ll  try  to  calm 
This  wild,  tumultuous  uproar  of  the  people. 
The  consular  authority  shall  still  them. 

Reg.  Thy  virtue  is  'my  safeguard — ^but — 
Man.  Enough. — 

I  know  thy  honour,  and  trust  thou  to  mine. 

I  am  a  Roman,  and  I  feel  some  sparks 
Of  Regulus’s  virtue  in  my  breast. 

Though  fate  denies  me  thy  illustrious  chains, 

I  will  at  least  endeavour  to  deserve  them. 

[^Exit. 

Reg.  How  is  my  country  alter’d  !  how,  ala.s. 
Is  the  great  spirit  of  old  Rome  extinct ! 
Restraint  and  force  must  now  be  put  to  use, 

To  make  her  virtuous.  She  must  be  compelled 
To  faith  and  honour. — Ah  !  what,  Publius  here  1 
And  dost  thou  leave  so  tamely  to  my  friend 
The  honour  to  assist  me  1  Go,  my  boy, 

’Twill  make  me  more  in  love  with  chains  and 
To  owe  them  to  a  son.  [death. 

Pub.  I  go,  my  father — 

I  will,  I  will  obey  thee. 

Reg.  Do  not  sigh — 

One  sigh  will  check  the  progress  of  thy  glory. 

Pub.  Y es,  I  will  own  the  pangs  of  death  itself 
Would  be  less  cruel  than  these  agonies  : 

Yet  do  not  frown  austerely  on  thy  son : 

His  anguish  is  his  virtue :  if  to  conquer 
The  feelings  of  my  soul  were  eas-y  to  me, 
’Twould  be  no  merit.  Do  not  then  defraud 
The  sacrifice  I  make  thee  of  its  worth. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Manlius,  Attilia. 

Alt.  {speaking  as  she  enters.)  Where  is  the 
consul  1 — where,  oh  !  where  is  Manlius  1 
I  come  to  breathe  the  voice  of  mourning  to  him  ; 
I  come  to  crave  his  mercy,  to  conjure  him 
To  whisper  peace  to  my  afflicted,  bosom. 

And  heal  the  anguish  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

Man.  What  would  tne  daughter  of  my  noble 
friend  I  [touch’d  thee, — 

Att.  {kneeling.)  If  ever  pity’s  sweet  emotions 
If  ever  gentle  love  assail’d  thy  breast — 

If  ever  virtuous  friendship  fir’d  thy  soul — 

By  the  dear  names  of  husband  and  of  parent — 
By  all  the  soft  yet  powerful  ties  of  nature — • 

If  e’er  thy  lisping  infants  charm'd  thine  ear. 
And  waken’d  all  the  father  in  thy  soul, — 

If  e’er  thou  hop’st  to  have  thy  latter  days 
Bless’ d  by  their  love,  and  sweeten’d  by  their 
duty—  [ter. 

Oh  !  hear  a  kneeling,  weeping,  wretched  daugh- 
Who  begs  a  father’s  life — nor  hers  alone, 


But  Rome’s — ^his  country’s  father. 

Man.  Gentle  maid  i 

Oh !  spare  this  soft,  subduing  eloquence  ! — 
Nay,  rise.  I  shall  forget  I  am  a  Roman — 
Forgqt  the  mighty  debt  I  owe  my  country — ■ 
Forget  the  fame  and  glory  of  thy  father. 

I  must  conceal  this  weakness,  {turns  from  her.) 

Att.  {rises  eagerly.)  Ah!  you  weep  ! 
Indulge,  inddlge,  my  lord,  the  virtuous  softness ; 
Was  ever  sight  so  graceful,  so  becoming. 

As  pity’s  tear  upon  the  hero’s  cheek  I  [ing.) 
Man.  No  more — I  must  not  hear  thee,  {go- 
Att.  How  !  not  hear  me  !  [lord — 

You  must — ^you  shall — ^nay,  nay,  return,  my 
Oh !  fly  not  from  me — look  upon'  my  woes. 

And  imitate  the  mercy  of  the  gods ; 

’Ti's  not  their  thunder  that  excites  our  reverence, 
’Tis  their  mild  n»ercy  and  forgiving  love. 

’Twill  add  a  brighter  lustre  to  thy  laurels. 
When  men  shall  say,  and  proudly  point  thee  out, 
‘•■Behold  the  consul! — he  who  sav’d  his  friend.” 
Oh  !  what  a  tide  of  joy  will  overwhelm  thee  ! 
Who  will  riot  envy  thee  thy  glonou#  leelings  1 
Man.  Thy  father  scorns  his  liberty  ind  life. 
Nor  will  accept  of  either,  at  th’  expense 
Of  honour,  virtue,  glory,  faith,  and  Rome. 

Att.  Think  you  behold  the  godlike  Reirulus; 
The  prey  of  unrelenting,  savage  foes, 

Ingenious  only  in  contriving  ill ; — 

Eager  to  glut  their  hunger  of  revenge. 

They’ll  plot  such  new,  such  dire,  unhoard-of 
tortures — 

Such  dreadful  and  such  complicated  vengeance 
As  e’en  the  Punic  annals  have  not  known  ; 
And,  as  they  heap  fresh  torments  on  his  head. 
They’ll  glory  in  their  genius  for  destruction. 

Ah  I  Manlius — now  methinks  I  see  my  father — 
My  faithful  fancy,  full  of  his  idea,  [torn — 

Presents  him  to  me — mangled,  gash’d,  and 
Stretch’d  on  the  rack  in  writhing  agony — 

The  torturing  pincers  tear  his  quivering  flesh. 
While  the  dire  murderers  smile  upon  his 
wounds — 

His  groans  their  music,  and  his  pangs  their  sport. 
And  if  they  lend  some  interval  of  ease. 

Some  dearbought  intermission,  meant  to  make 
The  following  pang  more  exquisitely  felt, 

Th’  insulting  executioners  exclaim,  [scorn’d !” 
“Now,  Roman  !  feel  the  vengeance  thou  hast 
Man.  Repress  thy  sorrows — 

Att.  Can  the  friend  of  Regulus 

Advise  his  daughter  not  to  mourn  his  fate  1 
How  cold,  alas  !  is  friendship,  when  compar’d 
To  ties  of  blood — to  nature’s  powerful  impulse  ! 
Yes — she  assert  Aer  empire  in  my  soul ; 

’Tis  nature  pleads — she  will — she  'must  be 
heard ; 

With  warm,  resistless  eloquence,  she  pleads. 
Ah,  thou  art  soften’d ! — see — tlie  consul  yields-— 
The  feelings  triumph — tenderness  prevails — 
The  Roman  is  subdued — the  daughter  con¬ 
quers  !  {catching  hold  of  his  robe.) 

Man.  Ah  !  hold  me  not — I  must  not,  cannot 
The  softness  of  thy  sorrow  is  contagious  ;  [stay, 

I  too  may  feel,  when  I  should  only  reason. 

I  dare  not  hear  thee — Regulus  and  Rome, 

The  patriot  and  the  friend — all,  all  forbid  it. 

{breaks  from  her,  and  exit.) 


524 


the  works  of  HANNAH  MORE. 


Alt.  Oh  feeble  grasp  '.—and  is  he  gone,  quite 


gone  s  ,  u  • 

Hold,  hold  thy  empire,  reason,  firmly  hold  it. 

Or  rather  quit  at  once  thy  feeble  throne, 

Since  thou  but  serv’st  to  show  me  what  I’ve  lost, 

To  heighten  all  the  horrors  that  await  me  ; 

To  summon  up  a  wild,  distracted  crowd 
Of  fatal  images,  to  shake  my  soul, 

To  scare  sweet  peace,  and  banish  hope  itself. 
Farewell !  delusive  dreams  of  joy,  farewell ! 

Come,  fell  despair  !  thou  pale-eyed  spectre, 
For  thou  shall  be  Attilia’s  inmate  noW,  [come. 
And  thou  shall  grow,  and  twine  about  her  heart. 
And  she  shall  be  so  much  enamour’d  of  thee, 

The  pageant  pleasure  ne’er  shall  interpose 
Her  gaudy  presence  to  divide  you  more. 

{stands  in  an  attitude  of  silent  grief.) 

Enter  LiciNiusf 

Lie.  At  length  I’ve  found  thee — ah,  my 
charming  maid !  [fondness  ! 

How  have  I  sought  thee  out  with  anxious 
Alas  !  she  hears  me  not.  My  best  Attilia ! 

Ah  !  grief  oppresses  every  gentle  sense. 

Still,  still  she  hears  not — 'tis  Licinius  speaks, 

He  comes  to  sooth  the  anguish  of  thy  spirit, 

And  hush  thy  tender  sorrows  into  peace. 

Att.  Who’s  he  that  dares  assume  the  voice 
of  love, 

Ai’d  comes  unbidden  to  these  dreary  haunts  . 
Steals  on  the  sacred  treasury  of  wo. 

And  breaks  the  league  despair  and  I  have  made  1 
Lie.  ’Tis  one  who  comes  the  messenger  of 
Heav’n, 

To  talk  of  peace,  of  comfort,  and  of  joy. 

Att.  Didst  thou  not  mock  me  with  the  sound 
of  joyl 

Thou  little  know’st  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 

If  thou  believ’st  I  ever  can  again. 

So  long  the  wretched  sport  of  angry  fortune. 
Admit  delusive  hope  to  my  sad  bosom. 

No — I  abjure  the  flatterer  and  her  train. 

Let  those  who  ne’er  have  been  like  me  deceiv  d. 
Embrace  the  fair,  fantastic  sycophant — 

For  I,  alas  !  am  wedded  to  despair. 

And  will  not  hear  the  sound  of  comfort  more. 
Lie.  Cease,  cease,  my  love,  this  tender  voice 
of  wo. 

Though  softer  than  the  dying  cygnet’s  plaint 
She  ever  chants  her  most  melodious  strain 
When  death  and  sorrow  harmonize  her  note 
Att.  Yes,  I  will  listen  now  with  fond  delight ; 
For  death  and  sorrow  are  my  darling  themes. 
-Well !— what  hast  thou  to  say  of  death  and 
sorrow  1  • 

Believe  me,  thou  wilt  find  me  apt  to  listen. 

And,  if  my  tongue  be  slow  to  answer  thee. 
Instead  of  words  I’ll  give  thee  sighs  and  tears 
Lie.  I  come  to  dry  thy  tears,  not  make  them 
flow  ; 

The  gods,  once  more  propitious,  smile  upon  us, 
Joy  shall  again  await  each  happy  morn. 

And  ever-new  delight  shall  crown  the  day  ! 
Yes,  Regulus  shall  live. 

Att.  Ah,  me  !  what  say’st  thou  1 

Alas !  I’m  but  a  poor,  weak,  trembling  woman — 
I  cannot  bear  these  wild  extremes  of  fate-;- 
Then  mock  me  not.  I  think  thou  ait  Licinius, 


The  generous  lover,  and  the  faithful  friend  1 
I  think  thou  wouldst  not  sport  with  my  affl  ictions; 

Lie.  Mock  thy  afldictionsl  May  eternalJove,. 
And  every  power  at  whose  dread  shrine  we  wor- 
Blast  all  the  hopes  my  fond  ideas,  fom,  [ship,- 
If  I  deceive  thee  !  Regulus  shall  live. 

Shall  live  to  give  thee  to  Licinius’  arms. 

Oh  !  we  will  smooth  his  downward  path  of  life, 
And  after  a  long  length  of  virtuous  years. 

At  the  last  verge  of  honourable  age. 

When  nature’s  glimmering  lamp  goes  gently  out,^ 
We’ll  close,  together  close,  his  eyes  in  peace, 
Together  drop  the  sweetly-painful  tear. 

Then  copy  out  his  virtues  in  our  lives. 

Ait.  And  shall  we  be  so  blest  1  is’t  possible  . 
Forgive  me,  my  Licinius,  if  I  doubt  thee. 

Fate  never  gave  such  exquisite  delight 
As  flattering  hope  hath  imaged  to  thy  soul. 

But  how  1  Explain  this  bounty  of  the  gods. 

Lie.  Thou  know’st  what  influence  the  name 
of  tribune 

Gives  its  possessor  o’er  the  people’s  minds  : 
That  power  I  have  exerted,  nor  iii  vain ; 

All  are  prepar’d  to  second  my  designs  : 

The  plot  is  ripe — there’s  not  a  man  but  swears 
To  keep  thy  godlike  father  here  in  Rome — 

To  save  his  life  at  hazard  of  his  own. 

Att.  By  what  gradation  does  my  joy  ascend ! 

I  thought  that  if  my  father  had  been  sav’d 
By  any  means,  I  had  been  rich  in  bliss  : 

But  that  he  lives,  and  lives  preserv’d  by  thee. 

Is  such  a  prodigality  of  fate, 

I  cannot  bear  my  joy  with  moderation . 

Heaven  should  have  dealt  it  with  a  scantier 

hand,  P® » 

And  not  have  shower’d  such  plenteous  blessings 
They  are  too  great,  too  flattering,  to  be  real ; 
’Tis  some  delightful  visirni  which  enchants 
And  cheats  my  senses,  weaken’d  by  misfortune 
Lie.  We’ll  seek  thy  father,  and,  meanwhile,, 
my  fair,  [him. 

Compose  thy  sweet  emotions  ere  thou  see  st 
Pleasure  itself  is  painful  in  excess  ; 

For  joys,  like  sorrows,  in  extreme,  oppress  ; 
The  gods  themselves  our  pious  cares  approve. 
And,  to  reward  our  virtue,  crown  our  love  ^ 


ACT  V. 

An  Apartment  in  the  Amhassadoris  palaee— 
Ghiards  and  other  attendants  seen  at  a  dis- 
tanee. 

Ham.  Where  is  this  wondrous  man,  this- 
matchless  hero. 

This  arbiter  of  kingdoms  and  of  kings. 

This  delegate  of  Heaven,  this  Roman  god  1 
I  long  to  show  his  soaring  mind  an  equal. 

And  bring  it  to  the  standard  of  humanity. 
What  pride,  what  glory  will  it  be,  to  fix 
An  obligation  on  his  stubborn  soul ! 

Oh  !  to  constrain  a  foe  to  be  obliged  ! 

The  very  thought  exalts  me  e’en  to  rapture. 

Enter  Regulus  and  Guards. 

Ham.  Well,  Regulus  !  At  last— 
jlgg  I  know  it  all ; 

I  know  the  motive  of  thy  just  complaint— 

Be  not  alarm’d  at  this  licentious  uproar 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


£25 


’Of  the  mad  populace.  I  will  depart — 

Fear  not ;  I  will  not  stay  in  Rome  alive. 

Ham.  What  dost  thou  mean  by  uproar  and 
alarms  1 

Hamilcar  does  not  come  to  vent  complaints ; 
He  rather  comes  to  prove,  that  Afric  too 
Produces  heroes,  and  that  Tiber’s  banks 
May  find  a  rival  on  the  Punic  coast,  [bate  ; 

Reg.  Be  it  so. — ’Tis  not  a  time  for  vain  de- 
Collect  thy  people. — Let  us  straight  depart. 
Ham.  Lend  me  thy  hearing  first. 

Meg.  0  patience,  patience  ! 

Ham.  It  is  esteem’d  a  glory  to  be  grateful  1 
Meg.  The  time  has  been  when  ’twas  a  duty 
But  ’tis  a  duty  now  so  little  practis’d,  [only. 
That  to  perform  it  is  become  a  glory. 

Ham.  If  to  fulfil  it  should  expose  to  danger  1 — 
Meg.  It  rises  then  to  an  illustrious  virtue. 
Ham.  Then  grant  this  merit  to  an  African. 
Give  me  a  patient  hearing. — Thy  great  son, 

As  delicate  in  honour  as  m  love, 
diath  nobly  given  my  Barce  to  my  arms ; 

And  yet  1  know  he  dotes  upon  the  maid. 

I  come  to  emulate  the  generous  deed ; 

He  gave  me  back  my  love,  and  in  return 
I  will  restore  his  father. 

Meg.  Ah  !  what  say’st  thou  \ 

Wilt  thou  preserve  me,  then  1 
Ham.  I  will. 

Meg.  But  how  1 

Ham.  By  leaving  thee  at  liberty  to  fly. 

Meg.  Ah !  [tence. 

Ham.  I  will  dismiss  my  guards  on  some  pre- 
Meanwhile  do  thou  escape,  and  lie  conceal’d : 

I  will  aflect  a  rage  I  shall  not  feel. 

Unmoor  my  ships,  and  sail  for  Africa. 

Meg.  Abhorr’d  barbarian ! 

Ham.  Well,  what  dost  thou  say  1 

Art  thou  not  much  surpris’d  \ 

Meg.  I  am  indeed. 

Ham.  Thou  couldst  not  then  have  hoped  it  1 
Meg.  No  !  I  could  not. 

Ham.  And  yet  I’m  not  a  Roman. 

Meg.  (smiling  contempticously.)  I  perceive  it. 
Ham.  You  may  retire,  (aloud  to  the  guards.) 
Reg.  No  ! — Stay,  I  charge  you,  stay. 

Ham.  And  wherefore  stay  1 
Reg.  I  thank  thee  for  thy  offer, 

But  I  shall  go  with  thee. 

Ham.  ’Tis  well,  proud  man  ! 

Thou  dost  despise  me,  then  1 

Reg.  No,  but  I  pity  thee. 

Ham.  Why  pity  me  1 

Reg.  Because  thy  poor,  dark  soul, 

Hath  never  felt  the  piercing  ray  of  virtue. 
Know,  African  !  the  scheme  thou  dost  propose 
Would  injure  me,  thy  country,  and  thyself. 
Ham.  Thou  dost  mistake. 

Meg.  Who  was  it  gave  thee  power 

To  rule  the  destiny  of  Regulus '! 

Am  I  a  slave  to  Carthage,  or  to  thee  1 

Ham.  What  does  it  signify  from  whom,  proud 
Thou  dost  receive  this  benefit  1  [Roman, 

Meg.  A-  benefit  I 

0  savage  ignorance  !  is  it  a  benefit 
To  fie,  elope,  deceive,  and  be  a  villain  1 
Ham.  What!  not  when  life  itself,  when  all’s 
at  stake  1 


Know’st  thou  my  countrymen  prepare  thee  tor- 
That  shock  imagination  but  to  think  of  1  [tures 
Thou  wilt  be  mangled,  butcher’d,  rack’d,  im- 
Goes  not  thy  nature  shrink  1  [paled. 

Reg.  (smiling  at  his  threats .)  Hamilcar!  no. 
Dost  thou  not  know  the  Roman  genius  better  1 
We  live  on  honour — ’tis  our  food,  our  life. 

The  motive  and  the  measure  of  our  deeds  ! 

We  look  on  death  as  on  a  common  object ; 

The  tongue  nor  faulters,  nor  the  cheek  turns  pale, 
Nor.  the  calm  eye  is  moved  at  sight  of  him : 

We  court,  and  we  embrace  him,  undismay’d  ; 
We  smile  at  tortures  if  they  lead  to  glory. 

And  only  cowardice  and  guilt  appal  us. 

Ham.  Fine  sophistry !  the  valour  of  the  tongue, 
The  heart  disclaims  it ;  leave  this  pomp  of  words, 
And  cease  dissembling  with  a  friend  like  me. 

I  know  that  life  is  dear  to  all  who  live. 

That  death  is  dreadfirl, — ^yes,  and  must  be  fear’d. 
E’en  by  the  frozen  apathists  of  Rome. 

Reg.  Did  I  fear  death,  when,  on  Bagrada’s 
banks, 

I  faced  and  slew  the  formidable  serpent 
That  made  your  boldest  Africans  recoil. 

And  shrink  with  horror,  though  the  monster  liv’d 
A  native  inmate  of  their  own  parch’d  deserts  1 
Did  I  fear  death  before  the  gates  of  Adis  1 — 
Ask  Bostar,  or  let  Asdrubal  confess. 

Ham.  Or  shall  I  rather  of  Xantippus  ask, 
Who  dar’d  to  undeceive  deluded  Rome, 

And  prove  this  vaunter  not  invincible  1 
’Tis  even  said,  in  Africa  I  mean. 

He  made  a  prisoner  of  this  demi-god. — 

Did  we  not  triumph  then  1 

Reg.  Vain  boaster !  no. 

No  Carthaginian  conquer’d  Regulus  ; 

Xantippus  was  a  Greek — a  brave  one,  too ; 

Yet  what  distinction  did  your  Afric  make 
Between  .the  man  who  serv’d  her  and  her  foe ! 

I  was  the  object  of  her  open  hate  ; 

He,  of  her  secret,  dark  malignity. 

He  durst  not  trust  the  nation  he  had  sav’d ; 

He  knew,  and  therefore  fear’d  you. — Yes,  he 
knew 

Where  once  you  were  obliged,  you  ne’er  forgave. 
Could  you  forgive  at  all,  you’d  rather  pardon 
The  man  who  hated,  than  the  man  who  serv’d  you. 
Xantippus  found  his  ruin  ere  it  reach’d  him. 
Lurking  behind  your  honours  and  rewards. 
Found  it  in  your  feign’d  courtesies  and  fawnings. 
When  vice  intends  to  strike  a  master  stroke. 

Its  veil  is  smiles,  its  language  protestations. 

The  Spartan’s  merit  threaten’d,  but  his  service 
Compell’d  his  ruin. — Both  you  could  not  pardon. 
Ham.  Come,  come,  I  know  full  well — 

Reg.  Barbarian !  peace. 

I’ve  heard  too  much — Go,  call  thy  followers  ; 
Prepare  thy  ships,  and  learn  to  do  thy  duty. 
Ham.  Yes ! — show  thyself  intrepid,  and  in¬ 
sult  me  ; 

Call  mine  the  blindness  of  barbarian  friendship. 
On  Tiber’s  banks  I  hear  thee,  and  am  calm : 

But  know,  thou  scornful  Roman  !  that  too  soon 
In  Carthage  thou  mayst  fear  and  feel  my  ven¬ 
geance  : 

Thy  cold,  obdurate  pride  shall  there  confess. 
Though  Rome  may  talk — ’tis  Africa  can  punish. 

iExit. 


526 

Tteg.  Farewell !  I’ve  not  a  thought  to  waste 
on  thee. 

Where  is  the  consul  1  why  does  Publius  stay  ! 
Alas  !  I  fear— but  see,  Attilia  comes. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


Enter  Attilia. 

Reg.  What  brings  thee  here,  my  child  1  what 
eager  joy 

Transports  thee  thus  1  r  i.  i 

j^tt.  I  cannot  speak — ^my  father . 

Joy  chokes  my  utterance — Rome,  dear,  grateful 
Rome 

(Oh !  may  her  cup  with  blessings  overflow). 

Gives  up  our  common  destiny  to  thee ;  [her, 
Fftithf  il  and  constant  to  th’  advice  thou  gav  st 
She  will  not  hear  of  peace,  or  change  of  slaves, 
But  she  insists — reward  and  bless  her,  gods  .— 
That  thou  shalt  here  remain. 

Reg.  What !  with  the  shame — 

Alt.  Oh !  no — the  sacred  senate  hath  con¬ 
sider’d  [faith, 

That,  when  to  Carthage  thou  didst  pledge  tny 
Thou  wast  a  captive,  and  that,  being  such. 

Thou  couldst  not  bind  thyself  in  covenant. 

Reg.  He  who  can  die  is  always  free,  my 

child !  . 

Learn  farther,  he  who  owns  another’s  strength 
Confesses  his  own  weakness.  Let  theiii  know, 

I  swore  I  would  return  because  I  chose  it. 

And  will  return,  because  I  swore  to  do  it. 

Enter  Publius. 

Fuh.  Vain  is  that  hope,  my  father. 

Retr.  Who  shall  stop  me  1 

Pub.  All  Rome.— The  citizens  are  up  in 
arms : 

In  vain  would  reason  stop  the  growing  torrent ; 
In  vain  wouldst  thou  attempt  to  reach  the  port. 
The  way  is  barr’d  by  thronging  multitudes  : 

The  other  streets  of  Rome  are  all  deserted. 

Reg.  Where,  where  is  Manlius  1 

He  is  still  thy  friend ; 
His  single  voice  opposes  a  yihole  people  ; 

He  threats  this  moment,  and  the  next  entreats. 
But  all  in  vain ;  none  hear  him,  none  obey. 

The  general  fury  rises  e’en  to  madness. 

The  axes  tremble  in  the  lictors’  hands. 

Who,  pale  and  spiritless,  want  power  to  use 
them — 

And  one  wild  scene  of  anarchy  prevails. 

Reg.  Farewell !  my  daughter.  Publius,  follow 
me.  [Exit  Publius. 

Att.  Ah !  where  1  I  tremble — 

[detaining  R.’EGVi.vs.) 

Peg.  To  assist  my  friend — 

T’  upbraid  my  hapless  country  with  her  crime 
To  keep  unstain’d  the  glory  of  these  chains 
To  go,  or  perish. 

Att.  Oh  !  have  mercy ! 

Reg.  Hold  I 

I  have  been  patient  with  thee  ;  have  indulg’d 
Too  much  the  fond  affections  of  thy  soul ; 

It  is  enough  ;  thy  grief  would  now  offend 
Thy  father’s  honour  ;  do  not  let  thy  tears 
Conspire  with  Rome  to  rob  me  of  my  triumph. 
Att.  Alas  !  it  wounds  my  soul. 

Peg.  I  know  it  does. 

I  know  ’twill  grieve  thy  gentle  heart  to  lose  me  ; 


But  think  thou  mak’st  the  sacrifice  to  Rome,. 

And  all  is  well  again. 

Alas !  my  father, 

In  aught  beside — 

Reg.  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  child  V 
Canst  thou  direct  the  destiny  of  Rome, 

And  boldly  plead  amid  th’  assembled  senate  1 
Canst  thou,  forgetting  all  thy  sex’s  softness. 
Fiercely  engage  in  hardy  deeds  of  arms  1 
Canst  thou  encounter  labour,  toil,  and  famine. 
Fatigue  and  hardships,  watchings,  cold  and  heatl 
Canst  thou  attempt  to  serve  thy  country  thus  1 
Thou  canst  not : — ^but  thou  mayst  sustain  my 
Without  these  agonizing  pangs  of  grief,  [loss 
And  set  a  bright  example  of  submission. 

Worthy  a  Roman’s  daughter. 

j[tt.  Yet  such  fortitude — 

Reg.  Is  a  most  painful  virtue  ; — ^but  Attilia 
Is  Regulus’s  daughter,  and  must  have  it. 

Att.  I  will  entreat  the  gods  to  give  it  me. 

Ah  !  thou  art  offended  !  I  have  lost  thy  love. 
Reo;.  Is  this  concern  a  mark  that  thou  hast 
lost  itl 

I  cannot,  cannot  spurn  my  weeping  child. 
Receive  this  proof  of  my  paternal  fondness  , — 
Thou  lov’st  Licinius— he  too  loves  my  daughter. 

I  give  thee  to  his  wishes  ;  I  do  more— 

I  give  thee  to  his  virtues. — Yes,  Attilia, 

The  noble  youth  deserves  this  dearest  pledge 
Thy  father’s  friendship  ever  can  bestow. 

Att.  My  lord  !  my  father  !  wilt  thou,  canst 
thou  leave  me  1 

The  tender  father  will  not  quit  his  child  ! 

Reg.  I  am,  I  am  thy  father  !  as  a  proof, 

I  leave  thee  my  example  how  to  suffer. 

My  child  !  I  have  a  heart  within  this  bo.som  ; 
That  heart  has  passions — see  in  what  we 
differ ; 

Passion— which  is  thy  tyrant— is  my  slave. 

Att.  Ah  !  stay,  my  father.  Ah ! 

Reg,  Farewell!  farewell!  [Exit. 

Att.  Yes,  Regulus  !  I  feel  thy  spirit  here. 
Thy  mighty  spirit,  struggling  in  this  breast, 

And  it  shall  conquer  all  these  coward  feelings. 
It  shall  subdue  the  woman  in  my  soul ; 

A  Roman  virgin  should  be  something  more— 
Should  dare  above  her  sex’s  narrow  limits— 
And  I  will  dare — and  mis’ry  shall  assist  me— 
My  father  !  I  will  be  indeed  thy  daughter ! 

The  hero  shall  no  more  disdain  his  child  ; 
Attilia  shall  not  be  the  only  branch 
That  yields  dishonour  to  the  parent  tree. 


Enter  Babck. 

Bar.  Attilia  !  is  it  true  that  Regulus, 

In  spite  of  senate,  people,  augurs,  friends. 

And  children,  will  deparfl 

Att.  Yes,  it  IS  true. 

Bar.  Oh  !  what  romantic  madness  ! 

Att.  forget — 

Barce  !  the  deeds  of  heroes  claim  respect. 

Bar.  Dost  thou  approve  a  virtue  which  must 

,  ■  1  ,1.  r 

To  chains,  to  tortures,  and  to  certain  death  . 

Aff  Barce  !  those  chains,  those  tortures,  ana 
Will  be  his  triumph. 

p^f..  Thou  art  pleas'd,  Attilia  y 

By  heav’n,  thou  dost  exult  in  lus  destruction  ! 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  8ST 


Alt.  Ah !  pitying  powers.  (weeps.) 

Bar.  I  do  not  comprehend  thee. 

Att.  No,  Barce,  I  believe  it. — Why,  how 
shouldst  thou  1 

If  I  mistake  not,  thou  wast  bom  in  Carthage ; 
In  a  barbarian  land,  where  never  child 
Was  taught  to  triumph  in  a  father's  chains. 

Bar.  Yet  thou  dost  weep — thy  tears  at  least 
are  honest. 

For  they  refuse  to  share  thy  tongue’s  deceit  ; 
I’hey  speak  the  genuine  language  of  affliction. 
And  tell  the  sorrows  that  oppress  thy  soul. 

Att.  Grief,  that  dissolves  in  tears,  relieves 
the  heart. 

Vhen  congregated  vapours  melt  in  rain. 

The  sky  is  calm’d,  and  all’s  serene  again. 

[Exit. 

Bar.  Why,  what  a  strange,  fantastic  land  is 
this ! 

This  love  of  glory’s  the  disease  of  Rome  ; 

It  makes  her  mad,  it  is  a  wild  delirium, 

A  universal  and  contagious  phrensy  ; 

It  preys  on  all,  it  spares  nor  sex  nor  age  : 

I'he  consul  envies  Regulus  his  chains —  [dom — 
He,  not  less  mad,  contemns  his  life  and  free- 
The  daughter  glories  in  the  father’s  ruin — 

And  Publius,  more  distracted  than  the  rest, 
Resigns  the  object  that  his  soul  adores, 

For  this  vain  phantom,  for  this  empty  glory. 
This  may  be  virtue ;  but  I  thank  the  gods, 

The  soul  of  Barce’s  not  a  Roman  soul.  (Exit. 

ScEiVE — Within  sight  of  the  Tiber — ships  ready 
for  the  embarcation  of  Regulus  and  the  Am¬ 
bassador — Tribune  and  People  stopping  up  the 
passage — Consul  and  Lictors  endeavouring  to 
dear  it. 

Manlius  and  Licinius  advance. 

Lie.  Rome  will  not  suffer  Regulus  to  go. 
Man.  I  thought  the  consul  and  the  senators 
Had  been  a  part  of  Rome. 

Lie.  I  grant  they  are — 

But  still  the  people  are  the  greater  part. 

Man.  The  greater,  not  the  wiser. 

Lie.  The  less  cruel. - 

Full  of  esteem  and  gratitude  to  Regulus, 

We  would  preserve  his  life. 

Man.  And  we  his  honour. 

Lie.  His  honour  ! - 

Man.  Yes.  I'ime  presses.  Words  are  vain. 
Make  way  thejre — clear  the  passage. 

Lie.  On  your  lives. 

Stir  not  a  man. 

Man.  I  do  command  you,  go. 

Lie.  And  I  forbid  it. 

Man.  Clear  the  way,  my  friends. 

How  dares  Licinius  thus  oppose  the  consul  1 
Lie.  How  dar’st  thou,  Manlius,  thus  oppose 
the  tribune] 

Man.  I’ll  show  thee  what  I  dare,  imprudent 
Lictors,  force  through  the  passage.  [boy  ! 
Lie.  Romans,  guard  it. 

Man.  Gods  !  is  my  power  resisted  then  with 
Thou  dost  affront  the  majesty  of  Rome,  [arms  ! 

Lie.  The  majesty  of  Rome  is  in  the  people  ; 
Thou  dost  insult  it  by  opposing  them. 

People.  Let  noble  Regulus  remain  in  Rome. 


Man.  My  friends,  let  me  explain  this  treach¬ 
erous  scheme. 

People.  We  will  not  hear  thee — Regulus  shall 
Man.  What !  none  obey  me  1  [stav. 

People.  Regulus  shall  stay. 

Man.  Romans,  attend. - 

People.  Let  Regulus  remain. 

Enter  Regulus,  followed  by  Publius,  Attilia, 
Hamilcak,  Barce,  &c. 

Reg.  Let  Regulus  remain  !  What  do  I  hear  ] 
Is’t  possible  the  wish  should  come  from  you  ] 
Can  Romans  give,  or  Regulus  accept, 

A  life  of  infamy  ]  Is’t  possible  ] 

Where  is  the  ancient  virtue  of  my  country  ] 
Rise,  rise,  ye  mighty  spirits  of  old  Rome  ! 

I  do  invoke  you  from  your  silent  tombs  ; 
Fabricius,  Codes,  and  Camillus,  rise,  [were. 
And  show  your  sons  what  their  great  fathers- 
My  countrymen,  what  crime  have  1  committed  ] 
Alas  !  how  has  the  wretched  Regulus 
Deserv’d  your  hatred  ! 

Lie.  Hatred  ]  ah  !  my  friend, 

It  is  our  love  would  break  these  cruel  chains. 
Reg.  If  you  deprive  me  of  my  chains,  I’m 
nothing ; 

They  are  my  honours,  riches,  titles, — all !  [try ; , 
They’ll  shame  my  enemies,  and  grace  my  coun- 
They’ll  waft  her  glory  to  remotest  climes. 
Beyond  her  provinces  and  conquer’d  realms, 
Where  yet  her  conq’ring  eagles  never  flew ; 

Nor  shall  she  blush  hereafter  if  she  find 
Recorded  with  her  faithful  citizens. 

The  name  of  Regulus,  the  captive  Regulus. 

My  countrymen  !  what,  think  you,  kept  in  awe 
The  Volsci,  Sabines,  jEqui,  and  Hernici] 

The  arms  of  Rome  alone  ]  no,  ’twas  her  virtue  , 
That  sole  surviving  good,  which  brave  men  keep,. 
Though  fate  and  warring  worlds  combine  against 
them : 

This  still  is  mine — and  I’ll  preserve  it,  Romans  I 
The  wealth  of  Plutus  shall  not  bribe  it  froUbl  me  !' 
If  you,  alas  !  require  this  sacrifice, 

Carthage  herself  was  less  my  foe  than  Rome  ; 
She  took  my  freedom — she  could  take  no  more  • 
But  Rome,  to  crown  her  work,  would  take  my 
honour. 

My  friends  !  if  you  deprive  me  of  my  chains, 

I  am  no  more  than  any  other  slave : 

Yes,  Regulus  becomes  a  common  captive, 

A  wretched,  lying,  perjur’d  fugitive  ! 

But  if,  to  grace  rny  bonds,  you  leave  my  honour,. 

I  shall  be  still  a  Roman,  though  a  slave,  [ges  ] 
Lie.  What  faith  should  be  observ’d  with  sava- 
What  promise  should  be  kept  which  bonds- 
extort  ] 

Reg.  Unworthy  subterfuge !  ah  !  let  us  leave 
To  the  wild  Arab  and  the  faithless  Moor 
These  wretched  maxims  of  deceit  and  fraud  : 
Examples  ne’er  can  justify  the  coward.  . 

The  brave  man  never  seeks  a  vindication. 

Save  from  his  own  just  bosom  and  the  gods  ;• 
From  principle,  not  precedent,  he  acts  ; 

As  that  arraigns  him,  or  as  that  acquits. 

He  stands  or  falls  ;  condemn’d  or  justified. 

Lie.  Romo  is  no  more,  if  Regulus  departs. 
Reg.  Let  Rome  remember  Regulus  must  die  ’ 
Nor  would  the  moment  of  my  death  be  distant,. 


1 


THE  WORKS  OF  HAiNiNAH  MORE. 


If  nature’s  work  had  been  reserv’d  for  nature  : 
What  Carthage  means  to  do,  she  would  have 
As  speedily,  perhaps,  at  least  as  surely,  [done. 
My  wearied  life  has  almost  reach’d  its  goal ; 

The  once  warm  current  stagnates  in  these  veins. 
Or  through  its  icy  channels  slowly  creeps 
View  the  weak  arm  ;  mark  the  pale,  furrow  d 

The  slacken’d  sinew,  and  the  dim  sunk  eye. 

And  tell  me  then  I  must  not  think  of  dying. 
vHow  can  I  serve  you  else  1  My  feeble  hmbs 
Would  totter  now  beneath  the  armour  s  weight, 
The  burden  of  that  body  it  once  shielded. 

You  see,  my  friends,  you  see,  my  countrymen, 

I  can  no  longer  show  myself  a  Roman, 

Except  by  dying  like  one. — Gracious  Heaven 
Points  out  a  way  to  crown  my  days  with  glory ; 

O  do  not  frustrate  then  the  will  of  Jove, 

And  close  a  life  of  virtue  with  disgrace. 

(Come,  come,  I  know  my  noble  Romans  better  ; 

I  see  your  souls,  I  read  repentance  in  them  ; 
You  all  applaud  me — nay,  you  wish  my  chains  ; 
’Twas  nothing  but  excess  of  love  misled  you. 
And,  as  you’re  Romans,  you  will  conquer  that. 

Yes  ! _ I  perceive  your  weakness  is  subdued — 

Seize,  seize  the  moment  of  returning  virtue  ; 
Throw  to  the  ground,  my  sons,  those  hostile 
Retard  no  longer  Regulus’s  triumph  ;  [arms ; 

I  do  request  it  of  you  as  a  friend, 

I  call  you  to  your  duty  as  a  patriot. 

And — ^were  I  still  your  gen’ral,  I  d  command 
you. 

Lie.  Lay  down  your  arms— let  Regulus  depart. 
{To  the  people,  who  clear  the  way,  and  quit  their 
arms.) 

Ree.  Gods!  gods!  I  thank  you— you  indeed 
are  righteous.  [oh,  fether  . 

Pub.  See  every  man  disarm’d.  Oh,  Rome  ! 
Att.  Hold,  hold,  my  heart.  Alas  !  they  all 
obey.  .  [thee. 

Reg.  The  way  is  clear.  Hamilcar,  I  attend 
Haw.  Why,  I  begin  to  envy  this  old  man ! 

{aside.) 

Man.  Not  the  proud  victor  on  the  day  of  tri¬ 
umph. 


Warm  from  the  slaughter  of  dispeopled  reahns, 
Though  conquer’d  princes  grace  his  chariot 
wheels. 

Though  tributary  monarchs  wait  his  nod. 

And  vanquish’d  nationsbend  the  knee  before  him. 
E’er  shone  with  half  the  lustre  that  surrounds 
This  voluntary  sacrifice  for  Rome  ! 

Who  loves  his  country  will  obey  her  laws  ; 

Who  most  obeys  them  is  the  truest  patriot. 

Reg.  Be  our  last  parting  worthy  of  ourselves. 
Farewell !  my  friends.  I  bless  the  gods  who 
rule  us. 

Since  I  must  leave  you,  that  I  leave  you  Romans. 
Preserve  the  glorious  name  untainted  still. 

And  you  shall  be  the  rulers  of  the  globe. 

The  arbiters  of  earth.  The  farthest  east. 
Beyond  where  Ganges  rolls  his  rapid  flood, 

Shall  proudly  emulate  the  Roman  name. 
{Kneels.)  Ye  gods,  the  guardians  of  this  glori¬ 
ous  people. 

Who  watch  with  jealous  eye  .dEneas’  race. 

This  land  of  heroes  I  commit  to  you  !  [care  ! 
This  ground,  these  walls,  this  people,  be  your 
Oh !  bless  them,  bless  them  with  a  liberal  hand ! 
Let  fortitude  and  valour,  truth  and  justice. 

For  ever  flourish  and  increase  among  them  ! 
And  if  some  baneful  planet  threat  the  capitol 
With  its  malignant  influence,  oh  !  avert  it. 

Be  Regulus  the  victim  of  your  wrath. — 

On  this  white  head  be  all  your  vengeance  pour’d. 
But  spare,  oh !  spare,  and  bless  immortal  Rome ! 
Ah!  tears'!  my  Romans  weep  !  Farewell!  fare¬ 
well  ! 

Attilia  struggles  to  get  to  Regulus — is  pre¬ 
vented — she  faints — he  fixes  his  eye  steadily 
on  her  for  some  time,  and  then  departs  to  the 
ships. 

Manlius,  {looking  after  him.)  Farewell!  fare¬ 
well  !  thou  glory  of  mankind  ! 
Protector,  father,  saviour  of  thy  country ! 
Through  Regulus  the  Roman  name  shall  live, 
Shall  triumph  over  time,  and  mock  oblivion. 
Farewell !  thou  pride  of  this  immortal  coast ! 
’Tis  Rome  alone  a  Regulus  can  boast 


EPILOGUE. 

BY  DAVID  GAERICK,  ESQ. 


What  son  of  physic,  but  his  heart  extends. 

As  well  as  hand,  when  call’d  on  by  his  friends ! 
What  landlord  is  so  weak  to  make  you  fast, 
W^hen  guests  like  you  bespeak  a  good  repast 
But  weaker  still  were  he  whom  fate  has  plac  d 
To  sooth  your  cares,  and  gratify  your  taste. 
Should  he  neglect  to  bring  before  your  eyes. 
Those  dainty  dramas  which  from  genius  rise  ; 
Whether  your  luxury  be  to  smile  or  weep. 

His  and  your  profits  just  proportion  keep. 
To-night  he  brought,  nor  fears  a  due  reward, 

A  Roman  Patriot  by  a  Female  Bard. 

Britons,  who  feel  his  flame,  his  worth  will  rate, 
Ho  common  spirit  his,  no  common  fate. 
Inflexible  and  Captive  must  be  great. 

“  How !”  cries  a  sucking  fop,  thus  lounging, 
straddling. 


(Whose  head  shows  want  of  ball|ist  by  its  nod 
dling), 

“  A  woman  write !  Learn,  madam,  of  your 
betters. 

And  read  a  noble  lord’s  posthumous  letters. 
There  you  will  learn  the  sex  may  merit  praise. 
By  making  puddings — not  by  making  plays  ; 
They  can  make  tea  and  mischief,  dance  and  sing ; 
Their  heads,  though  full  of  feathers,  can’t  take 
wing.”  [chance, 

I  thought  they  could,  sir ;  now  and  then,  by 
Maids  fly  to  Scotland,  and  some  w  ves  to  France 
He  still  went  nodding  on — “  Do  all  she  can, 
Woman’s  a  trifle— plaything— like  her  fan.” 
Right,  sir,  and  when  a  wife,  the  rattle  of  a  man. 
And  shall  such  things  as  these  become  the  test 
Of  female  worth !  the  fairest  and  the  best 


f 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


5.4,9 


Of  all  heaven’s  creatures  1  for  so  Milton  sung  us, 
And,  with  such  champions,  who  shall  dare  to 
wrong  us  1  [ray’d ; 

Come  forth,  proud  man,  in  all  your  pow’rs  ar- 
Shine  out  in  all  your  splendour — ^who’s  afraid  1 
Who  on  French  wit  has  made  a  glorious  war. 
Defended  Shakspeare,  and  subdued  Voltaire  1 — 
Woman  !* — Who,  rich  in  knowledge,  knows  no 
pride, 

Can  boast  ten  tongues,  and  yet  not  satisfied  1 

*  Mrs.  Montague,  author  of  an  essay  on  the  wri¬ 
tings  of  Shakspeare. 

You.  I. 


Woman  !*■  Who  lately  sung  the  sweetest  lay  ? 
A  woman  !  woman  !  woman  If  still  I  say. 
Well  then,  who  dares  deny  our  power  and  might? 
Will  any  married  man  dispute  our  right  ? 

Speak  boldly,  sirs, — ^your  wives  ane  not  in  sight. 
What !  are  you  silent  1  then  you  are  content ; 
Silence,  the  proverb  tells  us,  gives  consent. 
Critics,  will  you  allow  our  honest  claim  ? 

Are  you  uumb  too  1  This  night  has  fix’d  our 
fame. 

*  Mrs.  Carter,  well  known  for  her  skill  in  ancient 
and  modern  languages. 

t  Miss  Aikin,  whose  poems  were  just  published. 

3L 


PERCY: 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 


REMARKS. 


The  feuds  of  the  rival  houses  of  Percy  and  ^"uglas  have  furnished^^^^^ 

areiital  tyranny,  ineviow*  .  .v  .  R/rfc?/  excite  and  increase  our  sympathy, 

interesting ;  while  Percy's  sufferings,  and  the  vain  regret  of  Earl  Raby,  excue  anu 


DRAMATIS  PERSONiE. 


Percy,  Earl  of  Northumberland, 

Earl,  Douglas, . 

Earl  Raby;  El wina’s  Father — 

Edric,  Friend  to  Douglas . 

Harcourt,  Friend  to  Percy . 

Sir  Hubert,  a  Knight, . 


Mr.  Lems. 

Mr.  Wroughton. 
Mr.  Aickin. 

Mr.  WhiteJUld. 

,  Mr.  Robson. 

,  Mr.  HuU. 


Elwina, 

Birtha, 


Mrs.  Barry. 
.Mrs.  Jackson. 


Knights,  Guards,  Attendants,  &c. 
Scene. — Raby  Castle,  in  Durham. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — A  Gothic  Hall. 

Enter  Edric  and  Birtha. 

Bir.  What  may  this  mean  1  Earl  Douglas  has 
enjoin’d  thee 

To  meet  him  here  in  private  1 
Edr.  Yes,  my  sister,  . 

And  this  injunction  I  have  oft  receiv  d ; 

But  when  he  comes,  big  with  some  painful  secret. 
He  starts,  looks  wild,  then  drops  ambiguous  hints. 
Frowns,  hesitates,  turns  pale,  and  says  twas 
nothing; 

Then  feigns  to  smile,  and  by  his  arixious  care 
To  prove  himself  at  ease,  betrays  his  pain.  ^ 
Bir.  Since  my  short  sojourn  here,  1  ve  mark  a 
this  earl. 


And  though  the  ties  of  blood  unite  us  closely, 

1  shudder  at  his  haughtiness  of  temper, 

Which  not  his  gentle  wife,  the  bright  Elwina, 
Can  charm  to  rest.  Ill  are  their  spirits  pair’d ; 
His  is  the  seat  of  frenzy,  hers  of  softness. 

His  love  is  transport,  hers  is  trembling  duty  ; 
Rage  in  his  soul  is  as  the  whirlwind  fierce. 
While  hers  ne^r  felt  the  power  of  that  rude 

passion.  .  c  r-. 

Edr.  Perhaps  the  mighty  soul  of  Douglas 

mourns. 

Because  inglorious  love  detains  him  her^ 

While  our  bold  knights,  beneath  the  Christian 
standard. 

Press  to  the  bulwarks  of  Jerusalem. 

Bir.  Though  every  various  charm  adorns 
Elwina, 


- - ~~  ....  “  This  lartv  has  for  many  years  flourished  in  the  liter 

*  Ofthis  estimable  lady,  a  cotemporary  writer  says.  This  ^  j  t^ong  marks  of  excellence.  In  the 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


And  though  the  noble  Douglas  dotes  to  madness, 
Yet  some  dark  mystery  involves  their  fate: 

The  canker  grief  devours  Elwina’s  bloom, 

A  nd  on  her  brow  meek  resignation  sits. 
Hopeless,  yet  uncomplaining. 

Edr.  ’Tis  most  strange. 

Sir.  Once,  not  long  since,  she  thought  herself 
alone ; 

’Twas  then  the  pent-up  anguish  burst  its  bounds ; 
With  broken  voice,  clasp’d  hands,  and  streaming 
eyes. 

She  call’d  upon  her  father,  call’d  him  cruel. 

And  said  her  duty  claim’d  far  other  recompense. 

;  Edr.  Perhaps  the  absence  of  the  good  Lord 
Raby, 

Who,  at  her  nuptials,  quitted  this  fair  castle. 
Resigning  it  to  her,  may  thus  afflict  her. 

Hast  thou  e’er  question’d  her,  good  Birtha  1 
Sir.  Often, 

But  hitherto  in  vain ;  and  yet  she  shows  me 
The  endearing  kindness  of  a  sister’s  love ; 

But  if  I  speak  to  Douglas - 

Edr.  See !  he  comes. 

It  would  offend  him  should  he  find  you  here. 
Enter  Douglas. 

Dou.  How !  Edric  and  his  sister  in  close  con¬ 
ference  'I 

Do  they  not  seem  alarm’d  at  my  approach  1 
And  see,  how  suddenly  they  part !  Now  Edric, 

[Exit  Birtha. 

Was  this  well  done  1  or  was  it  like  a  friend. 
When  I  desir’d  to  meet  thee  here  alone. 

With  all  the  warmth  of  trusting  confidence. 

To  lay  my  bosom  naked  to  thy  view, 

And  show  thee  all  its  weakness,  was  it  well 
To  call  thy  sister  here,  to  let  her  witness 
Thy  friend’s  infirmity  1 — perhaps  to  tell  her —  . 
Edr.  My  lord,  I  nothing  know;  I  came  to  learn. 
Pou.  Nay  then  thou  dost  suspect  there ’s  some¬ 
thing  wrong  1 

Edr.  If  we  were  bred  from  infancy  together. 

If  I  partook  in  all  thy  youthful  griefs, 

And  every  joy  thou  knew’st  was  doubly  mine. 
Then  tell  me  all  the  secret  of  thy  soul : 

Or  have  these  few  short  months  of  separation. 
The  only  absence  we  have  ever  known. 

Have  these  so  rent  the  bands  of  love  asunder, 
That  Douglas  should  distrust  his  Edric’s  truth  1 
Dou.  My  friend,  I  know  thee  faithful  as  thou’rt 
brave. 

And  I  will  trust  thee — but  not  now,  good  Edric. 
’Tis  past,  ’tis  gone,  it  is  not  worth  the  telling, 
’Twas  wrong  to  cherish  what  disturb’d  my  peace ; 
I’ll  think  of  it  no  more. 

Edr.  Transporting  newsi 
I  fear’d  some  hidden  trouble  vex’d  your  quiet. 

In  secret  I  have  watch’d - 

Dou.  Ha !  vvatch’d  in  secret  I  , 

A  spy,  employ’d,  perhaps,  to  note  my  actions. 
What  have  1  said  ?  Forgive  me,  thou  art  noble ; 
Yet  do  not  press  me  to  disclose  my  grief. 

For  when  thou  know’st  it,  I  perhaps  ^all  hate  thee 
As  much,  my  Edric,  as  I  hate  myself 
For  my  suspicions — I  am  ill  at  ease. 

Edr.  How  will  the  fair  Elwina  grieve  to  hear  it ! 
Dou.  Hold,  Edric,  hold — thou  hast  touch’d  the 
fatal  string 

That  wakes  me  into  madness.  Hear  me  then. 
But  let  the  deadly  secret  be  secured 
With  bars  of  adamant  in  thy  close  breast. 

Think  on  the  curse  which  waits  on  broken  oaths ; 


A  knight  is  bound  by  more  than  vulgar  ties, 

And  perjury  in  thee  were  doubly  danm’d. 

Well  then,  the  king  of  England — 

Edr.  Is  expected 
From  distant  Palestine. 

Dow.  Forbid  it.  Heaven! 

For  with  him  comes — 

Edr.  Ah!  who^ 

Dou.  Peace,  peace, 

For  see  Elwina ’s  here.  Retire,  my  Ednc ; 
When  next  we  meet,  thou  shaft  know  all.  Fare- 
well.  [Exit  Edric, 

Now  to  conceal  with  care  my  bosom’s  anguish. 
And  let  her  beauty  chase  away  my  sorrows  1 
Yes,  I  would  meet  her  with  a  face  of  smiles — 
But  ’twill  not  be. 

Enter  Elwina. 

Elw.  Alas,  ’tis  ever  thus ! 

Thus  ever  clouded  is  his  angry  brow.  [Aside. 

Dou.  I  were  too  bless’d,  Elwina,  could  I  hope 
You  met  me  here  by  choice,  or  that  your  bosom 
Shar’d  the  warm  transports  mine  must  ever  feel 
At  your  approach. 

Elw.  My  lord,  if  1  intrude,  [giveness : 

The  cause  which  brings  me  claims  at  least  for- 
I  fear  you  are  not  well,  and  come,  unbidden. 
Except  by  faithful  duty,  to  inquire. 

If  haply  in  my  power,  my  little  power 
1  have  the  means  to  minister  relief 
To  your  affliction  I 
Dou.  What  unwonted  goodness 
O  I  were  bless’d  above  the  lot  of  man. 

If  tenderness,  not  duty,  brought  Elwina;  | 

Cold,  ceremonious,  and  unfeeling  duty. 

That  wretched  substitute  for  love :  but  know. 
The  heart  demands  a  heart;  nor  will  be  paid 
With  less  than  what  it  gives.  E’en  now,  Elwina, 
The  glistening  tear  stands  trembling  in  your  eyes. 
Which  cast  their  mournful  sweetness  on  the 
ground, 

As  if  they  fear’d  to  raise  their  beams  to  mine, 
And  read  the  language  of  reproachful  love. 

Elw.  My  lord,  1  hop’d  the  thousand  daily  proofs 

Of  my  obedience -  • 

Dou.  Death  to  all  my  hopes  I  [ence  1 

Heart-rending  word  I — obedience  1  what ’s  obedi* 
’Tis  fear,  ’tis  hate,  ’tis  terror,  ’tis  aversion, 

’Tis  the  cold  debt  of  ostentatious  duty, 

Paid  with  insulting  caution,  to  remind  me 
How  much  you  tremble  to  offend  a  tyrant 

So  terrible  as  Douglas. — O,  Elwina - 

While  duty  measure.^  the  regard  it  owes 
With  scrupulous  precision  and  nice  justice, 

Love  never  reasons,  but  profusely  gives. 

Gives,  like  a  thoughtless  prodigal,  its  all. 

And  trembles  then,  lest  it  has  done  too  little. 

Elw.  Indeed  I’m  most  unhappy  that  my  cares, 
And  my  solicitude  to  please,  offend. 

Dou.  True  tenderness  is  less  solicitous. 

Less  prudent  and  more  fond ;  the  enamour’d  heart 
Conscious  it  loves,  and  bless’d  in  being  lov’d. 
Reposes  on  the  object  it  adores, 

And  trusts  the  passion  it  inspires  and  feels.-- 
Thou  hast  not  learn’d  how  terrible  it  is 
To  feed  a  hopeless  flame. — But  hear,  Elwina, 
Thou  most  obdurate,  hear  me. — 

Elw.  Say,  my  lord. 

For  your  own  lips  shall  vindicate  my  fame. 

Since  at  the  altar  I  became  your  wife. 

Can  malice  charge  me  with  an  act,  a  word. 

I  ought  to  blush  at  1  Have  I  not  still  liv’d 


532 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


As  open  to  the  eye  of  observation, 

As  fearless  innocence  should  ever  live  . 

I  call  attesting  angels  to  be  witness. 

If  in  mv  open  deed,  or  secret  thougnt. 

My  SSb,  or  my  heart,  they'™  aught  d.sceru  d 
Which  did  not  emulate  their  punty. 

Dou.  This  vindication  ere  you  were  accus  d. 

This  warm  defence,  repelling  all  attacks 
Ere  they  are  made,  and  construing^casual  words 
To  formal  accusations,  trust  me,  Madam^ 

Shows  rather  an  alarm’d  and  spm  , 

For  ever  on  the  watch  to  guard  its  secret. 

Than  the  sweet  calm  of  fearless  innocence. 
WhJtalk’d  of  guilt  Who  testified  f  «spicion J 

Elw.  Learn,  Sir,  that  virtue,  while  tis  free  from 

blame,  . 

Ts  modest  lowly,  meek,  and  unassuming; 

Not  apt  like  fearful  vice,  to  shield  its  weakness 

Benea^th  the  studied  pomp  fcg®® 

Which  swells  to  hide  the  poverty  it  shelters , 

But,  when  this  virtue  feels  itself  suspected. 

Insulted,  set  at  nought,  its  ^.l^teness  stain  d 
It  then  grows  proi^  forgets  its  humble  j 
And  rates  itself  above  its  real  value, 

Dou.  I  did  not  mean  to  chide !  but  thinK,  u 

What  pangs  must  rend  this  fearful  doting  heart, 

To  see  you  sink  impatient  of  the  grave. 

To  feel,  distracting  thought !  to  feel  you  ’^ate  me . 
Elw.  What  if  the  slender  thread  by  which  I 

This  poor  precarious  being  soon  must  break, 

Is  it  Elwina’s  crime,  or  Heaven  s  decree  . 

Yet  I  shall  meet,  I  trust,  the  king  of  terrors, 
Submissive  and  resign’d,  without  one  pang. 

One  fond  regret,  at  leaving  this  gay  world. 

Dou.  Yes,  Madam,  there  is  one,  one  man  ador  d. 
For  whom  your  sighs  will  heave,  your  tears  will 

flow,  . ,  ,  , 

For  whom  this  hated  world  will  still  be  dear. 

For  whom  you  still  would  live  ■ 

*  Elw.  Hold,  hold  my  lord, 

What  may  this  tneanl 

Dou.  Ah!  I  have  gone  too  far. 

What  have  I  sai^— Your  father,  sure,  your  father; 
The  good  Lord  Raby,  may  at  least  expect 
One  tender  sigh. 

Elw.  Alas,  my  lord!  I  thought  ^  _ 

The  precious  incense  of  a  daughter  s  sighs 
Might  rise  to  heaven,  and  not  offend  its  ruler.^ 
Dou.  ’Tis  true;  yet  Raby  is  no  more^lov  d 
Since  he  bestow’d  his  daughter’s  hand  on  Douglas : 
That  was  a  crime  the  dutiful  Elwina 
Can  never  pardon ;  and  believe  me.  Madam, 

My  love’s  so  nice,  so  delicate  my  honour, 

I  am  asham’d  to  owe  my  happiness 

To  ties  which  make  you  wretched.  [Exif  Douglas. 

Elw.  Ah!  how’s  this'? 

Though  I  have  ever  found  him  fierce  and  rash. 
Full  of  obscure  surmises  and  dark  hints, 

Tin  now  he  never  ventur’d  to  accuse  rne. 

“  Yet  there  is  one,  one  man  belov  d,  ador  a, 

.  For  whom  your  tears  wUl  flow”-these  were  his 
words—  w 

And  then  the  wretched  subterfuge  of  Raby 
How  poor  th’  evasion !— But  my  Birtha  comes 

Enter  Birtha. 

Bir  Crossing  the  portico  I  met  Lord  Douglas, 
Disorder’d  were  his  looks,  his  eyes  shot  ^re; 

He  call’d  upon  your  name  with  such  distraction 
I  fear’d  some  sudden  evil  had  befallen  you. 


Elw.  Not  sudden :  no ;  long  has  the  storm 
been  gathering. 

Which  threatens  speedily  to  burst  in  ruin 
On  this  devoted  head. 

Bir.  I  ne’er  beheld 

Your  gentle  soul  so  ruffled,  yet  I’ve  marked  you. 
While  others  thought  you  happiest  of  the  happy, 
Bless’d  with  whate’er  the  world  calls  great,  or 
good. 

With  all  that  nature,  all  that  fortune  gives. 

I’ve  mark’d  you  bending  with  a  weight  of  sorrow 
Elw.  O I  will  tell  thee  all !  thou  couldst  not  find 
An  hour,  a  moment  in  Elwina  s  life,  ^ 

When  her  full  heart  so  Jong’d  to  ease  its  burden. 
And  pour  its  sorrows  in  thy  friendly  bosom . 

Hear  then,  with  pity  hear,  my  tale  of  wo. 

And,  O  forgive,  kind  nature,  fihal  piety, 

If  my  presumptuous  lips  arraign  a  father  . 

Yes  Birtha,  that  belov’d,  that  cruel  father, 

Has’  doom’d  me  to  a  life  of  hopeless  anguish. 

To  die  of  grief  ere  half  my  days  are  number  d , 
Doom’d  me  to  give  my  trembling  hand  to  Douglas, 
’Twas  all  I  had  to  give— my  heart  was— Percy  s. 
Bir.  What  do  1  hear  1 
Elw.  My  misery,  not  my  crime. 

Long  since  the  battle  ’twixt  the  rival  houses 
Of  Douglas  and  of  Percy,  for  whose  hate 
This  mighty  globe ’s  too  small  aTheatre, 

One  summer’s  morn,  my  father  chas  d  the  deer 
On  Cheviot  Hills,  Northumbria  s  fair  domain 
Bir.  On  that  fam’d  spot  where  first  the  feuds 
commenc’d 

Between  the  earls '?  _ 

Elw.  The  same.  During  the  chace,  _ 

Some  of  my  father’s  knights  receiv  d  an  in?fflt 
From  the  Lord  Percy’s  herdsmen,  churlish  fo- 
crs 

Unworthy  of  the  gentle  blood  they  serv’d. 

Mv  father,  proud  and  jealous  of  his  honour, 
fThou  know’st  the  fiery  temper  of  our  barons,) 
Swore  that  Northumberland  had  been  concern  d 
In  this  rude  outrage,  nor  would  hear  of  jpeace. 

Or  reconcilement,  which  the  Percy  offer  , 

But  bade  me  hate,  renounce,  and  banish  him. 

O !  ’twas  a  task  too  hard  for  all  my  duty.  ^ 

I  strove,  and  wept ;  I  strove — but  still  I  lov  . 

^  Bir.  Indeed  ’twas  most  unjust;  but  say  what 
followed  ^  i 

Elw.  Why  should  I  dwell  on  the  disastrous 
Forbid  to  see  me,  Percy  soon  embark  d 
With  our  great  king  against  the  Saracen. 

Soon  as  the  jarring  kingdoms  were  at  peace, 

Earl  Douglas,  whom  till  then  I  ne  er  had  seen. 
Came  to  this  castle ;  ’twas  my  hapless  fate 
To  please  him.— Birtha!  thou  canst  teU  what 
followed; 


But  who  shall  tell  the  agonies  I  fe  t"? 

Mv  barbarous  father  forc’d  me  to  dissolve 
The  tender  vows  himself  had  bid  me  form 
He  dragg’d  me  trembling,  dying,  to  the  alter, 

1  sigh’d  I  struggled,  fainted,  and  complied. 

Bir.  ’Did  Douglas  know,  a  marriage  had  been 
Propos’d  ’twixt  you  and  Percy '?  1®““ 

Elw.  If  he  did, 

He  thought,  like  you,  it  was  a  match  of  policy, 
Nor  knew  our  love  surpass’d  our  fathers  pruden^. 
Bir.  Should  he  now  find  he  was  the  mstru- 
ment 

Of  the  Lord  Raby’s  vengeance  I 
Elw.  ’Twere  most  dreadful ! 

Mv  father  lock’d  this  motive  in  his  bre^t, 

And  feign’d  to  have  forgot  the  chace  of  Cheviot, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


533 


Some  moons  have  now  completed  their  slow  course 
Since  my  sad  marriage. — Percy%till  is  absent. 
Bir.  Nor  will  return  before  his  sov’reign  comes. 
Elw.  Talk  not  of  his  return !  this  coward  heart 
Can  know  no  thought  of  peace  but  in  his  absence. 
How,  Douglas  here  again  1  some  fresh  alarm  ! 
Enter  Dougl  a  s.  agitated,  with  letters  in  his  hand. 
Dou.  Madam,  your  pardon — 

Elw.  What  disturbs  my  lord  'i  [ease. 

Dou.  Nothing. — Disturb !  I  ne’er  was  more  at 
These  letters  from  your  father  give  us  notice 
He  will  be  here  to-night : — He  farther  adds, 

The  king ’s  each  hour  expected. 

Elw.  How  1  the  king  1 
Said  you,  the  king  "I 

Dou.  And  ’tis  Lord  Raby’s  pleasure 
That  you  among  the  foremost  bid  him  welcome. 
You  must  attend  the  court. 

Elw.  Must  I,  my  lord  1 

Dou.  Now  to  observe  how  she  receives  the 
news !  l^Aside. 

Elw.  I  must  not, — cannot. — By  the  tender  love 
You  have  so  oft  profess’d  for  popr  Elwina, 
Indulge  this  one  request — O  let  me  stay ! 

Dou.  Enchanting  sounds!  she  does  not  wish 
to  go —  [Aside. 

Elw.  The  bustling  world,  the  pomp  which 
waits  on  greatness, 

Ill  suits  my  humble,  unambitious  soul ; — 

Then  leave  me  here,  to  tread  the  safer  path 
Of  private  life  ;  here,  where  my  peaceful  course 
Shall  be  as  silent  as  the  shades  around  me ; 

Nor  shall  one  vagrant  wish  be  e’er  allow’d 
To  stray  beyond  the  bounds  of  Raby  Castle. 

I  Dou.  O  music  to  my  ears !  [Aside.]  Can  you 
resolve 

To  hide  those  wondrous  beauties  in  the  shade. 
Which  rival  kings  would  cheaply  buy  with  empire  1 
Can  you  renounce  the  pleasures  of  a  court. 
Whose  roofs  resound  with  minstrelsy  and  mirth 
Elw.  My  lord,  retirement  is  a  wife’s  best  duty. 
And  virtue’s  safest  station  is  retreat. 

Dou.  My  soul ’s  in  transports !  [Aside.]  But 
can  you  forego 

What  wins  the  soul  of  woman — qdmiration  1 
A  world,  where  charms  inferior  far  to  yours 
Only  presume  to  shine  when  you  are  absent ! 
Will  you  not  long  to  meet  the  public  gaze  1 
Long  to  eclipse  the  fair,  and  charm  the  brave  1 
Elw.  These  are  delights  in  which  the  mind 
partakes  not. 

Dou.  I’ll  try  her  farther.  [Aside. 

[  Takes  her  hand,  and  looks  steadfastly  at  her 
as  he  speaks. 

But  reflect  once  more : 

When  you  shall  hear  that  England’s  gallant  peers. 
Fresh  from  the  fields  of  war,  and  gay  with  glory. 
All  vain  with  conquest,  and  elate  with  fame. 
When  you  shall  hear  these  princelyyouths  contend. 
In  many  a  tournament,  for  beauty’s  prize ; 

When  you  shall  hear  of  revelry  and  masking. 

Of  mimic  combats  and  of  festive  halls. 

Of  lances  shiver’d  in  the  cause  of  love. 

Will  you  not  then  repent,  then  wish  your  fate. 
Your  happier  fate,  had  till  that  hour  reserv’d  you 
For  some  plumed  conqueror  1 
Elw.  My  fate,  mj  lord, 

Is  now  bound  up  with  yours. 

Dou.  Here  let  me  kneel —  [der ; 

Yes,  I  will  kneel,  and  gaze,  and  weep,  and  won- 
Thou  paragon  of  goodness ! — pardon,  pardon. 

[Kisses  her  hand. 

VoL.  I. 


I  am  convinc’d — I  can  no  longer  doubt. 

Nor  talk,  nor  hear,  nor  reason,  nor  reflect 
— I  must  retire,  and  give  a  loose  to  joy. 

[Exit  DouGLAa, 

Bir.  The  king  returns. 

Elw.  And  with  him  Percy  comes ! 

Bir.  You  needs  must  go. 

Elw.  Shall  I  solicit  ruin. 

And  pull  destruction  on  me  ere  its  time  'I 
I,  who  have  held  it  criminal  to  name  him  1 
I  will  not  go — I  disobey  thee,  Douglas, 

But  disobey  thee  to  preserve  thy  honour.  [Exeunt 

ACT  II. 

SCENE  I.—  The  HaJL 

Enter  Douglas,  speakings. 

See  that  the  traitor  instantly  be  seiz’d. 

And  strictly  watch’d ;  let  none  have  access  to  him. 
— O  jealousy,  thou  aggregate  of  woes  ! 

Were  there  no  hell,  thy  torments  would  create  one. 
But  yet  she  may  be  guiltless — may  1  she  must. 
How  beautiful  she  look’d  !  pernicious  beauty  ! 
Yet  innocent  as  bright  seem’d  the  sweet  blush 
That  mantled  on  her  cheek.  But  not  for  me, 
But  not  for  me,  those  breathing  roses  blow ! 

And  then  she  wept — What !  can  I  bear  her  tears  'i 
Well-  let  her  weep — her  tears  are  for  another ; 

O  did  they  fall  for  me,  to  dry  their  streams 
I’d  drain  the  choicest  blood  that  feeds  this  heart. 
Nor  think  the  drops  I  shed  were  half  so  precious. 

[He  stands  in  a  musing  posture. 

Eiiter  Lord  Raby. 

Raby.  Sure  I  mistake — am  I  in  Raby  Castle  ? 
Impossible ;  that  was  the  seat  of  smiles ; 

And  Cheerfulness  and  Joy  were  household  goda, 
I  us’d  to  scatter  pleasures  when  I  came. 

And  every  servant  shar’d  his  lord’s  delight ; 

But  now  Suspicion  and  Distrust  dwell  here, 

And  Discontent  maintains  a  sullen  sway. 

Where  is  the  smile  unfeign’d,  the  jovial  welcome, 
Which  cheer’d  the  sad,  beguil’d  the  pilgrim’s  pain. 
And  made  Dependency  forget  its  bonds  I 
Where  is  the  ancient,  hospitable  hall. 

Whose  vaulted  roof  once  rung  with  harmless  mirth. 
Where  every  passing  stranger  was  a  guest. 

And  every  guest  a  friend  I  I  fear  me  much. 

If  once  our  nobles  scorn  their  rural  seats, 

Their  rural  greatness,  and  their  vassals’  love, 
Freedom  and  English  grandeur  are  no  more. 

Dou.  [Advancing.]  My  lord,  you  are  welcome. 
Raby.  Sir,  I  trust  I  am ; 

But  yet  methinks  I  shall  not  feel  I’m  welcome 
Till  my  Elwina  bless  me  with  her  smiles : 

She  was  not  wont  with  ling’ring  step  to  meet  me, 
Or  greet  my  coming  with  a  cold  embrace ; 

Now,  I  extend  my  longing  arms  in  vain : 

My  child,  my  darling,  does  not  come  to  fill  them. 
O  they  were  happy  days,  when  she  would  fly 
To  meet  me  from  the  camp,  or  from  the  chace. 
And  with  her  fondness  overpay  my  toils ! 

How  eager  would  her  tender  hands  unbrace 
The  ponderous  armour  from  my  war-worn  limbs, 
And  pluck  the  helmet  which  oppos’d  her  kiss! 
Dou.  O  sweet  delights,  that  never  must  be  mine  1 
Raby.  What  do  I  hear  I 
Dou.  Nothing:  inquire  no  farther. 

Raby.  My  lord,  if  you  respect  an  old  man’s 
peace. 

If  e’er  you  doted  on  my  much-lov’d  child. 

As  ’tis  most  sure  you  made  me  think  you  did, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


534 

Then,  by  the  pangs  which  you  may  one  day  feel, 
When  you,  like  me,  shall  be  a  fond,  fonxl  father, 
And  tremble  for  the  treasure  of  your  age, 

Tell  me  what  this  alarming  silence  means  ! 

You  sigh,  you  do  not  speak,  nay  more,  you  hear 
not; 

Your  lab’ring  soul  turns  inward  on  itselt. 

As  there  were  nothing  but  your  own  sad  thoughts 
Deserv’d  regard.  Does  my  child  live  . 

Dou.  She  does. 

Raby.  To  bless  her  father ! 

Dou.  And  to  curse  her  husband ! 

Raby.  Ah !  have  a  care,  my  lord,  1  m  not  so 

Dou.  Nor  I  so  base,  that  I  should  tamely  bear  it ; 
Nor  am  I  so  inur’d  to  infamy,  _ 

That  I  can  say,  without  a  burning  blush. 

She  lives  to  be  my  curse  1 
Raby.  How ’s  this  1 
Dou.  I  thought 

The  lily  opening  to  the  heaven  s  sott  dews, 

Was  not  so  fragrant,  and  was  not  so  chaste. 

Raby.  Has  she  prov’d  otherwise  1  1 11  not  be- 

Who  has  traduc’d  my  sweet,  n\y  innocent  child  1 
Yet  she ’s  too  good  to  ’scape  calumnious  tongues. 

I  know  that  Slander  loves  a  lofty  mark: 

It  saw  her  soar  a  flight  above  her  fellows. 

And  hurl’d  its  arrow  to  her  glorious  height. 

To  reach  her  heart,  and  bring  her  to  the  ground. 
Dou.  Had  the  rash  tongue  of  Slander  so  pre¬ 
sum’d. 

My  vengeance  had  not  been  of  that  slow  sort 
To  need  a  prompter ;  nor  should  any  arm, 

No,  not  a  father’s,  dare  dispute  with  mine. 

The  privilege  to  die  in  her  defence. 

None  dares  accuse  Elwina,  but — 

Raby.  But  who  I 
Dou.  But  Douglas. 

Raby.  [Pu<s  his  hand  to  his  sword.]  You  f— 
O  spare  my  age’s  weakness ! 

You  do  not  know  what  ’tis  to  be  a  father; 

You  do  not  know,  or  you  would  pity  me. 

The  thousand  tender  throbs,  the  nameless  feel 
ings. 

The  dread  to  ask,  and  yet4;he  wish  to  know, 
Mfhen  we  adore  and  fear ;  but  wherefore  fear  . 
Does  not  the  blood  of  Raby  fill  her  veins  I 
Dou  Percy ; — know’st  thou  that  name  I 
j?a6y.  Howl  What  of  Percy  I 
Dou.  He  loves  Elwina,  and,  my  curses  on  him  ! 
He  is  belov’d  again. 

Raby.  Pm  on  the  rack  1  .  ,  u 

Dou.  Not  the  two  Theban  brothers  bore  each 

Such  deep,  such  deadly  hate  as  I  and  I  ercy. 
Raby.  But  tell  me  of  my  child. 

Dou.  [Not  minding  him.]  As  I  and  Percy . 
When  at  the  marriage  rites,  O  rites  accurs  d . 

I  seiz’d  her  trembling  hand,  she  started  back. 

Cold  horror  thrill’d  her  veins,  her  tears  flow  d  last. 
Fool  that  I  was,  I  thought  *twas  maiden  tear ; 
Dull,  doting  ignorance :  beneath  those  ^terrors, 
Hatred  for  me  and  love  for  Percy  lurk’d. 

Raby.  What  proof  of  guilt  is  this  1 
Dou.  E’er  since  our  marriage. 

Our  days  have  still  been  cold  and  joyless  all ; 
Painful  restraint,  and  hatred  ill  disguis’d. 

Her  sole  return  for  all  my  waste  of  fondness. 
This  very  morn  I  told  her  ’twas  your  will 
She  should  repair  to  court ;  with  all  those  graces, 
•Which  first  subdued  mv  soul,  and  still  enslave  it, 


She  begg’d  to  kay  behind  in  Raby  Castle, 

For  courts  and  cities  had  no  charms  for  her. 

Curse  my  blind  love  !  I  was  again  ensna.r’d, 

And  doted  on  the  sweetness  which  deceiv  d  me. 
Just  at  the  hour  she  thought  I  should  be  absent, 
I'For  chance  could  ne’er  have  tim’d  their  guilt  so 

well,)  1  .  •  . 

Arriv’d  young  Harcourt,  one  of  Percy  s  knights, 
Strictly  enjoin’d  to  speak  to  none, but  her ; 
seiz’d  the  miscreant :  hitherto  he ’s  silent, 

3ut  tortures  soon  shall  force  him  to  confess . 

Raby  Percy  is  absent — They  have  never  met. 
Dou.  At  what  a  feeble  hold  you  grasp  for  suc¬ 
cour!  ■ 

Will  it  content  me  that  her  person  s  pure  I 
No,  if  her  alien  heart  dotes  on  another. 

She  is  unchaste,  were  not  that  other  Percy. 

Let  vulgar  spirits  basely  wait  for  prwf. 

She  loves  another— ’tis  enough  for  Douglas. 

Raby.  Be  patient. 

Dou.  Be  a  tame  convenient  husband. 

And  meanly  wait  for  circumstantial  guilt  I 
No — I  am  nice  as  the  first  Ccesar  was,  ^ 

And  start  at  bare  suspicion.  [ Going. 

Raby.  [Holding  him.]  Douglas,  hear  me :  ^ 

Thou  hast  nam’d  a  Roman  husband;  if  she  a 
false, 

I  mean  to  prove  myself  a  Roman  father. 

[Exit  Douglas, 

This  marriage  was  my  work,  and  thus  I  m  pu¬ 
nish’d  ! 

Enter  Elwina. 

Elw.  Where  is  my  father  1  let  me  fly  to  meet 
O  let  me  clasp  his  venerable  knees,  [him, 

And  die  of  joy  in  his  belov’d  embrace!  _ 

Raby.  [Avoiding  her  embrace.]  Elwina . 

Elw.  And  is  that  all  1  so  cold  I 
Raby.  [Sternly.]  Elwina!  , ,  tt  . 
Elw.  I'hen  I’m  undone  indeed !  How  stem 
his  looks ! 

I  will  not  be  repuls’d,  I  am  your  child,  ^ 

The  child  of  that  dear  mother  you  ador  d ; 

You  shall  not  throw  me  off,  I  will  grow  here. 
And,  like  the  patriarch,  wrestle  for  a  biasing. 
Raby.  [Holding  her  from  him.]  Before  1  take 
thee  in  these  aged  arms. 

Press  thee  with  transport  to  this  beating  heart 
And  give  a  loose  to  all  a  parent’s  fondness. 
Answer,  and  see  thou  answer  me  as^truly 
As  if  the  dread  inquiry  came  from  Heaven,-- 
Does  no  interior  sense  of  guilt  confound  thee  . 
Canst  thou  lay  all  thy  naked  soul  before  me  { 
Can  thy  unconscious  eye  encounter  mine  1 
Canst  thou  endure  the  probe,  and  never  shnnk  ? 
Can  thy  firm  hand  meet  mine,  and  never  tremble  i 
Art  thou  prepar’d  to  meet  the  rigid  Judge  I 
Or  to  embrace  the  fond,  the  melting  father  I 
Elw.  Mysterious  Heaven  !  to  what  am  I  re¬ 
serv’d  ! 

Raby.  Should  some  rash  man,  regardless  of 
thy  fame, 

And  in  defiance  of  thy  marriage  vows, 

Presume  to  plead  a  guilty  passion  for  thee 
What  wouldst  thou  do  1 

Elw  What  honour  bids  me  do. 

Raby.  Come  to  my  arms  !  [  They  embrace 

Elw.  My  father ! 

Raby.  Yes,  Elwina, 

Thou  art  my  child— thy  mother’s  prfect  image. 
Elw.  Forgive  these  tears  of  mmgled  joy  and 
doubt ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


535 


I 


* 

For  why  <jTiestion  1  who  should  seek  to  please 
The  des^Mate  Elwina  1 
But  if  any 

Should  sopretsume,  canst  thou  resolve  to  hate  him, 
Whate’er  his  name,  whate’er  his  pride  of  blood, 
Whate’er  his  former  arrogant  pretensions'? 

Elw.  Ha! 

Baby.  Dost  thou  falter  1  Have  a  care,  Elwina. 
Elw.  Sir,  do  not  fear  me:  am  I  not  your 
daughter "?  [honour ; 

Baby.  Thou  hast  a  higher  claim  upon  thy 
Thou  art  Earl  DougW  wife. 

Elw.  [  Weeps.]  I  am,  indeed ! 

Baby.  Unhappy  Douglas  I 
Elw.  Has  he  then  complain’d 
3!as  he  presum’d  to  sully  my  white  fame  1 

Baby.  He  knows  that  Percy - 

Elw.  Was  my  destin’d  husband; 

3y  your  own  promise,  by  a  father’s  promise, 

And  by  a  tie  more  strong,  more  sacred  still, 

Mine,  by  the  fast  firm  bond  of  mutual  love. 

Baby.  Now,  by  my  fears,  thy  husband  told  me 
truth. 

Elw.  If  he  has  told  thee,  that  thy  only  child 
Vas  forc’d  a  helpless  victim  to  the  altar, 

Torn  from  his  arms  who  had  h.er  virgin  heart, 
^nd  forc’d  to  make  false  vows  to  one  she  hated, 
Then  I  confess  that  he  has  told  the  truth. 

Baby.  Her  words  are  barbed  arrows  in  my 
heart. 

3ut  ’tis  too  late.  [Asicte.]  Thou  hast  appointed 
Harcourt 

To  see  thee  here  by  stealth  in  Douglas’  absence  ? 

Elw.  No,  by  my  life,  nor  knew  I  till  this  moment 
That  Harcourt  was  return’d.  Was  it  for  this 
1  taught  my  heart  to  struggle  with  its  feelings  ? 
SVas  it  for  this  I  bore  my  wrongs  in  silence  ? 
When  the  fond  ties  of  early  love  were  broken, 
3id  my  weak  soul  break  out  in  fond  complaints  ? 
)id  I  reproach  thee  ?  Did  I  call  thee  cruel  ? 

— I  endur’d  it  all ;  and  wearied  Heaven 
?o  bless  the  father  who  destroy’d  my  peace. 


Enter  Messenger. 


Mess.  My  lord,  a  knight.  Sir  Hubert  as  I  think. 
Jut  newly  landed  from  the  holy  wars, 
entreats  admittance. 

Baby.  Let  the  warrior  enter. 

[Exit  Messenger. 

U1  private  interests  sink  at  his  approach ; 
lU  selfish  cares  be  for  a  moment  banish’d ; 
ve  now  no  child,  no  kindred  but  my  country. 
Elw.  Weak  heart,  be  still,  for  what  hast  thou 
to  fear  ^ 


Enter  Sir  Hubert. 


Baby.  Welcome,  thou  gallant  knight !  Sir  Hu¬ 
bert,  welcome  I 

Welcome,  to  Raby  Castle  !—* In  one  word, 

8  the  king  safe  “I  Is  Palestine  subdu’d  ? 

Sit*  H.  The  king  is  safe,  and  Palestine  subdu’d. 
Baby.  Bless’d  be  the  God  of  armies  I  Now,  Sir 
Hubert, 

3y  all  the  saints,  thou’rt  a  right  noble  knight. 

0  why  was  I  too  old  for  this  crusade  I 
[  think  it  would  have  made  me  young  again. 
Could  I,  like  thee,  have^seen  the  baled  crescent 
Yield  to  the  Christian  cross.— How  now,  Elwina ! 
What  I  cold  at  news  which  might  awake  the  dead  7 
If  there ’s  a  drop  in  thy  degenerate  veins 
That  glows  not  now,  thou  art  not  Raby’s  daughter. 
It  is  religion’s  cause,  the  cause  of  Heaven  I 


Elw.  When  policy  assumes  religion’s  name, 
And  wears  the  sanctimonious  garb  of  faith 
Only  to  colour  fraud,  and  license  murder. 

War  then  is  tenfold  guilt. 

Baby.  Blaspheming  girl! 

Elw.  ’Tis  not  the  crosier,  nor  the  pontifiPs  robe 
The  saintly  look,  nor  elevated  eye, 

Nor  Palestine  destroy’d,  nor  Jordan’s  banks 
Deluged  with  blootl  of  slaughter’d  infidels ; 

No,  nor  the  extinction  of  the  eastern  world, 

Nor  all  the  mad,  pernicious,  bigot  rage 
Of  your  crusades,  can  bribe  that  Power  that  sees 
The  motive  with  the  act.  O  blind,  to  think 
That  cruel  war  can  please  the  Prince  of  Peace ! 
He,  who  erects  his  altar  in  the  heart, 

Abhors  the  sacrifice  of  human  blood. 

And  all  the  false  devotion  of  that  zeal 
Which  massacres  the  world  he  died  to  save. 
Baby.  O  impious  rage!  If  thou  wouldst  shun 

my  curse,  [Hubert, 

No  more,  I  charge  thee. — Tell  me,  good.  Sir 
Say,  have  our  arms  achiev’d  this  glorious  deed, 

(I  fear  to  ask,)  without  much  C  hristian  blood-shed  1 
Elw.  Now,  Heaven  support  me!  [Aside, 

Sir  H.  My  good  lord  of  Raby, 

Imperfect  is  the  sum  of  human  glory! 

Would  1  could  tell  thee  that  the  field  was  won. 
Without  the  death  of  such  illustrious  knights 
As  make  the  high-flush’d  cheek  of  victory  pale. 
Elw.  Why  should  I  tremble  thus  7  [Aside. 
Baby.  Who  have  we  lost  7  [Grey, 

Sir  H.  The  noble  Clilibrd,  Walsingham,  and 
Sir  Harry  Hastings,  and  the  valiant  Pembroke, 
All  men  of  choicest  note. 

Baby.  O  that  my  name 
Had  been  enroll’d  in  such  a  list  of  heroes ! 

If  I  vnas  too  infirm  to  serve  my  country, 

I  might  have  prov’d  my  love  by  dying  for  her. 
Elw.  W  ere  there  no  more  7' 

Sir  H.  But  few  of  noble  blood. 

But  the  brave  youth  who  gain’d  the  palm  of  glory, 
The  flower  of  knighthood,  and  the  plume  of  war, 
Who  bore  his  banner  foremost  in  the  field. 

Yet  conquer’d  more  by  mercy  than  the  sword. 
Was  Percy. 

Elw,  Then  he  live^!  [Aside, 

Baby.  Did  he  7  Did  Percy  7 
O  gallant  boy,  then  I’m  thy  foe  no  more ; 

Who  conquers  for  my  country  is  my  friend ! 

His  fame  shall  add  new  glories  to  a  house. 

Where  never  maid  was  false,  nor  knight  dis¬ 
loyal.  [tears : 

Sir  H.  You  do  embalm  him,  lady,  with  youl 
They  grace  the  grave  of  glory  where  he  lies — 

He  died  the  death  of  honour. 

Elw.  Said’st  thou — died  7 

Sir  H.  Beneath  the  towers  of  Solyma  he  felL 

Elw.  Oh! 

Sir  H.  Look  to  the  lady. 

[Elwina  faints  in  her  father’s  arms. 

Baby.  Gentle  knight,  retire - 

’Tis  an  infirmity  of  nature  in  her, 

She  ever  mourns  at  any  tale  of  blood ; 

She  will  be  well  anon — meantime.  Sir  Hubert, 
You’ll  grace  our  castle  with  your  friendly  sojourn. 
Sir  H.  I  must  return  with  speed — health  to  the 
lady.  [Exit 

Baby.  Look  up,  Elwina.  Should  her  husband 
Yet  she  revives  not.  [come  I 

Enter  Douglas. 

Dou.  Ha - Elwina  fainting ! 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


536 

My  lord  I  fear  you  have  too  harshly  chid  her. 

Her  gentle  nature  could  not  brook  your  sternness. 
She  wakes,  she  stirs,  she  feels  returning  life 
jVIylove!  [He  takes  her  hand. 

Elw.  b  Percy !  .  o 

Dou.  [Starts.]  Do  my  senses  tail  me  i 
Elw.  My  Percy,  ’tis  Elwina  calls. 

Dou.  Hell,  hell ! 

Raby.  Retire  awhile,  my  daughter. 

Elw.  Douglas  here. 

My  father  and  my  husband  '1—0  for  pity 

[Exit,  casting  a  look  of  anguish  on  both. 
Dou.  Now,  now  confess  she  well  deserves  my 
vengeance ! 

Before  my  face  to  call  upon  my  foe  ! 

Raby.  Upon  a  foe  who  has  no  power  to  hurt 

Earl  Percy ’s  slain. 

Dou.  I  live  again. — But  hold — 

Did  she  not  weep  I  she  did,  and  wept  for  Percy. 

If  she  laments  him,  he ’s  my  rival  still. 

And  not  the  grave  can  bury  my  resentment. 

Raiyy.  The  truly  brave  are  still  the  truly  gen  rous. 
Now,  Douglas,  is  the  time  to  prove  thee  both. 

If  it  be  true  that  she  did  once  love  Percy, 

Thou  hast  no  more  to  fear,  since  he  is  dead. 
Release  young  Harcourt,  let  him  see  Elwina, 
’Twill  serve  a  double  purpose,  ’twill  at  oime  ^ 
Prove  Percy’s  death,  and  thy  unchanged  aifection. 
Be  gentle  to  my  child,  and  win  her  heart 
By  confidence  and  unreproaching  love. 

Dou.  By  Heaven,  thou  counsel’st  well !  it  shall 
be  done. 

Go  set  him  free,  and  let  him  have  admittance 
To  my  Elwina’s  presence. 

Raby.  Farewell,  Douglas. 

Show  thou  believ’st  her  faithful,  and  she  11  prove 
so.  .  ,  . 

Dou.  Northumberland  is  dead — that  thought  is 

peace !  •  i,  i 

Her  heart  may  yet  be  mine,  transporting  hope ! 
Percy  was  gentle,  even  a  foe  avows  it. 

And  I’ll  be  milder  than  a  summer’s  breeze. 

Yes,  thou  most  lovely,  most  ador’d  of  women. 

I’ll  copy  every  virtue,  every  grace, 

Of  my  bless’d  rival,  happier  even  in  death 
To  be  thus  lov’d,  than  living  to  be  scorn  d.  [Exit. 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I. — A  Garden  at  Raby  Castle,  with  a 
Bower. 

Enter  Percy  and  Sir  Hubert. 

Sir  H.  That  Percy  lives,  and  is  return’d  in 
sEifcty, 

More  joys  my  soul  than  all  the  mighty  conquests 
That  sun  beheld,  which  rose  on  Syria’s  ruin. 
Per.  I’ve  told  thee,  good  Sir  Hubert,  by  what 
wonder  .  ,  ,  • 

I  was  preserv’d,  though  number’d  with  the  slam. 
Sir  BL  ’Twas  strange,  indeed ! 

Per.  ’Twas  Heaven’s  immediate  work ! 

But  let  me  now  indulge  a  dearer  joy. 

Talk  of  a  richer  gift  of  Mercy’s  hand ; 

A  gift  so  precious  to  my  doting  heart. 

That  life  preserv’d  is  but  a  second  blessing. 

O  Hubert,  let  my  soul  indulge  its  softness ! 

The  hour,  the  spot,  is  sacred  to  Elwina. 

This  was  her  fav’rite  walk ;  I  well  rememter, 
(For  who  forgets  that  loves  as  I  have  lov’d 
^was  in  that  very  bower  she  gave  this  scarf. 
Wrought  by  the  nand  of  love !  she  bound  it  on. 
And,  smiling,  cried,  Whate’er  befall  us,  Percy, 


Be  this  the  sacred  pledge  of  faith  between  us. 

I  knelt,  and  swore,  call’d  every  power  to.witnes^ 
No  time,  nor  circumstance,  should  force  it  from  nie^ 
But  1  would  lose  my  life  and  that  together  ■ 

Here  I  repeat  my  vow. 

Sir  H.  Is  this  the  man 

Beneath  whose  single  arm  a  host  was  crush  d  I 
He  at  whose  name  the  Saracen  turn’d  pale  I 
And  when  he  fell,  victorious  armies  wept. 

And  mourn’d  a  conquest  they  had  bought  so  dear! 
How  has  be  chang’d  the  trumpet’s  martial  note. 
And  all  the  stirring  clangour  of  the  war. 

For  the  soft  melting  of  the  lover’s  lute !  j 

Why  are  thine  eyes  still  bent  upon  the  bower  1  | 
Per.  O  Hubert,  Hubert,  to  a  soul  enamour’d]. 

There  is  a  sort  of  local  sympathy. 

Which  when  we  view  the  scenes  of  early  passion 
Paints  the  bright  image  of  the  object  lov’d 
In  stronger  colours  than  remoter  scenes 
Could  ever  paint  it ;  realizes  shade, 

Dresses  it  up  in  all  the  charms  it  wore. 

Talks  to  it  nearer,  frames  its  answers  kmder, 
Gives  form  to  fancy,  and  embodies  thought. 

Sir  H.  I  should  not  be  believ’d  in  Percy’s  camp 
If  I  should  tell  them  that  their  gallant  leader. 

The  thunder  of  the  war,  the  bold  Northumberland 
Renouncing  Mars,  dissolv’d  in  amorous  wishes. 
Loiter’d  in  shades,  and  pined  in  rosy  bowers. 

To  catch  a  transient  gleam  of  two  bright  eyes. 

Per.  Enough  of  conquest,  and  enough  of  war  I 
Ambition ’s  cloy’d— the  heart  resumes  its  rights.. 
When  England’s  king,  and  England’s  good  re- 
quir’d,  . 

This  arm  not  idly  the  keen  falchion  brandish  d: 
Enough— for  vaunting  misbecomes  a  soldier.  1 
I  live,  I  am  return’d— am  near  Elwina  !  [her;. 
Seest  thou  those  turrets'?  Yes,  that  castle  holds 
But  wherefore  tell  thee  this  I  for  thou  hast  seen  her. 
How  look’d,  what  said  she '?  Did  she  hear  the  tala 
Of  my  imagin’d  death  without  emotion '? 

Sir  H.  Percy,  thou  hast  seen  the  musk-rose, 
newly  blown. 

Disclose  its  bashful  beauties  to  the  sun. 

Till  an  unfriendly,  chilling  storm  descended, 
Crush’d  all  its  blushing  glories  in  their  prime, 
Bow’d  its  fair  head, and  blasted  all  its  sweetness; 
So  droop’d  the  maid  beneath  the  cruel  weight  , 
Of  my  sad  tale. 

Per.  So  tender  and  so  true ! 

Sir  H.  I  left  her  fainting  in  her  father’s  arms,, 
The  dying  flower  yet  hanging  on  the  tree. 

Even  Raby  melted  at  the  news  I  brought. 

And  envy'd  thee  thy  glory. 

Per.  'Then  I  am  bless’d  ! 

His  hate  subdu’d,  I’ve  nothing  more  to  fear. 

Sir  H.  My  embassy  dispatch’d,  I  left  the  castle, 
Nor  spoke  to  any  of  Lord  Raby’s  household. 

For  fear  the  king  should  chide  the  tardiness 
Of  my  return.  Myjoy  to  find  you  living 
You  have  already  heard. 

Per.  But  where  is  Harcourt "?  • 

Ere  this  he  should  have  seen  her,  told  her  all, 
How  I  surviv’d,  return’d — and  how  I  love ! 

I  tremble  at  the  near  approach  of  bliss, 

And  scarcely  can  sustain  the  joy  which  waits  me< 
Sir  H.  Grant,  Heaven,  the  fair  one  prove  but 
half  so  true ! 

Per.  O  she  is 'truth  itself! 

Sir  H.  She  may  be  chang’d. 

Spite  of  her  tears,  her  fainting,  and  alarms. 

I  know  the  sex,  know  them  as  nature  made  em,] 
Not  such  as  lovers  wish,  and  poets  feign. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


531 


Per.  To  doubt  her  virtue  were  suspecting  Hea- 
’Twere  little  less  than  infidelity  !  ['''en, 

And  yet  I  tremble.  Why  does  terror  shake 
T hese  firm-strung  nerves  1  B  ut  ’twill  be  ever  thus, 
When  fate  prepares  us  more  than  mortal  bliss, 
And  gives  us  only  human  strength  to  bear  it. 

Sir  H.  What  beam  of  brightness  breaks  through 
yonder  gloom  1  [comes 

Per.  Hubert — she  comes !  by  all  my  hopes,  she 
’Tis  she — the  blissful  vision  is  Elwina !  [me ! 
But  ah !  what  mean  those  tears  1 — She  weeps  for 
O  transport ! — go. — I’ll  listen  unobserv’d. 

And  for  a  moment  taste  the  precious  joy, 

The  banquet  of  a  tear  which  falls  for  love. 

[Exit  Sir  Hubert,  Percy  goes  into  the 
bower. 

Enter  Elwina. 

Shall  I  not  weep  I  and  have  I  then  no  cause  “I 
If  I  could  break  the  eternal  bands  of  death. 

And  wrench  the  sceptre  from  his  iron  grasp ; 

If  I  could  bid  the  yawning  sepulchre 
Restore  to  life  its  long  committed  dust ; 

If  I  could  teach  the  slaughtering  hand  of  war 
To  give  me  back  my  dear,  my  murder’d  Percy, 
Then  I  indeed  might  once  more  cease  to  weep. 

[Percy  comes  out  of  the  bower. 
Per.  Then  cease,  for  Percy  lives. 

Elw.  Protect  me.  Heaven ! 

Per.  O  joy  unspeakable !  My  life,  my  love  ! 
End  of  my  toils,  and  crown  of  all  my  cares ! 

Kind  as  consenting  peace,  as  conquest  bright. 
Dearer  than  arms,  and  lovelier  than  renown ! 

Elw.  It  is  his  voice — it  is,  it  is  my  Percy ! 

And  dost  thou  live 't 

Per.  I  never  liv’d  till  now. 

Elw.  And  did  my  sighs,  and  did  my  sorrows 
reach  thee  1 

And  art  thou  come  at  last  to  drj'  my  tears  1 
How  did'st  thou  ’scape  the  fury  of  the  foe  I 
Per.  Thy  guardian  genius  hover’d  o’er  the  field. 
And  turn’d  the  hostile  spear  from  Percy’s  breast. 
Lest  thy  fair  image  should  be  wounded  there. 

But  Harcourt  should  have  told  thee  all  my  fate. 

How  I  surviv’d - 

Elw.  Alas !  I  have  not  seen  him. 

Oh !  I  have  suffer’d  much. 

Per.  Of  that  no  more ; 

For  every  minute  of  our  future  lives 
Shall  be  so  bless’d,  that  we  will  learn  to  wonder 
How  we  could  ever  think  we  were  unhappy. 
Elw.  Percy — I  cannot  speak. 

Per.  Those  tears  how  eloquent ! 

I  would  not  change  this  motionless,  mute  joy. 

For  the  sweet  strains  of  angels :  I  look  down 
With  pity  on  the  rest  of  human  kind. 

However  great  may  be  their  fame  of  happiness. 
And  think  their  niggard  fate  has  given  them 
nothing. 

Not  giving  thee ;  or,  granting  some  small  blessing. 
Denies  them  my  capacity  to  feel  it. 

Elw.  Alas  !  what  mean  you  1 
Per.  Can  I  speak  my  meaning  1  [it ; 

’Tis  of  such  magnitude  that  words  would  wrong 
But  surely  my  Elwina’s  faithful  bosom 
Should  beat  in  kind  responses  of  delight. 

And  feel,  but  never  question,  what  I  mean. 

Elw.  Hold,  hold,  my  heart,  thou  hast  much 
more  to  suffer ! 

Per.  Let  the  slow  form,  and  tedious  ceremony. 
Wait  on  the  splendid  victims  of  ambition. 

Love  stays  for  none  of  these.  Thy  father ’s  soften’d. 


He  will  forget  the  fatal  Cheviot  chacc ; 

Raby  is  brave,  and  I  have  serv’d  my  country ; 

I  would  not  boast,  it  was  for  thee  I  conquer’d ; 
Then  come,  my  love. 

Elw.  O  never,  never,  never  ! 

Per.  Am  I  awake  1  Is  that  Elwina’s  voice  1 
Elw.  Percy,  thou  most  ador’d,  and  most  de- 
If  ever  fortitude  sustain’d  thy  soul,  [ceiv’d  1. 
When  vulgar  minds  have  sunk  beneath  the  stroke, 
Let  thy  imperial  spirit  now  support  thee. — 

If  thou  canst  be  so  wondrous  merciful,  * 

Do  not,  O  do  not  curse  me ! — but  thou  wilt, 

Thou  must — for  I  have  done  a  fearful  deed, 

A  deed  of  wild  despair,  a  deed  of  horror. 

I  am,  I  am — 

Per.  Speak,  say,  what  art  thou  'I 
Elw.  Married! 

Per.  Oh !  [me  j 

Elw.  Percy,  I  think  I  begg’d  thee  not  to  curse 
But  now  I  do  revoke  the  fond  petition. 

Speak !  ease  thy  bursting  soul ;  reproach,  upbraid, 

O’erwhelm  me  with  thy  wrongs - I’ll  bear  it  all. 

Per.  Open,  thou  earth,  and  hide  me  from  her* 
sight ! 

Did’st  thou  not  bid  me  curse  thee  1 
Elw.  Mercy  !  mercy  I 

Per.  And  have  I  ’scaped  the  Saracen’s  felt 
Only  to  perish  by  Elwina’s  guilt  I  [sword' 

I  would  have  bared  my  bosom  to  the  foe, 

I  would  have  died,  had  I  but  known  you  wish’d  it, 
Elw.  Percy,  I  lov’d  thee  most  when  most  j 
wrong’d  thee ; 

Yes,  by  these  tears  I  did. 

Per.  Married!  just  Heaven! 

Married!  to  whoml  Yet  wherefore  should 
know  I 

It  cannot  add  fresh  horrors  to  thy  crime. 

Or  my  destruction. 

Elw.  Oh  !  ’twill  add  to  both. 

How  shall  I  tell  I  Prepare  for  something  dreadful. 
Hast  thou  not  heard  of — Douglas  I 
Per.  Why,  'tis  well ! 

Thou  awful  Power,  why  waste  thy  wrath  on  me  “I 
Why  arm  omnipotence  to  crush  a  worm  1 
I  could  have  fallen  without  this  waste  of  ruin. 
Married  to  Douglas !  By  my  wrongs,  I  like  it ; 
’Tis  perfidy  complete,  ’tis  finish’d  falsehood, 

’Tis  adding  fresh  perdition  to  the  sin. 

And  filling  up  the  measure  of  offence ! 

Elw.  Oh !  ’twas  my  father’s  deed !  he  made  bia 
child 

An  instrument  of  vengeance  on  thy  head. 

He  wept  and  threaten’d,  sooth’d  me,  and  com-’ 
manded. 

Per.  And  you  complied,  most  duteously  com-' 
plied ! 

Elw.  I  could  withstand  his  fury;  but  his  tears, 
Ah,  they  undid  me  !  Percy  dost  thou  know 
The  cruel  tyranny  of  tenderness  1 
Hast  thou  e’er  felt  a  father’s  warm  embrace  1 
Hast  thou  e’er  seen  a  father’s  flowing  tears, 

And  known  that  thou  could’st  wipe  those  tears 
away  1 

If  thou  hast  felt,  and  hast  resisted  these. 

Then  thou  may’st  curse  my  weakness ;  but  if  not^l 
Thou  canst  not  pity,  for  thou  canst  not  judge. 

Per.  Let  me  not  hear  the  music  of  thy  voice, 
Or  I  shall  love  thee  still ;  I  shall  forget 
Thy  fatal  marriage  and  my  savage  wrongs. 

Elw.  Dost  thou  not  hate  me,  Percy  1 
Per.  Hate  thee  1  Yes, 

As  dying  martyrs  hate  the  righteous  cause  -j 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MOR  . 


538 

Of  that  bless’d  power  for  whom  they  bleed— 1 
hate  thee. 

[  They  look  at  each  other  with  silent  agony. 
Enter  Harcourt. 

Har.  Forgive,  my  lord,  your  faithful  knight 
Per.  Come,  Harcourt, 

Come  and  behold  the  wretch  who  once  was  Percy. 
Har.  With  grief  Pve  learn’d  the  whole  un¬ 
happy  tale. 

Earl  Douglas,  whose  suspicion  never  sleeps— 

Per.  What,  is  the  tyrant  jealous  1 
Elw.  Hear  him,  Percy. 

Per.  I  will  command  my  rage— uo  on. 

Har.  Earl  Douglas 

"Knew  bv  my  arms  and  my  accoutrements, 

That  I  belong’d  to  you ;  he  questioned  much, 

And  much  he  menac’d  me,  but  both  alike 
In  vain ;  he  then  arrested  and  confin  d  me.  [it 
Per.  Arrest  roy  knight !  T  he  Scot  shall  answer 
Elw.  How  came  you  now  releas’d  1 
Har.  Your  noble  father  u  * 

Obtain’d  my  freedom,  having  learn  d  from  Hubert 
The  news  of  Percy’s  death.  The  good  old  lord, 
Hearing  the  king’s  return,  has  left  the  castle 

To  do  him  homage, 
r  To  Percy.]  Sir,  you  had  best  retire ; 

Your  safety  is  endanger’d  by  your  stay. 

I  fear  should  Douglas  know - - 

Per.  Should  Douglas  know !  .  n.  ,  , 

Why  what  new  magic ’s  in  the  name  of  Dimglas  . 
That  it  should  strike  Northumberland  with  fear  . 
Go,  seek  the  haughty  Scot,  and  tell  him— no— 
Conduct  me  to  his  presence. 

JSZiD.  Percy,  hold; 

Think  not  ’tis  Douglas—  tis— 

Per.  I  know  it  well—  . 

Thou  mean’st  to  tell  me  ’tis  Elwina’s husband; 
But  that  inflames  me  to  superior  madn^^s. 

This  happy  husband,  this  triumphant  Douglas, 
Shall  not  insult  my  misery  with  his  bliss. 

I’ll  blast  the  golden  promise  of  his  joys. 

Conduct  me  to  him— nay,  I  will  have  way— 
Come,  let  us  seek  this  husband. 

Elw.  Percy,  hear  me.  . 

When  I  was  robb’d  of  all  my  peace  of  mind. 

My  cruel  fortune  left  me  still  one  blessing. 

One  solitary  blessing,  to  console  me ; 

It  was  my  fame. — ’Tis  a  rich  jewel,  Percy, 

And  I  must  keep  it  spotless,  and  unsoil  d  :  ^ 

Butlhouwouldstplunderwhate  en  Douglasspar  d. 
And  rob  this  single  gem  of  all  its  brightness. 

Per.  Go — thou  wast  born  to  rule  the  late  ol 
Thou  art  my  conqueror  still.  [Percy. 

What  noise  is  that  I  . 

[Harcourt  goes  to  the  side  oj  the  stage* 
Per.  Why  art  thou  thus  alarm’d  I 

Elw.  Alas !  I  feel  •  i  i 

The  cowardice  and  terrors  of  the  wicked, 
Without  their  sense  of  guilt. 

Har.  My  lord,  ’tis  Douglas. 

Elw.  Fly,  Percy,  and  for  ever 
Per.  Fly  from  Douglas  "1 
Elw.  Then  stay,  barbarian,  and  at  once  destroy 
My  life  and  fame. 

Per.  That  thought  is  death.  I  go : 

My  honour  to  thy  dearer  honour  yields. 

Elw.  Yet,  yet  thou  art  not  gone ! 

Per.  Farewell,  farewell !  [Exit  Vmev 

Elw.  1  dare  not  meet  the  searching  eye  ot 
Douglas. 

I  must  conceal  my  terrors 


Douglas  at  the  side  with  his  sword  draterty 
Edric  holds  him. 

Dou.  Give  me  way. 

Edr.  Thou  shalt  not  enter.  [no  hell, 

Dou.  [Struggling  with  Edric.]  If  there  were 
It  would  defraud  my  vengeance  of  its  edge. 

And  she  should  live. 

[  Breaks  from  Edric  and  comes  Jorwara. 
Cursed  chance  !  he  is  not  here. 

Elw.  [Going.]  I  dare  not  meet  his  Jury. 

Dou.  Bee  she  flies  ,  -i,  , 

With  every  mark  of  guilt.— Go,  search  the  bower, 

[Aside  to  Edric. 

He  shall  not  thus  escape.  Madam,  return.  [Aloud. 
Now,  honest  Douglas,  learn  ofher  to  feip.  [A^e, 
Alone,  Elwinal  who  had  just  parted  hence  I 

[With  affected  composure. 
Elw.  Mylord,’twas  Harcourt;  sure  you  niust 
have  met  him. 

Dou*  O  exquisite  dissembler  1  [Aside*\  Pho  one 

Elw.  My  lord !  .  .  ,  r  •  i 

Dou.  How  I  enjoy  her  crimmal  confusion! 

[  Aside, 

You  tremble.  Madam. 

TilZw.  Wherefore  should  I  tremble  f 

By  your  permission  Harcourt  was  admitted ; 
’Twas  no  mysterious,  secret  introductiOT. 

Dou.  And  yet  you  seem  alarm  d. — If  Harcourt  s 
presence 

Thus  agitates  each  nerve,  makes  every  pulM 
Thus  vfildly  throb,  and  the  warm  tides  of  blood 
Mount  in  quick  rushing  tumults  to  your  cheek , 

If  friendship  can  excite  such  strong  emotions. 
What  tremors  had  a  lover’s  presence  cans  d  I 
Elw.  Ungenerous  man  1 
Dou.  I  feast  upon  her  terrors. 

The  story  of  his  death  was  well  contriv  d\[lo  her. 
But  it  affects  not  me ;  I  have  a  wife. 

Compar'd  with  whom  cold  Dtan 

But  mark  me  well-though  it  concerns  not  you- 
If  there ’s  a  sin  more  deeply  black  than  others, 
Distinguish’d  from  the  list  of  common  crimes, 

A  legion  in  itself,  and  doubly  dear 
To  the  dark  prince  of  hell,  it  is — hypoensy. 

[Throws  her  from  him,  and  exit. 
Elw  Y'es,  1  will  bear  this  fearful  indignation ! 
Thou  melting  heart,  be  firm  as  adamant; 

Ye  shatter’d  nerves,  be  strung  with  manly  force. 
That  I  may  conquer  all  my  sex  s  weakness 
Nor  let  this  bleeding  bosom  lodge  one  thought, 
Cherish  one  wish,  or  harbour  one  desire, 

That  angels  may  not  hear,  and  Douglas 

[  Il/Xit, 

ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— The  Hall. 

Enter  Douglas,  his  sicord  drawn  and  bloody  in 
one  hand,  in  the  other  a  letter.  Harcourt, 
wounded. 

Dou.  Traitor,  no  more !  this  letter  shows  thy 
office. 

Twice  hast  thou  robb’d  me  of  my  dear  revenge. 

I  took  thee  for  thy  leader.-Thy  base  blood 
Would  stain  the  noble  temper  of  my  sword, 

But  as  the  pander  to  thy  master  s  Hat, 

Thou  justly  fall’st  by  a  wrong’d  husband  s  hand. 
Har.  Thy  wife  is  innocent. 

Dou.  Take  him  away. 

Har  Percy,  revenge  my  fall ! 

[Guards  bear  Harcourt  tn 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  539 


Dou.  Now  for  the  letter ! 

He  begs  once  more  to  see  her. — So  ’tis  plain 

They  have  already  met ! — but  to  the  rest - - 

[/?eacfe.]  “  In  vain  you  wish  me  to  restore  the 
scarf ; 

Dear  pledge  of  love,  while  I  have  life  I’ll  wear  it, 
’Tis  next  my  heart ;  no  power  shall  force  it  thence ; 
Whene’er  you  see  it  in  another’s  hand, 

Conclude  me  dead.” — My  curses  on  them  both ! 
How  tamely  I  peruse  my  shame !  but  thus, 

Thus  let  me  tear  the  guilty  characters 
Which  register  my  infamy ;  and  thus. 

Thus  would  I  scatter  to  the  winds  of  heaven 
The  vile  complotters  of  my  foul  dishonour. 

[  'Tears  the  letter  in  the  utmost  agitation. 

Enter  Edric. 

Edr.  My  lord - 

Dou.  [In  the  utmost  fury,  not  seeing  Edric.] 
The  scarf! 

Edr.  Lord  Douglas. 

Dou.  [Still  not  hearing  Aim.]  Yes,  the  scarf  I 
Percy,  I  thank  thee  for  the  glorious  thought ! 

I’ll  cherish  it;  ’twill  sweelen  all  my  pangs, 

And  add  a  higher  relish  to  revenge ! 

Edr.  My  lord  I 
Dou.  How !  Edric  here  1 
Edr.  What  new  distress'?  [shame, 

Dou.  Dost  thou  expect  I  should  recount  my 
Dwell  on  each  circumstance  of  my  disgrace. 

And  swell  my  infamy  into  a  tale  ? 

Rage  will  not  let  me — But — my  wife  is  false. 

Edr.  Art  though  convinc’d '? 

'  Dou.  The  chronicles  of  hell 
Cannot  produce  a  falser. — But  what  news 
Of  her  cursed  paramour  I 
Edr.  He  has  escap’d. 

Dou.  Hast  thou  examin’d  every  avenue  ? 

Each  spot  ?  'the  grove  I  the  bower,  her  favourite 
Edr.  I’ve  search’d  them  all.  [haunt  ? 

Dou.  He  shall  be  yet  pursued. 

Set  guards  at  every  gate. — Let  none  depart 
Or  gain  admittance  here,  without  my  knowledge. 
Edr.  What  can  their  purpose  be  ? 

Dou.  Is  it  not  clear  ”? 

Harcourt  has  raised  his  arm  against  my  life ; 

He  fail’d ;  the  blow  is  now  reserv’d  for  Percy ; 
Then,  with  his  sword  fresh  reeking  from  my  heart, 
He’ll  revel  with  that  wanton  o’er  my  tomb ; 

Nor  will  he  bring  her  aught  she’ll  hold  so  dear. 
As  the  curs’d  hand  with  which  he  slew  her  husband. 
But  he  shall  die  !  I’ll  drown  my  rage  in  blood. 
Which  I  will  offer  as  a  rich  libation 
On  thy  infernal  altar,  black  revenge  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II— The  Garden. 

Enter  Elwina. 

Elw.  Each  avenue  is  so  beset  with  guards. 
And  lynx-ey’d  Jealousy  so  broad  awake, 

He  cannot  pass  unseen.  Protect  him.  Heaven  I 

Enter  Birtha. 

My  Birtha,  is  he  safe '?  has  he  escap’d  1  [to  him, 
Btr.  I  know  not.  I  despatch’d  young  Harcourt 
To  bid  him  quit  the  castle,  as  you  order’d. 
Restore  the  scarf,  and  never  see  you  more. 

But  how  the  hard  injunction  was  receiv’d. 

Or  what  has  happen’d  since.  I’m  yet  to  learn. 

Elw.  O  when  shall  I  be  eas’d  of  all  my  cares, 
And  in  the  quiet  bosom  of  the  grave 
Lay  down  this  weary  head  I — I’m  sick  at  heart ! 
Should  Douglas  intercept  his  flight  I 


Bir.  Be  calm ; 

Douglas  this  very  moment  left  the  castle. 

With  seeming  peace. 

Elw.  Ah,  then,  indeed  there ’s  danger ! 

Birtha,  whene’er  Suspicion  feigns  to  sleep, 

’Tis  but  to  make  its  careless  prey  secure,  [thee, 
Bir.  Should  Percy  once  again  entreat  to  sea 
’Twere  best  admit  him;  from  thy  lips  alone 
He  jvill  submit  to  hear  his  final  doom 
Of  everlasting  exile. 

Elw.  Birtha,  no; 

If  honour  would  allow  the  wife  of  Douglas 
To  meet  his  rival,  yet  I  durst  not  do  it. 

Percy  I  too  much  this  rebel  heart  is  thine: 

Too  deeply  should  I  feel  each  pang  I  gave 
I  cannot  hate — but  I  will  banish — thee. 
Inexorable  duty,  O  forgive. 

If  I  can  do  no  more ! 

Bir.  If  he  remains. 

As  I  suspect,  within  the  castle  walls, 

’Twere  best  T  sought  him  out. 

Elw.  Then  tell  him,  Birtha, 

But,  Oh !  with  gentleness,  with  mercy,  tell  him- 1 
That  we  must  never,  never  meet  again. 

The  purport  of  my  tale  must  be  severe. 

But  let  thy  tenderness  embalm  the  wound 
My  virtue  gives.  O  soften  his  despair ; 

But  say — we  meet  no  more. 

Enter  Percy, 

Rash  man,  he ’s  here ! 

[)SAe  attempts  to  go,  he  seizes  her  hand. 
Per.  will  be  heard ;  nay,  fly  not ;  I  will  speak 
Lost  as  I  am,  I  will  not  be  denied 
The  mournful  consolation  to  complain. 

Elw.  Percy,  I  charge  thee,  leave  me. 

'Per.  Tyrant,  no: 

I  blush  at  my  obedience,  blush  to  think 
I  left  thee  here  alone,  to  brave  the  danger 
I  now  return  to  share. 

Ehc.  That  danger ’s  past: 

Douglas  was  soon  appeas’d ;  he  nothing  knows. 
Then  leave  me,  I  conjure  thee,  nor  again 
Endanger  my  repose.  Yet,  ere  thou  goest. 
Restore  the  scarf. 

Per.  Unkind  Elwina,  never ! 

’Tis  all  that’s  left  me  of  my  buried  joys. 

All  which  reminds  me  that  I  once  was  happy. 
My  letter  told  thee  I  would  ne’er  restore  it. 

Elw.  Letter !  what  letter  ? 

Per.  That  I  sent  by  Harcourt. 

Elw.  Which  I  ne’er  receiv’d.  Douglas  per- 
Who  knows  I  [haps  - 

Bir.  Harcourt,  t’ elude  his  watchfulness. 

Might  prudently  retire. 

Elw.  Grant  Heaven  it  prove  so ! 

[Ei.wina  going,  Percy  holds  her 
Per.  Hear  me,  Elwina ;  the  most  savage  honour 
Forbids  not  that  poor  grace. 

Elw.  It  bids  me  fly  thee.  [part, 

Per.  Then,  ere  thou  goest,  if  we  indeed  must 
To  sooth  the  horrors  of  eternal  exile, 

Say  but — thou  pity’st  me  ! 

Elw.  [  Weeps.]  O  Percy — pity  thee ! 

Imperious  honour ; — Surely  I  may  pity  him. 

Yet,  wherefore  pity  'I  no,  I  envy  thee : 

For  thou  hast  still  the  liberty  to  weep. 

In  thee ’twill  be  no  crime  ;  thy  tears  are  guiltless, 
For  they  infringe  no  duty,  stain  no  honour, 

And  blot  no  vow ;  but  mine  are  criminal. 

Are  drops  of  shame  which  wash  the  cheek  of  guilt, 
And  every  tear  I  shed  dishonours  Douglas. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


540 

Per.  I  swear  my  jealous  love  e’en  grudges  thee 
Thy  sad  pre-eminence  in  wretchedness. 

Elw.  Rouse,  rouse,  my  slumb’ring  virtue! 
Percy  hear  me.  ^  [thine, 

Heaven,  when  it  gives  such  high-wrought  souls  as 
Still  gives  as  great  occasioas  to  exert  them.  ^ 

If  thou  wast  form’d  so  noble,  great,  and  genrous, 
’Twas  to  surmount  the  passions  which  enslave 
The  gross  of  human-kind. — Then  think,  O  thini. 
She,  whom  thou  once  didst  love,  is  now  another  s. 
Per.  Gro  on — and  tell  me  that  that  other  s 
Douglas.  IP® 

Elw.  Whate’er  his  name,  he  clai  ms  respect  trom 
His  honour ’s  in  my  keeping,  and  I  hold 
The  trust  so  pure,  its  sanctity  is  hurt 
E’en  by  thy  presence. 

Per.  Thou  again  hast  conquer  d. 

Celestial  virtue,  like  the  angel  spirit. 

Whose  flaming  sword  defended  Paradise, 

Stands  guard  on  every  charm. — Elwina,  yes. 

To  triumph  over  Douglas,  we’ll  be  virtuous. 

Elw.  ’Tis  not  enough  to  be,— we  must  appear  so : 
Great  souls  disdain  the  shadow  of  offence, 

Nor  must  their  whiteness  wear  the  stain  of  guilt. 

Per.  I  shall  retract-^I  dare  not  gaze  upon  thee ; 
My  feeble  virtue  staggers,  and  again 
The  fiends  of  jealousy  torment  and  haunt  me. 

They  tear  my  heart-strings. - Oh  1 

Elw.  No  more ; 

But  spare  my  injur’d  honour  the  afiront 
To  vindicate  itself. 

Per.  But,  love  I 
Elw.  But,  glory ! 

Per.  Enough !  a  ray  of  thy  sublimer  spirit 
Has  warm’d  my  dying  honour  to  a  flame  I 
One  effort  and  ’tis  done.  The  world  shall  say, 
When  they  shall  speak  of  my  disastrous  love, 
Percy  deserv’d  Elwina  though  he  lost  her. 

Fond  tears,  blind  me  not  yet  I  a  little  longer. 

Let  my  sad  eyes  a  -little  longer  gaze. 

And  leave  their  last  beams  here. 

Elw.  [  'TurnsJ'roin  I  do  not  weep.  ^ 

Per.  Not  weep  I  then  why  those  eyes  avoidin' 
mine  I  _  [cents . 

And  why  that  broken  voice  1  those  trembling  ac- 
That  sigh  which  rends  my  soul  1 

Elte.  No  more,  no  more.  ’ 

Per.  That  pang  decides  it.  Come — 1 11  die  at 
Thou  Power  supreme !  take  all  the  length  of  days. 
And  all  the  blessings  kept  in  store  for  me. 

And  add  to  her  account.— Yet  turn  once  more. 
One  httle  look,  one  last,  short  glimpse  of  day, 

And  then  a  long  dark  night.— Hold,  hold  my  heart, 
O  break  not  yet,  while  I  behold  her  sweetness ; 
For  after  this  dear,  mournful,  tender  moment, 

I  shall  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  life. 

Elw.  I  do  conjure  thee,  go. 

Per.  ’Tis  terrible  to  nature  1 
With  pangs  like  these  the  soul  and  body  part ! 
And  thus,  but  oh,  with  far  less  agony,  _ 

The  poor  departing  wretch  still  grasps  at  being. 
Thus  clings  to  life,  thus  dreads  the  dark  unknown, 
Thus  struggles  to  the  last  to  keep  his  hold ; 

And  when  the  dire  convulsive  groan  of  death 
Dislodges  the  sad  spirit — thus  it  stays. 

And  fondly  hovers  o’er  the  form  it  lov’d 
Once  and  no  more— farewell,  farewell ! 

Elw.  For  ever!  _ 

[  They  look  at  each  other  for  some  time,  then 
exit  Percy.  After  a  pause  ; 

’Tis  past— the  conflict ’s  past !  retire,  my  Birtha, 
I  would  address  me  to  the  throne  of  grace. 


Bir.  May  Heaven  restore  that  peace  thy  bosom 
wants  1  [Exit  Birtha. 

Elw.  [Kneels.']  Look  down,  thou  awful,  heart- 
inspecting  Judge, 

Look  down  with  mercy  on  thy  erring  creature, 
And  teach  my  soul  the  lowliness  it  needs! 

And  if  some  sad  remains  of  human  weakness 
Should  sometimes  mingle  with  my  best  resolves,, 

O  breathe  thy  spirit  on  this  wayward  heart. 

And  teach  me  to  repent  th’  intruding  sin 
In  it’s  first  birth  of  thought ! 

[Noise  within.]  What  noise  is  that  1 

The  clash  of  swords !  should  Douglas  be  return  d 

Enter  Douglas  and  Fercy,  fighting. 

Don.  Yield,  villain,  yield. 

Per.  Not  till  this  good  right  arm 
Shall  fail  its  master. 

Dou.  This  to  thy  heart,  then. 

Per.  Defend  thy  own. 

[They  fight ;  Percy  disarms  Douglas; 
Dou.  Confusion,  death,  and  hell ! 

Edr.  ['Without.]  This  way  I  heard  the  noise. 

Enter  Edric,  and  mcuay  Knights  and  Guards, 
from  every  part  of  the  stage. 

Per.  Cursed  treachery  1 
But  dearly  will  I  sell  my  life. 

Dou.  Seize  on  him. 

Per.  I’m  taken  in  the  toils. 

[Percy  is  surrounded  by  Guards,  who  take 
his  sword. 

Dou.  In  the  cursed  snare 
Thou  laidst  for  me,  traitor,  thyself  art  caught, 
Elw.  He  never  sought  thy  life. 

Dou.  Adulteress,  peace  1 
The  villain  Harcourt  too — but  he ’s  at  rest. 

Per.  Douglas,  I’m  in  thy  power;  but  do  not 
triumph,  [”3®* 

Percy ’s  betray’d,  not  conquer’d.  Come,  despatch 
Elw.  [  To  Douglas.]  O  do  not,  do  not  kill  him  1 
Per.  Madam,  forbear ; 

For  by  the  glorious  shades  of  my  great  fathers. 
Their  godlike  spirit  is  not  so  extinct. 

That  I  should  owe  my  life  to  that  vile  Scot. 
Though  dangers  close  me  round  on  every  side. 
And  death  besets  me,  I  am  Percy  still. 

Dou.  Sorceress,  I’ll  disappoint  thee — he  shall  die. 
Thy  minion  shall  expire  before  thy  face. 

That  I  may  feast  my  hatred  with  your  pangs. 
And  make  his  dying  groans,  and  thy  fond  tears, 
A  banquet  for  my  vengeance. 

Elw.  Savage  tyrant! 

I  would  have  fallen  a  silent  sacrifice,  [thee. 

So  thou  had’st  spar’d  my  fame — I  never  wrong’d 
Per.  She  knew  not  of  my  coming ; — I  alone 
Have  been  to  blame— Spite  of  her  interdiction, 

I  hither  came.  She ’s  pure  as  spotless  saints. 

Elw.  I  will  not  be  excus’d  by  Percy’s  crime; 
So  white  my  innocence,  it  does  not  ask 
The  shade  of  others’  faults  to  set  it  off ; 

Nor  shall  he  need  to  sully  his  fair  fame 
To  throw  a  brighter  lustre  round  my  virtue. 

Dou.  Yet  he  can  only  die — but  death  for  honour ! 
Ye  powers  of  hell,  who  take  malignant  joy 
In  human  bloodshed,  give  me  some  dire  means, 
Wild  as  my  hate,  and  desperate  as  my  wrongs ! 
Per.  Enough  of  words.  Thou  know’st  I  hate 
thee,  Douglas ; 

’Tis  steadfast,  fix’d,  hereditary  hate, 

As  thine  for  me;  our  fathers  did  bequeath  it 
As  part  of  our  unalienable  birthright, 


54 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Which  nought  but  death  can  end. — Come,  end  it 
here. 

Elw.  [Kneels.l  Hold,  Douglas,  hold ! — not  for 
myself  I  kneel, 

I  do  not  plead  for  Percy,  but  for  thee : 

Arm  not  thy  hand  against  thy  future  peace. 
Spare  thy  brave  breast  the  tortures  of  remorse, — 
Stain  not  a  life  of  unpolluted  honour. 

For,  oh !  as  surely  as  thou  strik’st  at  Percy, 
Thou  wilt  for  ever  stab  the  fame  of  Douglas. 

Per.  Finish  the  bloody  work. 

Dou.  Then  take  thy  wish. 

Per.  Why  dost  thou  start  1 

[Percy  bares  his  bosom.  Douglas  advances 
to  stab  him,  and  discovers  the  scarf. 
Dou.  Her  scarf  upon  his  breast ! 

The  blasting  sight  converts  me  into  stone; 
Withers  my  powers  like  cowardice  or  age, 
Curdles  the  blood  within  my  shiv’ring  veins 
And  palsies  my  bold  arm. 

Per.  [Ironically  to  the  Knights.l  Hear  you,  his 
friends ! 

Bear  witness  to  the  glorious,  great  exploit, 

Record  it  in  the  annals  of  his  race, 

T hat  Douglas,  the  renown’d — the  valiant  Douglas, 
Fenc’d  round  with  guards,  and  safe  in  his  own 
castle. 

Surpris’d  a  knight  unarm’d,  and  bravely  slew  hipj. 
Dou.  [  Throwing  away  his  dagger.]  ’Tis  true 
— I  am  the  very  stain  of  knighthood. 
How  is  my  glory  dimm’d ! 

JElw.  It  blazes  brighter ! 

Douglas  was  only  brave — he  now  is  generous  ! 

Per.  T his  action  has  restor’d  thee  to  thy  rank. 
And  makes  thee  worthy  to  contend  with  Percy. 
Dou.  Thy  joy  will  be  as  short  as  ’tis  insulting. 

.  .  .  Elwina. 

And  thou,  imperious  boy,  restrain  thy  boasting. 
Thou  hast  sav’d  my  honour,  not  remov’d  my  hate. 
For  my  soul  loathes  thee  for  the  obligation. 

Give  him  his  sword. 

Per.  Now  thou’rt  a  noble  foe. 

And  in  the  field  of  honour  I  will  meet  thee. 

As  knight  encount’ring  knight. 

Elw.  Stay,  Percy,  stay. 

Strike  at  the  wretched  cause  of  all,  strike  here. 
Here  sheathe  thy  thirsty  sword,  but  spare  my 
husband.  [me, 

Dou.  Turn,  Madam,  and  address  those  vows  to 
To  spare  the  precious  life  of  him  you  love. 

Even  now  you  triumph  in  the  death  of  Douglas ; 
Now  your  loose  fancy  kindles  at  the  thought. 

And,  wildly  rioting  in  lawless  hope, 

Indulges  the  adultery  of  the  mind. 

But  I’ll  defeat  that  wish. — Guards,  bear  her  in. 
Nay,  do  not  struggle.  [She  is  borne  in. 

Per.  Let  our  deaths  suffice. 

And  reverence  virtue  in  that  form  inshrin’d. 

Dou.  Provoke  my  rage  no  farther. — I  have 
kindled 

The  burning  torch  of  never-dying  vengeance 
At  love’s  expiring  lamp. — But  mark  me,  friends. 
If  Percy’s  happier  genius  should  prevail. 

And  I  should  fall,  give  him  safe  conduct  hence. 

Be  all  observance  paid  him. — Go,  I  follow  thee. 

[Aside  to  Edric. 

Within  I’ve  something  for  thy  private  ear. 

Per.  Now  shall  this  mutual  lury  be  appeas’d ! 
These  eager  hands  shall  soon  be  drench’d  in 
slaughter ! 

Yes — like  two  famish’d  vultures  snuffing  blood. 
And  panting  to  destroy,  we’ll  rush  to  combat ; 
VoL.  f. 


Yet  I’ve  the  deepest,  deadliest  cause  of  hate, 

I  am  but  Percy,  thou’rt — Elwina’s  husband. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  V. 

SCENE  I. — Elwina’s  Apartment.. 

Elw.  Thou  who  in  judgment  still  remember’st 
mercy. 

Look  down  upon  my  woes,  preserve  my  husband ! 
Preserve  my  husband !  Ah,  I  dare  not  ask  it ; 

My  very  prayers  may  pull  down  ruin  on  me  ! 

If  Douglas  should  survive,  what  then  becomes 
Of — him — I  dare  not  name  I  And  if  he  conquers, 
I’ve  slain  my  husband.  Agonizing  state  ! 

When  I  can  neither  hope,  nor  think,  nor  pray. 
But  guilt  involves  me.  Sure  to  know  the  worst  ‘ 
Cannot  exceed  the  torture  of  suspense. 

When  each  event  is  big  with  equal  horror.  i 

[Looks  out. 

What,  no  one  yet  1  This  solitude  is  dreadful  I 
My  horrors  multiply !  • 

Enter  Birtha. 

Thou  messenger  of  wo ! 

Bir.  Of  wo,  indeed ! 

Elw.  How,  is  my  husband  dead  I 
Oh,  speak ! 

Bir.  Your  husband  lives. 

Elw.  Then  farewell,  Percy 
He  was  the  tenderest,  truest ! — Bless  him,Heaven 
With  crowns  of  glory  and  immortal  joys !  ’ 

Bir.  Still  are  you  wrong ;  the  combat  is  not  over. 
Stay,  fiowing  tears,  and  give  me  leave  to  speak. 

Elw.  Thou  sayest  that  Percy  and  my  husband 
Then  yhy  this  sprrow  I  [live  ■ 

Bir.  What  a  task  is  mine ! 

Elw.  Thoutalk’st  as  if  I  were  a  child  in  grief 
And  scarce  acquainted  with  calamity.  ' 

Speak  out,  unfold  thy  tale,  whate’er  it  be. 

For  I  am  so  familiar  with  affliction. 

It  cannot  come  in  any  shape  will  shock  me. 

Bir.  How  shall  I  speak  I  Thy  husband _ 

Elw.  What  of  Douglas'? 

Bir.  When  all  was  ready  for  the  fatal  combat. 
He  call’d  his  chosen  knights,  then  drew  his  sword, 
And  on  it  made  tBem  swear  a  solemn  oath. 
Confirm’d  by  every  rite  religion  bids. 

That  they  would  see  perform’d  his  last  request. 

Be  it  whate’er  it  would.  Alas !  they  swore. 

Elw.  What  did  the  dreadful  preparation  mean'?. 
Bir.  T hen  to  their  hands  he  gave  a  poison’d  cup. 
Compounded  of  the  deadliest  herbs  and  drugs ; 
Take  this,  said  he,  it  is  a  husband’s  legacy ; 

Percy  may  conquer — and — I  have  a  wife ! 

If  Douglas  falls,  Elwina  must  not  live. 

Elw.  Spirit  of  Herod!  Why,  ’twas  greatly 
thought  1 

’Twas  worthy  of  the  bosom  which  conceiv’d  it ! 
Yet  ’twas  too  merciful  to  be  his  own. 

Yes,  Douglas,  yes,  my  husband.  I’ll  obey  thee. 
And  bless  thy  genius  which  has  found  the  means 
To  reconcile  thy  vengeance  with  my  peace, 

The  deadly  means  to  make  obedience  pleasant. 

Bir .  0  spare,  for  pity  spare,  my  bleeding  heart ; 
Inhuman  to  the  last  1  Unnatural  poison  1 
Elw.  My  gentle  friend,  what  is  there  in  a  name  1 
The  means  are  little  where  the  end  is  kind. 

..fit  disturb  thee,  do  not  call  it  poison; 

Call  it  the  sweet  oblivion  of  my  cares. 

My  balm  of  wo,  my  cordial  of  affliction, 

The  drop  of  mercy  to  my  fainting  soul. 

My  kina  dismission  from  a  worlu  of  sorrow, 


542  THE  WORKS  OF 

My  cup  of  bliss,  my  passport  to  the  skies. 

Bir.  Hark!  what  alarm  is  that  1 
Elw.  The  combat ’s  over  I  [Birtha  goes  out. 
[Elwina  stands  in  a  fixed  attitude,  her 
hands  clasped. 

Now,  gracious  Heaven,  sustain  me  in  the  trial, 

And  bow  my  spirit  to  thy  great  decrees ! 

Re  enter  Birtha. 

[Elwina  looks  steadfastly  at  her  without 
speaking. 

Bit.  Douglas  is  fallen. 

Elw.  Bring  me  the  poison. 

Bir.  Never.  [approach! 

Elw.  Where  are  the  knights'?  I  summon  you— 
Draw  near,  ye  awful  ministers  of  fate. 

Dire  instruments  of  posthumous  revenge ! 

Come— I  am  ready ;  but  your  tardy  justice 
Defrauds  the  injur’d  dead. — Go,  haste,  my  friend. 
See  that  the  castle  be  securely  guarded. 

Let  every  gwte  be  barr’d — prevent  his  entrance. 

Bir.  Whose  entrance '? 

Elw.  His— the  murderer  of  my  husband. 

Bir.  He ’s  single,  we  have  hosts  of  friends. 

Elw.  No  matter; 

Who  knows  what  love  and  madness  may  attempt  1 
But  here  1  swear  by  all  that  binds  the  good. 

Never  to  see  him  more. — Unhappy  Douglas. 

O  if  thy  troubled  spirit  still  is  conscious 
Of  our  past  woes,  look  down,  and  hear  me  swear. 
That  when  the  legacy  thy  rage  bequeath’d  me 
Works  at  my  heart,  and  conquers  struggling 
Ev’n  in  that  agony  I’ll  still  be  faithful,  [nature, 
She  who  coulu  never  love,  shall  yet  obey  thee. 
Weep  thy  hard  fate,  and  die  to  prove  her  Jruth. 
Bir-  O  unexampled  virtue  I  [A  noise  without. 
Elw.  Heard  you  nothing  1 
By  all  my  fears  the  insulting  conqueror  comes. 

O  save  me,  shield  me  1 

Enter  Douglas. 

Heaven  and  earth,  my  husband ! 

Dou.  Yes - 

To  blast  thee  with  the  sight  of  him  thou  hat  st, 

Of  him  thou  hast  wrong’d,  adultress,  ’tis  thy 
husband.  [mercy, 

Elw.  [Kneels.]  Bless’d  be  the  fountain  of  eternal 
This  load  of  guilt  is  spar’d  me  !  Douglas  lives ! 
Perhaps  both  live !  [ToBirtha.]  Could  I  be  sure 
of  that. 

The  poison  were  superfluous,  joy  would  kill  me. 
Dou.  Be  honest  now,  for  once,  and  curse  thy 

6^3.78  * 

Curse  thy  detested  fate  which  brings  thee  back 
A  hated  husband,  when  thy  guilty  soul 
Revell’d  in  fond,  imaginary  joys  ^ 

With  my  too  happy  rival :  when  thou  flew  st. 

To  gratify  impatient,  boundless  passion. 

And  join  adulterous  lust  to  bloody  murder; 

Then  to  reverse  the  scene  1  polluted  woman  ! 
Mine  is  the  transport  now,  and  thine  the  pang. 
Elw.  Whence  sprung  the  false  report  that  thou 
had’st  fall’n'? 

Dou.  To  give  thy  guilty  breast  a  deeper  wound, 
To  add  a  deadlier  sting  to  disappointment, 

1  rais’d  it— 1  contriv’d— I  sent  it  thee.  [virtue. 
Elw.  Thou  seest  me  bold,  but  bold  in  conscious 

_ That  my  sad  soul  may  not  be  stain’d  vvith  blood. 

That  I  may  spend  my  few  short  hours  in  peace. 
And  die  in  holy  hope  of  Heaven’s  forgiveness. 
Relieve  the  terrors  of  my  lab’ring  breast, 

Say  1  am  clear  of^  murder— say  he  lives, 


HANNAH  MORE. 

Say  but  that  little  word,  that  Percy  hve«, 

And  Alps  and  oceans  shall  divide  us  ever, 

As  far  as  universal  space  can  part  us. 

Dou.  Canst  thou  renounce  him  "I 
Elw.  Tell  me  that  he  lives. 

And  thou  shalt  be  the  ruler  of  my  fate. 

For  ever  hide  me  in  a  convent’s  gloom. 

From  cheerful  day-light,  and  the  haunts  of  men,- 
Where  sad  austerity,  and  ceaseless  prayer 
Shall  share  my  uncomplaining  day  between  them; 
Dou.  O,  hypocrite!  now.  Vengeance,  to  thy 
office. 

I  had  forgot — Percy  commends  him  to  thee. 

And  by  my  hand — 

Elw.  How— by  thy  hand  1 
Dou.  Has  sent  thee 
This  precious  pledge  of  love. 

[He  gives  her  Percy’s  scarf.. 
Elw.  Then  Percy ’s  dead !  [mine ! 

Dou.  He  is.— O  great  revenge,  thou  now  art 
See  how  convulsive  sorrow  rends  her  frame . 

This,  this  is  transport!— injur’d  honour  now 
Receives  its  vast,  its  ample  retribution. 

She  sheds  no  tears,  her  grief  s  too  highly  wrought; 
’Tis  speechless  agony. — She  must  not  faint 
She  shall  not  ’scape  her  portion  of  the  pain. 

No !  she  shall  feel  the  fulness  of  distress. 

And  wake  to  keen  perception  of  her  loss. 

Bir.  Monster !  Barbarian !  leave  her  to  her 
sorrows. 

Elw.  [In  a  low  broken  voice.]  Douglas — think 
not  I  faint,  because  thou  seest 
The  pale  and  bloodless  cheek  of  wan  despair. 

Fail  me  not  yet,  my  spirits;  thou  cold  heart. 
Cherish  thy  freezing  current  one  short  moment, 
And  bear  thy  mighty  load  a  little  longer. 

Dou.  Percy,  I  must  avow  it,  bravely  fought,— 
Died  as  a  hero  should ; — but,  as  he  fell, 

(Hear  it,  fond  wanton !)  call’d  upon  thy  name, 
And  his  last  guilty  breath  sigh’d  out— Elwina ! 
Come — give  a  loose  to  rage,  and  feed  thy  soul 
With  wild  complaints,  and  womanish  upbraidings. 

Elw.  [In  a  low  solemn  voice.]  No.  _ 

The  sorrow ’s  weak  that  wastes  itself  in  words. 
Mine  is  substantial  anguish — deep,  not  loud ; 
i  do  not  rave — Resentment ’s  the  return 
Of  common  souls  for  common  inj  uries.  [sion ; 
Light  grief  is  proud  of  state,  and  courts  compas- 
But  there ’s  a  dignity  in  cureless  sorrow, 

A  sullen  grandeur  which  disdains  complaint ; 
Rage  is  for  little  wrongs— Despair  is  dumb. 

[Exeunt  Elwina  and  Birtha. 
Dou.  Why,  this  is  well !  her  sense  of  wo  is 
strong ! 

The  sharp,  keen  tooth  of  gnawing  grief  devours 
Feeds  on  her  heart,  and  pays  me  back  my  pangs. 
Since  1  must  perish,  ’twill  be  glorious  ruin : 

I  fall  not  singly,  but,  like  some  proud  tower. 

I’ll  crush  surrounding  objects  in  the  wreck, 

And  make  the  devastation  wide  and  dreadful. 

Enter  Rary. 

Rahy.  O  whither  shall  a  wretched  father  turn. 
Where  fly  for  comfort '?  Douglas,  art  thou  here  J 
I  do  not  ask  for  comfort  at  thy  hands. 

I’d  but  one  little  casket,  where  I  lodged 
My  precious  hoard  of  wealth,  and,  like  an  idiot, 

1  gave  my  treasure  to  another’s  keeping. 

Who  threw  away  the  gem,  nor  knew  its  value. 
But  left  the  plunder’d  owner  quite  a  beggar. 

Dou.  What  art  thou  come  to  see  thy  race  Ui£. 
honour’d  'I 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


And  thy  bnght  sim  of  glory  set  in  blood  1 
I  would  have  spar’d  thy  virtues,  and  thy  age, 
The  knowledge  of  her  infamy. 

Rahy.  ’Tis  false.  [blood. 

Had  she  been  base,  this  sword  had  drank  her 
Dou.  Ha !  dost  thou  vindicate  the  wanton  1 
Ralyy^  Wanton  1 

Thou  hast  defam’d  a  noble  lady’s  honour — 

My  spotless  child — in  me  behold  her  champion : 
The  strength  of  Hercules  will  nerve  this  arm. 
When  lifted  in  defence  of  innocence. 

The  daughter’s  virtue  for  the  father’s  shield. 

Will  make  old  Raby  still  invincible. 

[  Offers  to  draw. 

Dou.  Forbear. 

Raby.  Thou  dost  disdain  my  feeble  arm. 

And  scorn  my  age. 

Dou.  There  will  be  blood  enough; 

Nor  need  thy  wither’d  veins,  old  lord,  be  drain’d. 
To  swell  the  copious  stream. 

Raby.  Thou  wilt  not  kill  her  7 
Dou.  Oh,  ’tis  a  day  of  horror  ! 

Enter  Edric  and  Birtha. 

Edr.  Where  is  Douglas  1 
I  come  to  save  him  from  the  deadliest  crime 
Revenge  did  ever  meditate. 

Dou.  What  meanest  thou  1  [wife. 

Edr.  This  instant  fly,  and  save  thy  guiltless 
Dou.  Save  that  perfldious — 

Edr.  That  much-injur’d  woman. 

Bir.  U nfortunate  indeed,  but  O  most  innocent  1 
Edr.  In  the  last  solemn  article  of  death. 

That  truth-compelling  state,  when  even  bad  men 
Fear  to  speak  falsely,  Percy  clear’d  her  fame. 

Dou.  I  heard  him. — ’Twas  the  guilty  fraud  of 
love. 

The  scarf,  the  scarf !  that  proof  of  mutual  passion. 
Given  but  this  day  to  ratify  their  crimes ! 

Bir.  What  means  my  lord  ?  This  day  1  That 
fatal  scarf 

Was  given  long  since,  a  toy  of  childish  friendship ; 
Long  ere  your  marriage,  ere  you  knew  Elwina. 
Raby.  ’Tis  I  am  guilty. 

Dou.  Ha! 

Raby.  I, — I  alone. 

Confusion,  honour,  pride,  parental  fondness. 
Distract  my  soul, — Percy  was  not  to  blame. 

He  was — the  destin’d  husband  of  Elwina ! 

He  lov’d  her — was  belov’d — and  I  approv’d. 

The  tale  is  long. — I  chang’d  my  purpose  since. 
Forbade  their  marriage — 

Dou.  And  confirm’d  my  mis’ry ! 

Twic«  did  they  meet  to-day — my  wife  and  Percy. 
Raby.  I  know  it. 

Dou.  Ha  1  thou  knew’st  of  my  dishonour  1 
Thou  wast  a  witness,  an  approving  witness. 

At  least  a  tame  one  1 

Raby.  Percy  came,  ’tis  true, 

A  constant,  tender,  but  a  guiltless  lover ! 

Dou.  I  shall  grow  mad  indeed;  a  guiltless  lover ! 
Percy,  the  guiltless  lover  of  my  wife  I 
Raby.  He  knew  not  she  was  married. 

Dou.  How  1  is’t  possible  1  [cent ; 

Raby.  Douglas,  ’tis  true ;  both,  both  were  inno- 
He  of  her  marriage,  she  of  his  return.  [vow’d 
Bir.  But  now,  when  we  believ’d  thee  dead,  she 
Never  to  see  thy  rival.  Instantly, 

Not  in  a  state  of  momentary  passion. 

But  with  a  martyr’s  dignity  and  calmness, 

She  bade  me  bring  the  poison. 

Dou.  Had’st  thou  done  it, 


M'S- 

Despair  had  been  my  portion !  Ply,  good  Birtna, 
Find  out  the  suffering  saint — describe  my  peni¬ 
tence, 

And  paint  my  vast  extravagance  of  fondness, 

Tell  her  I  love  as  never  mortal  lov’d — 

Tell  her  I  know  her  virtues,  and  adore  them — 
Tell  her  I  come,  but  dare  not  seek  her  presence, 
Till  she  pronounce  my  pardon. 

Bir.  I  obey.  [Exit  Birtha* 

Raby.  My  child  is  innocent  I  ye  choirs  of  saints 
Catch  the  bless’d  sounds — my  child  is  innocent ! 

Dou.  O  I  will  kneel,  and  sue  for  her  forgiveness, 
And  thou  shalt  help  me  plead  the  cause  of  love. 
And  thou  shalt  weep — she  cannot  sure  refuse 
A  kneeling  husband  and  a  weeping  father. 

Thy  venerable  cheek  is  wet  already. 

Raby.  Douglas  I  it  is  the  dew  of  grateful  joy 
My  child  is  innocent  1  I  now  would  die, 

Lest  fortune  should  grow  weary  of  her  kindness,. 
And  grudge  me  this  short  transport. 

Dou.  Where,  where  is  she  'I 
My  fond  impatience  brooks  not  her  delay ; 

Q-uick,  let  me  find  her,  hush  her  anxious  soul, 
And  sooth  her  troubled  spirit  into  peace. 

Enter  Birtha. 

Bir.  O  horror,  horror,  horror ! 

Dou.  Ah  1  what  mean’st  thou  1 
Bir.  Elwina — 

Dou.  Speak — 

Bir.  Her  grief  wrought  up  to  frenzy, 

She  has,  in  her  delirium,  swallow’d  poison ! 

Raby.  Frenzy  and  poison  ! 

Dou.  Both  a  husband’s  gift ; 

But  thus  I  do  her  justice. 

As  Douglas  goes  to  stab  himself,  enter  EnwiNA 
distracted,  her  hair  dishevelled,  Percy’s  scarf 
in  her  hand. 

Elw.  [Goes  up  to  Douglas.]  What,  blood 
again  1  We  cannot  kill  him  twice  ! 

Soft,  soft — no  violence — he ’s  dead  already  ; — 

I  did  it — Yes — I  drown’d  him  with  my  tears ; — 
But  hide  the  cruel  deed !  I’ll  scratch  him  out 
A  shallow  grave,  and  lay  the  green  sod  on  it ; 

Ay — and  Ill  bind'the  wild  briar  o’er  the  turf, 

And  plant  a  willow  there,  a  weeping  willow — 

[iS/ie  sits  on  the  ground. 
But  look  you  tell  not  Douglas,  he’ll  disturb  him ; 
He’ll  pluck  the  willow  up — and  plant  a  thorn. 

He  will  not  let  me  sit  upon  his  grave. 

And  sing  all  day,  and  weep  and  pray  all  night. 
Raby.  Dost  thou  not  know  me  1 
Elw.  Yes — I  do  remember 
You  had  a  harmless  lamb. 

Raby.  I  had  indeed  1  [mate, 

Elw.  From  all  the  flock  you  chose  her  out  a 
In  sooth  a  fair  one — you  did  bid  her  love  it — 

But  while  the  shepherd  slept  the  wolf  devour’d  it. 
Raby.  My  heart  will  break.  This  is  too  much, 
too  much ! 

Elw.  [Smiltn^.]  O  ’twas  a  cordial  draught — 1 
drank  it  all. 

Raby.  What  means  my  child  I 
Dou.  The  poison!  Oh  the  poison! 

Thou  dear  wrong’d  innocence — 

Elw.  Off — murderer,  off! 

Do  not  defile  me  with  those  crimson  hands. 

[STiouis  the  scaff. 
This  is  his  winding  sheet — I’ll  wrap  him  in  it — 

I  wrought  it  for  my  love — there — now  I’ve  dress’d 
*  him. 

How  brave  he  looks  1  my  father  will  forgive  him,. 


544 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


He  dearly  lov’d  him  once — but  that  is  over. 

-See  where  he  comes — beware,  my  gallant  Percy, 
Ah !  come  not  here,  this  is  the  cave  of  death. 
And  there ’s  the  dark,  dark  palace  of  Revenge ! 
,See  the  pale  king  sits  on  his  blood-stain’d  throne ! 
He  points  to  me — I  come,  1  come,  I  come. 

[She  faints,  they  run  to  her,  Douglas  takes 
tip  his  sword  and  stabs  himself, 

.Dou.  Thus,  thus  I  follow  thee. 

•Edr.  Hold  thy  rash  hand ! 

Dou.  It  is  too  late.  No  remedy  but  this 
Could  medicine  a  disease  so  desperate. 

Raby.  Ah,  she  revives ! 

Dou.  [Raising  himself]  She  lives  1  bear,  bear 
me  to  her ! 

We  shall  be  happy  yet; 

[He  struggles  to  get  to  her,  but  sinks  down. 
It  will  not  be — 

O  for  a  last  embrace — Alas !  I  faint — 

She  lives — Now  death  is  terrible  indeed — 

Fair  spirit,  I  lov’d  thee — O — Elwina !  [Dies. 
Elw.  Where  have  I  been  I  The  damps  of 
death  are  on  me.  [thus  ! 

Raby.  Look  up,  my  child  !  O  do  not  leave  me 
Pity  .the  anguish  of  t%  aged  father. 

Hast  thou  forgot  me  1 

Elw.  No — ^you  are  my  father ; 

O  you  are  kindly  come  to  close  my  eyes, 

And  take  the  kiss  of  death  from  my  cold  lips ! 
Raby.  Do  we  meet  thus  1 
Elw.  We  soon  shall  meet  in  peace. 

I’ve  but  a  faint  remembrance  of  the  past— 


But  something  tells  me — O  those  painful  struggles 
Raise  me  a  little — there — 

[iSAe  sees  the  body  of  Douglas, 
What  sight  is  that  1  [der’d ! 

A  sword,  and  bloody  1  Ah !  and  Douglas  mur- 
Edr.  Convinc’d  too  late  of  your  unequall’d 
virtues,  [wrongs. 

And  wrung  with  deep  compunction  for  your 
By  his  own  hand  the  wretched  Douglas  fell. 

Elw.  This  adds  another,  sharper  pang  to  death. 
O  thou  Eternal !  take  him  to  thy  mercy, 

Nor  let  this  sin  be  on  his  head,  or  mine  ! 

Raby.  I  have  undone  you  all — the  crime  is  mine ! 
O  thou  poor  injur’d  saint,  forgive  thy  father, 

He  kneels  to  his  wrong’d  child. 

Elw.  Now  you  are  cruel. 

Come  near,  my  father,  nearer — I  would  see  you, 
But  mists  and  darkness  cloud  my  failing  sight. 

O  death!  suspend  thy  rights  for  one  short  moment. 
Till  I  have  ta’en  a  father’s  last  embrace — 

A  father’s  blessing. — Once — and  now  ’tis  over. 
Receive  me  to  thy  mercy,  gracious  Heaven  1 

[SAe  dies. 

Raby.  She’s  gone!  for  ever  gone!  cold,  dead 
and  cold. 

Am  I  a  father  I  Fathers  love  their  children - 

I  murder  mine  !  With  impious  pride  I  snatch’d 
The  bolt  of  vengeance  from  the  hand  of  Heaven 
My  punishment  is  great — but  oh !  ’tis  just. 

My  soul  submissive  bows.  A  righteous  God 
Has  made  my  crime  become  my  chastisement. 

[Exeunt 


THE  FATAL  FALSEHOOD: 

A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACTS. 

AB  IT  WAS  ACTED  IN  1779,  AT  THE  THEATRE  ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN, 


TO 

THE  COUNTESS  BATHURST, 

THIS  TRAGEDY  IS  VERY  RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED,  AS  A 
SMALL  TRIBUTE  TO  HER  MANY  VIRTUES, 

AND  AS  A 

GRATEFUL  TESTIMONY  OF  THE  FRIENDSHIP  WITH  WHICH  SHE  HONOURS 
HER  MOST  OBEDIENT  AND  MOST 
^  OBLIGED  HUMBLE  SERVANT, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


PROLOGUE. 

WRITTEN  BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. - SPOKEN  BY  MR.  HULL. 


Our  modem  poets  now  can  scatcely  choose 
A  subject  worthy  of  the  Tragic  Muse  ; 

For  bards  so  well  have  glean’d  th’  historic  field, 
That  scarce  one  sheaf  th’  exhausted  ancients 
yield ; 

Or  if,  perchance,  they  from  the  golden  crop 
Some  grains,  with  hand  penurious,  rarely  drop ; 
Our  author  these  consigns  to  manly  toil, 

For  classic  themes  demand  a  classic  soil. 

A  vagrant  she,  the  desert  waste  who  chose. 
Where  truth  and  history  no  restraints  impose. 
To  her  the  wilds  of  fiction  open  lie, 

A  flow’ry  prospect,  and  a  boundless  sky  ; 

Yet  hard  the  task  to  keep  the  onward  way. 
Where  the  wide  scenery  lures  the  foot  to  stray ; 
Where  no  severer  limits  check  the  Muse 
Than  lawless  fancy  is  dispos’d  to  choose. 

Nor  does  she  emulate  the  loftier  strains 
Which  high  heroic  Tragedy  maintains  : 

Nor  conquest  she,  nor  wars,  nor  triumphs  sings. 
Nor  with  rash  hand  o’erturns  the  thrones  of 
kings. 

No  ruin’d  empires  greet  to-night  your  eyes, 

.No  nations  at  our  bidding  fall  or  rise  ; 


To  statesmen  deep,  to  politicians  grave. 

These  themes,  congenial  to  their  tastes,  we 
leave, 

Of  crowns  and  camps,  a  kingdom’s  weal  or  wo, 
How  few  can  judge,  because  how  few  can  know  1 
But  here  you  all  may  boast  the  censor’s  art. 
Here  all  are  critics  who  possess  a  heart. 

And  of  the  passions  we  display  to-night. 

Each  hearer  judges  like  the  Stagyrite. 

The  scenes  of  private  life  our  author  shows 
A  simple  story  of  domestic  woes  ; 

Nor  unimportant  is  the  glass  we  hold. 

To  show  the  effect  of  passions  uncontroll’d ; 
For  if  to  govern  realms  belong  to  few. 

Yet  all  who  live  have  passions  to  subdue. 
Self-conquest  is  the  lesson  books  should  preach. 
Self-conquest  is  the  theme  the  stage  should 
teach. 

Vouchsafe  to  learn  this  obvious  duty  here. 

The  verse  though  feeble,  yet  the  moral’s  clear. 
0  mark  to-night  the  unexampled  woes 
Which  from  unbounded  self-indulgence  flows. 
Your  candour  once  endur’d  our  author’s  lays ; 
Endure  them  now — it  will  be  ample  praise , 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA 


Earl  Guildford. 

Rivers,  his  son. 

Orlando,  a  young  Italian  Count. 


Bertrand. 

Emmelina. 

Julia. 


Scene. — Earl  Guildford’s  Castle. 


ACT  1. 

Scene — An  Apartment  in  Guildford,  Castle. 
Enter  Bertrand. 

Ser.  What  fools  are  seriously  melancholy 
villains ! 

VoL.  I. 


I  play  a  surer  game,  and  screen  my  heart 
With  easy  lopks  and  undesigning  smiles  ; 

And  while  my  plots  still  spring  from  sober 
thought. 

My  deeds  appear  the  effect  of  wild  caprice. 

And  I  the  thoughtless  slave  of  giddy  chance. 

2  M 


546  THE  WORKS  OF 

What  but  this  frankness  could  have  won  the 
promise 

Of  young  Orlando,  to  confide  to  me 

That  secret  grief  which  preys  upon  his  heart  1 

’Tis  shallow,  indiscreet  hypocrisy, 

To  seem  too  good  :  I  am  the  careless  Bertrand, 
The  honest,  undesigning,  plain,  blunt  man. 

The  follies  I  avow  cloak  those  I  hide. 

For  who  will  search  where  nothing  seems  con¬ 
ceal’d  1 

’Tis  rogues  of  solid,  prudent,  grave  demeanour. 
Excite  suspicion  ;  men  on  whose  dark  brow 
Discretion,  with  his  iron  hand,  has  grav’d 
The  deep-mark’d  characters  of  thoughtfulness. 
Here  comes  my  uncle,  venerable  Guildford, 
Whom  I  could  honour,  were  he  not  the  sire 
Of  that  aspiring  boy,  who  fills  the  gap  [thee ! 
’Twixt  me  and  fortune; — Rivers,  how  I  hate 

Enter  Guildford. 

How  fares  my  noble  uncle  1 

Chiild.  Honest  Bertrand ! 

I  must  complain  we  have  so  seldom  met : 

W^here  do  you  keep  1  believe  me,  we  have 
miss’d  you.  [me,  sir, 

Ber.  0,  my  good  lord  !  your  pardon — spare 
For  there  are  follies  in  a  young  man’s»life. 

And  idle  thoughtless  hours,  which  I  should  blush 
To  lay  before  your  wise  and  temperate  age. 

Guild.  Well,  be  it  so— youth  has  a  privilege. 
And  I  should  be  asham’d  could  I  forget 
I  have  myself  been  young,  and  harshly  chide 
This  not  ungraceful  gayety.  Yes,  Bertrand, 
Prudence  becomes  moroseness,  when  it  makes 
A  rigid  inquisition  of  the  fault. 

Not  of  the  man,  perhaps,  but  of  his  youth. 
Foibles  that  shame  the  head  on  which  old  Time 
Has  shower’d  his  snow,  are  then  more  pardon- 
And  age  has  many  a  weakness  of  its  own.  [able. 
Ber.  Your  gentleness,  my  lord,  and  mild  re- 
proof. 

Correct  the  wanderings  of  misguided  youth, 
More  than  rebuke  can  shame  me  into  virtue. 
Guild.  Saw  you  my  beauteous  ward,  the 
lady  Julia  1 

Ber  She  pass’d  this  way,  and  with  her  your 
Your  Emmelina.  [fair  daughter. 

Guild.  Call  them  both  my  daughters ; 

For  scarce  is  Emmelina  more  belov’d 
Than  Julia,  the  dear  child  of  my  adoption. 

The  hour  approaches  too,  (and,  bless  it  heaven. 
With  thy  benignest,  kindliest  influence  !) 
When  Julia  shall  indeed  become  my  daughter, 
Shall,  in  obedience  to  her  father’s  will, 

Crown  the  impatient  vows  of  my  brave  son, 
And  richly  pay  him  for  his  dangers  past. 

Ber.  Oft  have  I  wondered  how  the  gallant 
Youthful  and  ardent,  doting  to  excess,  [fovers. 
Could  dare  the  dangers  of  uncertain  war. 

Ere  marriage  had  confirmed  his  claim  to  Julia. 

Guild.  ’Twas  the  condition  of  her  father’s  will. 
My  brave  old  fellow-soldier,  and  my  friend ! 

He  wished  to  see  our  ancient  houses  joined 
By  this,  our  children’s  union ;  but  the  veteran 
So  highly  valued  military  prowess. 

That  he  bequeath’d  his  fortunes  and  his  daughter 
To  my  young  Rivers,  on  these  terms  alone. 
That  he  should  early  gain  renown  in  arms ; 


HANNAH  MORE. 

And  if  he  from  the  field  returned  a  conqueror, 
That  sun  which  saw  him  come  victorious  home 
Should  witness  their  espousals.  Yet  he  comes  • 
not ! 

The  event  of  war  is  to  the  brave  uncertain, 
Nor  can  desert  in  arms  ensure  success. 

Ber.  Yet  fame  speaks  loudly  of  his  early 
valour.  [Orlando, 

Guild.  E’er  since  the  Italian  count,  the  young-. 
My  Rivers’  bosom  friend,  has  been  my  guest, 
The  glory  of  my  son  is  all  his  theme  : 

Oh !  he  recounts  his  virtues  with  such  joy. 
Dwells  on  his  merit  with  a  zeal  so  warm. 

As  to  his  generous  heart  pays  back  again 
The  praises  he  bestows. 

Ber.  Orlando’s  noble. 

He’s  of  a  tender,  brave,  and  gallant  nature. 

Of  honour  most  romantic,  with  such  graces 
As  charm  all  womankind. 

Guild.  And  here  comes  one. 

To  whom  the  story  of  Orlando’s  praise 
Sounds  like  sweet  music. 

Ber.  What,  your  charming  daughter ! 

Yes,  I  suspect  she  loves  the  Italian  count : 

(Aside.) 

That  must  not  be.  Now  to  observe  her  closely. 
Enter  Emmelina. 

Ctuild.  Come  hither,  Emmelina :  we  were 
speaking 

Of  the  young  Count  Orlando.  What  think  you 
Of  this  accomplished  stranger  1 

Em.  (confused. )  Of  Orlando  ? 

Sir,  as  my  father’s  guest,  my  brother’s  friend, 

I  do  esteem  the  count. 

Guild.  Nay,  he  has  merit 

Might  justify  thy  friendship,  if  he  wanted 
The  claims  thou  mention’st ;  yet  I  mean  to 
blame  him.  [my  father  1 

Em.  What  has  he  done  1  How  has  he  wrong’d 
For  you  are  just,  and  are  not  angry  lightly  ; 
And  he  is  mild,  unapt  to  give  offence. 

As  you  to  be  offended. 

Guild.  Nay,  ’tis  not  much : 

But  why  does  young  Orlando  shun  my  presence  % 
Why  lose  that  cheerful  and  becoming  spirit 
Which  lately  charmed  us  all  1  Rivers  will 
chide  us, 

Should  he  return  and- find  his  friend  unhappy. 
He  is  not  what  he  was.  What  says  my  child  I 
Em.  My  lord,  when  first  my  brother’s  friend 
arrived — 

Be  still,  my  heart —  (Aside.) 

Ber.  She  dares  not  use  his  name 

Her  brother’s  friend !  (Aside.) 

Em.  WTien  first  your  noble  guest 

Came  from  that  voyage  he  kindly  undertook 
To  ease  our  terrors  for  my  Rivers’  safety. 
When  we  believed  him  dead,  he  seem’d  most 
happy. 

And  shar’d  the  gen’ral  joy  his  presence  gave. 
Of  late  he  is  less  gay  ;  my  brother’s  absence, 
(Or  I  mistake)  disturbs  his  friend’s  repose  : 

Nor  is  it  strange  ;  one  mind  informs  them  both  < 
Each  is  the  very  soul  that  warms  the  other. 
And  both  are  wretched  or  are  bless’d  together 
Ber.  Why  trembles  my  fair  cousin  1 
Em.  Can  I  think 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


547 


That  my  lov’d  brother’s  life  has  been  in  danger, 
Nor  feel  a  strong  emotion  1 

Ber.  {ironically.)  Generous  pity ! 

But  when  that  danger  has  so  long  been  past, 
You  should  forget  your  terrors. 

Em.  I  shall  never  ; 

For  when  I  think  that  danger  sprung  from  friend- 
That  Rivers,  to  preserve  another’s  Ufe,  [ship  ; 
Incurr’d  this  peril,  still  my  wonder  rises. 

Ber.  And  why  another’s  life  1  Why  not  Or¬ 
lando’s  1 

Such  caution  more  betrays  than  honest  freedom. 
Guild.  He’s  still  the  same,  the  gibing,  thought¬ 
less  Bertrand, 

Severe  of  speech,  but  innocent  of  malice. 

[Exit  Guildford  :  EMMELiNAg'otwg. 
Ber.  Stay,  my  fair  cousin !  still  with  adverse 
Am  I  beheld  1  Had  I  Orlando’s  form,  [eyes 
I  mean,  were  I  like  him  your  brother’s  friend, 
Then  would  your  looks  be  turned  thus  coldly 
on  me  1  [nothing, 

Em.  But  that  I  know  your  levity  means 
And  that  your  heart  accords  not  with  your 
This  would  offend  me.  [tongue, 

Ber.  Come,  confess  the  truth, 

That  this  gay  Florentine,  this  Tuscan  rover. 
Has  won  your  easy  heart,  and  given  you  his : 

I  know  the  whole  ;  I’m  of  his  secret  council ; 
He  has  confess’d — 

Em.  Ha !  what  has  he  confess’d  1 

Ber.  That  you  are  wondrous  fair  :  nay,  noth¬ 
ing  farther : 

How  disappointment  fires  her  angry  cheek  ! 

{Aside.) 

Yourself  have  told  the  rest,  your  looks  avow  it. 
Your  eyes  are  honest,  nor  conceal  the  secret. 
Em.  Know,  sir,  that  virtue,  no  concealment 
needs : 

So  far  from  dreading,  she  srolicits  notice, 

And  wishes  every  secret  thought  she  harbours, 
Bare  to  the  eye  of  men,  as  ’tis  to  heaven. 

Ber.  Yet  mark  me  well :  trust  not  Orlando’s 
truth  ; 

The  citron  groves  have  heard  his  amorous  vows 
Breath’d  out  to  many  a  beauteous  maid  of 
Florence ; 

Bred  in  those  softer  climes,  his  roving  heart 
Ne’er  learn’d  to  think  fidelity  a  virtue ; 

He  laughs  at  tales  of  British  constancy. 

But  see,  Orlando  comes — ^he  seeks  you  here. 
With  eyes  bent  downwards,  folded  arms,  pale 
Disorder’d  looks,  and  negligent  attire,  [cheeks, 
And  all  the  careless  equipage  of  love,  [blood 
He  bends  this  way.  Why  does  the  moimting 
Thus  crimson  your  fair  cheek  1  He  does  not 
see  us ; 

I’ll  venture  to  disturb  his  meditations. 

And  instantly  return.  [Ezi/ Bertrand. 

Em.  No  more  ;  but  leave  me. 

He’s  talkative,  but  harmless  ;  rude,  but  honest ; 
Fuller  of  mirth  than  mischief.  See,  they  meet — 
This  way  they  come ;  why  am  I  thus  alarm’d  1 
What  is’t  to  me  that  here  Orlando  comes  1 
Oh,  for  a  little  portion  of  that  art 
Ungenerous  men  ascribe  to  our  whole  sex ! 

A  little  artifice  were  prudence  now  : 

But  I  have  none  ;  my  poor  unpractis’d  heart 
Is  80  unknowing  of  dissimulation, 


So  little  skill’d  to  seem  the  thing  it  is  not. 
That  if  my  lips  are  mute,  my  looks  betray  me. 

Re-enter  Bertrand  with  Orlando. 

Ber.  Now  to  alarm  her  heart,  and  search  out 
his.  {Aside.) 

Or.  We  crave  your  pardon,  beauteous  Em- 
melina, 

If  rudely  we  intrude  upon  your  thoughts  ; 
Thoughts  pure  as  infants’  dreams  or  angels* 
wishes. 

And  gentle  as  the  breast  from  which  they  spring. 
Em.  Be  still,  my  heart,  nor  let  him  see  thy 
weakness.  {Aside.) 

We  are  much  bound  to  thank  you,  cousin  Ber¬ 
trand, 

That  since  your  late  return,  the  Count  Orlando 
Appears  once  more  among  us.  Say,  my  lord, 
why  have  you  shunn’d  your  friends’  society  1 
Was  it  well  done  1 .  My  father  bade  me  chide 
you ; 

I  am  not  made  for  chiding,  but  he  bade  me  ; 
He  says,  no  more  you  rise  at  early  dawn 
With  him  to  chase  the  boar ;  I  pleaded  for  you  y 
Told  him  ’twas  savage  sport. 

Or.  What  was  his  answer  1 

Em.  He  said  ’twas  sport  for  heroes,  and 
made  heroes  ; 

That  hunting  was  the  very  school  of  war. 
Taught  our  hrave  youth  to  shine  in  nobler  fields, 
Preserv’d  them  from  the  rust  of  dull  inaction. 
Train’d  them  for  arms,  and  fitted  them  for  con¬ 
quest.  ' 

Or.  0,  my  fair  advocate  !  scarce  can  I  grieve 
To  have  done  wrong,  since  my  offence  has 
So  sweet  a  pleader.  [gain’d 

Ber.  {aside.)  So,  I  like  this  well; 

Full  of  respect,  but  cold. 

Em.  My  lord,  your  pardon  , 

My  father  waits  my  coming  ;  I  attend  him. 

.  [Exit. 

Ber.  In  truth,  my  lord,  you’re  a  right  happy 
man  ; 

Her  parting  look  proclaims  that  you  are  blest ; 
The  crimson  blushes  on  her 'cheek  display’d 
A  gentle  strife  ’twixt  modesty  and  love  ; 
Discretion  strove  to  dash  the  rising  joy. 

But  conquering  love  prevail’d  and  told  the  tale. 
My  lord,  you  answer  not. 

Or.  What  shall  I  sayl 

Oh,  couldst  thou  read  my  heart ! 

Ber.  ,  The  hour  is  come 

When  my  impatient  friendship  claims  that  trust 
Which  I  so  oft  have  press’d,  and  you  have 
promis’d. 

Or.  I  cannot  tell  thee  :  ’tis  a  tale  of  guilt ; 
How  sha[l  I  speak  1  my  resolution  sickens  ; 

All  virtuous  men  will  shun  me,  thou  wilt  scorn 
And  fly  the  foul  contagion  of  my  crime,  [me, 
Ber.  My  bosom  is  not  steel’d  with  that  harsh 
prudence 

Which  would  reproach  thy  failings  :  tell  me  all ; 
The  proudest  heart  loves  to  repose  its  faults 
Upon  a  breast  that  has  itself  a  tincture 
Of  human  weakness  :  I  have  frailties  bio, 
Frailties  that  teach  me  how  to  pity  thine. 

What !  silent  still  1  Thou  lov’st  my  beauteou* 

!  lave  I  not  guess’d  [cousin  f 


543 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


0^,  I  own  that  she  has  charms 

Might  warm  a  frozen  stoic  into  love, 

Tempt  hermits  back  again  to  that  bad  world 
They  had  renounc’d,  and  make  religious 
Forgetful  of  their  holy  vows  'o  aetiV'U . 

Yes,  Bertrand— come,  I’ll  tell  thee  all  my  weak- 
Thou  hast  a  tender,  sympathizing  heart —  [ness ; 
Thou  art  not  rigid  to  a  friend’s  defects. 

That  heavenly  Ibrm  I  view  with  eyes  as  cold 
As  marble  images  of  lifeless  saints ; 

I  see  and  know  the  workmanship  divine  ; 

My  judgment  owns  her  exquisite  perfections, 

But  my  rebellious  heart  denies  her  claim. 

Ber.  What  do  I  hear !  you  love  her  not ! 

Oh !  Bertrand  ! 

For  pity  do  not  hate  me  ;  but  thou  must, 

For  am  I  not  at  variance  with  myself  1 
Yet  shall  I  wrong  her  gentle,  trusting  nature, 
And  spurn  the  heart  I  labour’d  to  obtain  1 
She  loves  me,  Bertrand :  oh !  too  sure  she 
loves  me  :  [sion ; 

Loves  me  with  tenderest,  truest,  chastest  pas- 
Loves  me,  oh,  barb’rous  fate  !  as  I  love — Juha. 
Ber.  Heard  I  aright  1  Did  you  not  speak  of 
Julia  1 

Julia !  the  lovely  ward  of  my  good  uncle  1 
Julia !  the  mistress  of  your  friend,  of  Rivers  1 
Or.  Go  on,  go  on,  and  urge  me  with  my  guilt ; 
Display  my  crime  in  all  its  native  blackness  ; 
Tell  me  some  legend  of  infernal  falsehood. 

Tell  me  some  dreadful  tale  of  perjur’d  friends, 
Of  trust  betray’d,  of  innocence  deceiv’d  : 

Place  the  dire  chronicle  before  my  eyes  ; 

Inflame  the  horror,  aggravate  the  guilt : 

That  I  may  see  the  evils  which  await  me. 

Nor  pull  such  fatal  mischiefs  on  my  head, 

As  with  my  ruin  must  involve  the  fate 
Of  all  I  love  on  earth. 

Ber.  Just  as  I  wish.  (Aside.) 

Or.  Thou  know’st  I  left  my  native  Italy, 
Directed  hither  by  the  noble  Rivers, 

To  ease  his  father’s  fears,  who  thought  he  fell 
In  that  engagement  where  we  both  were 
wounded. 

His  was  a  glorious  wound,  gain’d  in  the  cause 
Of  gen’rous  friendship  :  for  a  hostile  spear. 
Aim’d  at  my  breast.  Rivers  in  his  receiv’d, 
Sav’d  my  devoted  life,  and  won  my  soul. 

Ber.  So  far  I  knew  ;  but  what  of  Emmelina  1 
Or.  Whether  her  gentle  beauties  first  allur’d 
me. 

Or  whether  peaceful  scenes  and  rural  shades. 
Or  leisure,  or  the  want  of  other  objects. 

Or  solitude,  apt  to  engender  love. 

Engag’d  my  soul,  I  know  not ;  but  I  lov’d  her. 
We  were  together  always,  till  the  habit 
Grew  into  something  like  necessity.  . 

When  Emmelina  left  me  I  was  sad. 

Nor  knew  a  joy  till  Emmelina  came  ; 

Her  soft  society  amus’d  my  mind. 

Fill’d  up  my  vacant  heart,  and  touch’d  my  soul : 
’Twau  gratitude,  ’twas  friendship,  ’twas  esteem, 
’Fwas  reason,  ’twas  persuasion, — nay,  ’twas 
Ber.  But  where  was  Julia  1  [love. 

Or.  Oh  !  too  soon  she  came ; 

For  when  I  saw  that  wondrous  form  of  beauty, 

I  stood  entranced,  like  some  astronomer. 

Who,  as  he  views  the  bright  expanse  of  heaven, 


Finds  a  new  star.  I  gaz’d,  and  was  unaone  ; 
Gaz’d,  and  forgot  the  tender  Emmelina, 

Gaz’d,  and  forgot  the  gen’rous,  trusting  Rivers, 
Forgot  my  faith,  my  friendship,  and  my  honour. 
Ber.  Does  Julia  know  your  love  1 
Or.  Forbid  it,  heaven ! 

WTiat !  think’st  thou  I  anf^o  far  gone  in  guilt 
As  boldly  to  avow  it  1  Bertrand,  no  ; 

For  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  spacious  earth, 

I  would  not  wrong  my  friend,  or  damn  my  hon¬ 
our.  [self. 

Ber.  Trust  me,  you  think  too  hardly  of  your- 
Or.  Think  I  have  lodg’d  a  secret  in  thy  breast 
On  which  my  peace,  my  fame,  my  all  depends  ; 
Long  have  I  struggled  with  the  fatal  truth. 

And  scarce  have  dar’d  to  breathe  it  to  myself : 
For,  oh  !  too  surely  the  first  downward  step. 
The  treacherous  path  that  leads  to  guilty  deeds, 
Is  to  make  sin  familiar  to  the  thoughts.  [Exit. 

Ber.  Am  I  awake  1  No  :  ’tis  delusion  all ! 
My  wildest  wishes  never  soar’d  to  this  ; 

Fortune  anticipates  my  plot :  he  loves  her. 
Loves  just  whom  I  vyould  have  him  love — loves 
Julia ! 

Orlando,  yes.  I’ll  play  thee  at  my  will ; 

Poor  puppet !  thou  hast  trusted  to  my  hand 
The  strings  by  which  I’ll  move  thee  to  thy  ruin, 
And  make  thee  too  the  instrument  of  vengeance, 
Of  glorious  vengeance*on  the  man  I  hate.  [Exit. 

ACT  II. 

Enter  Julia  and  Emmelina. 

Julia.  How  many  cares  perplex  the  maid  who 
loves ! 

Cares  which  the  vacant  heart  can  never  know. 
You  fondly  tremble  for  a  brother’s  life  ; 

Orlando  mourns  the  absence  of  a  friend  ; 
Guildford  is  anxious  for  a  son’s  renown  ; 

In  my  poor  heart  your  various  terrors  meet. 
With  added  fears  and  fonder  apprehensions  ■, 
They  all  unite  in  me,  I  feel  for  all. 

His  life,  his  fame,  his  absence,  and  his  love ; 
For  he  may  live  to  see  his  native  home. 

And  he  may  live  to  bless  a  sister’s  hopes. 

May  live  to  gratify  impatient  friendship. 

May  live  to  crown  a  father’s  house  with  honour, 
May  live  to  glory,  yet  be  dead  to  love. 

Em.  Forbear  these  fears;  they  wound  my 
brother’s  honour: 

Julia  !  a  brave  man  must  be  ever  faithful ; 
Cowards  alone  dare  venture  to  be  false  ; 
Cowards  alone  dare  injure  trusting  virtue. 

And  with  bold  perjuries  affront  high  heaven. 

Julia.  I  know  his  faith,  and  venerate  his  vir- 
I  know  his  heart  is  tender  as  ’tis  brave  ;  [tues  ; 
That  all  his  father’s  worth,  his  sister’s  softness, 
Meet  in  his  generous  breast — and  yet  I  fear — 
Whoever  lov’d  like  me,  and  did  not  fear  1 

Enter  Guildford. 

Guild.  Where  are  my  friends,  my  daughter  ^ 
where  is  Julia  1 

How  shall  I  speak  the  fulness  of  my  hearts 
My  son,  my  Rivers,  will  this  day  return. 

Em.  My  dearest  brother ! 

Julia.  Ha  !  my  Rivers  comes ! 

Propitious  heaven ! 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


549 


Em.  And  yet  my  Julia  trembles. 

Julia.  Have  I  not  cause  1  my  Rivers  comes ! 
I  dread  to  ask,  and  yet  I  die  to  hear,  [but  how  l 
My  lord — ^you  know  the  terms — 

Guild.  He  comes  a  conqueror ! 

He  comes  as  Guildford’s  son  should  ever  come ! 
The  battle’s  o’er,  the  English  arms  successful, 
And  Rivers,  like  an  English  warrior,  hastes 
To  lay  his  laurels  at  the  feet  of  beauty.  [Exit. 
Julia.  My  joy  oppresses  me  ! 

Em.  And  see,  Orlando  ! 

How  will  the  welcome  news  transport  his  soul. 
And  raise  his  drooping  heart !  with  caution  tell 
him. 

Lest  the  o’erwhelming  rapture  be  too  much 
For  his  dejected  mind. 

Enter  Orlando  and  Bertrand. 

Julia.  My  lord  Orlando, 

Wherefore  that  troubled  air  1  no  more  you  dwell 
On  your  once  darling  theme  ;  you  speak  no  more 
The  praises  of  your  Rivers  ;  is  he  chang’d  1 
Is  he  not  still  the  gallant  friend  you  lov’d, 

As  virtuous  and  as  valiant  1 

Or.  Still^he  same ;  * 

He  must  be  ever  virtuous,  ever  valiant. 

Em.  If  Rivers  is  the  same,  then  must  I  think 
Orlando  greatly  chang’d  ;  you  speak  not  of  him. 
Nor  long  for  his  return,  as  you  were  wont. 
How  did  you  use  to  spend  the  livelong  day. 

In  telling  some  new  wonders  of  your  friend. 

Till  night  broke  in  upon  th’  unfinish’d  tale  ; 
And  when  ’twas  o’er,  you  would  begin  again. 
And  we  again  would  listen  with  delight. 

With  fresh  delight,  as  if  we  had  not  heard  it ! 
Does  Rivers  less  deserve,  or  you  less  love  1 
Or.  Have  I  not  lov’d  him  1  was  my  friendship 
When  any  praised  his  glories  in  the  field  1  [cold 
My  raptur’d  heart  has  bounded  at  the  tale  ! 
Methought  I  grew  illustrious  from  his  glory, 
And  rich  from  his  renown  ;  to  hear  him  prais’d. 
More  proud  than  if  I  had  achiev’d  his  deeds, 
And  reap’d  myself  the  harvest  of  his  fame. 

How  have  I  trembled  for  a  life  so  dear. 

When  his  too  ardent  soul,  despising  caution. 
Has  plung’d  him  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  war. 
As  if  in  love  with  danger. 

Julia.  Valiant  Rivers ! 

How  does  thy  greatness  justify  my  love  ! 

Ber.  He’s  distant  far,  so  I  may  safely  praise 
him.  (Aside.) 

I  claim  some  merit  in  my  love  of  Rivers, 

Since  I  admire  the  virtues  that  eclipse  me  ; 
With  pleasure  I  survey  those  dazzling  heights 
My  gay,  inactive  temper  cannot  reach. 

Em.  Spoke  like  my  honest  cousin.  Then, 
Orlando, 

Since  such  the  love  you  bear  your  noble  friend, 
How  will  your  heart  sustain  the  mighty  joy 
The  news  I  tell  will  give  youl  Yes,  Orlando, 
Restrain  the  transports  of  your  grateful  friend¬ 
ship. 

And  hear  with  moderation,  hear  me  tell  you 
That  Rivers  will  return — 

Or.  Howl  whenl 

Em.  This  day. 

Or.  Impossible ! 

Ber.  Then  all  my  schemes  are  air.  (Aside.) 


Em.  To-day  I  shall  embrace  my  valiant 
brother  !  [her  right  1 

Julia.  You  droop,  my  lord  :  did  you  not  hear 
She  told  you  that  your  Rivers  would  return. 
Would  come  to  crown  your  friendship  and  our 
hopes.  [friend  1 

Or.  He  is  most  welcome !  Is  he  not  my 
You  say  my  Rivers  comes.  Thy  arm,  good 
Bertrand.  j 

Ber.  Joy  to  us  all ;  joy  to  the  Count  Orlando !  ! 
Weak  man,  take  care.  (Aside  to  Orlando.) 
Em.  My  lord  !  you  are  not  well. 

Ber.  Surprise  and  joy  oppress  him  ;  I  myself 
Partake  his  transports.  Rouse,  my  lord,  for 
Em.  How  is  it  with  you  now  1  [shame. 
Or.  Quite  well — ’tis  past. 

Ber.  The  wonder’s  past,  and  naught  but  iov 
remains. 

Enter  Guildford  and  Rivers. 

Guild.  He’s  come  !  he’s  here  !  I  have  em¬ 
brac’d  my  warrior ; 

Now  take  me,  heav’n,  I  have  liv’d  long  enough.' 
Julia.  My  lord,  my  Rivers  ! 

Riv.  ’Tis  my  Julia’s  self! 

My  life! 

Julia.  My  hero  !  Do  I  then  behold  thee  1 
Riv.  Oh,  my  full  heart !  expect  not  words, 
Em.  Rivers  !  [my  Julia ! 

Riv.  My  sister  !  what  an  hour  is  this ! 

My  own  Orlando,  too  ! 

Or.  My  noble  friend  !  ■ 

Riv.  This  is  such  prodigality  of  bliss, 

I  scarce  can  think  it  real.  Honest  Bertrand, 
Your  hand;  yours,  my  Orlando,  yours,  myl 
And  as  a  hand,  I  have  a  heart  for  all ;  [father  ; 
Love  has  enlarg’d  it ;  from  excess  of  love 
I  am  become  more  capable  of  friendship. 

My  dearest  Julia  ! 

Guild.  She  is  thine,  my  son,  [her, ' 

Thou  hast  deserv’d  her  nobly ;  thou  hast  won 
Fulfill’d  the  terms —  j 

Riv.  Therefore  I  dare  not  ask  her ; 

I  would  not  claim  my  Julia  as  a  debt. 

But  take  her  as  a  gift ;  and,  oh !  I  swear 
It  is  the  dearest,  richest,  choicest  gift. 

The  bounty  of  indulgent  heaven  could  grant. 

(Guildford  joins  their  hands.) 
Julia.  Spare  me,  my  lord. — As  yet  I  scarce 
have  seen  you. 

Confusion  stops  my  tongue — ^yet  I  will  own. 

If  there  be  truth  or  faith  in  woman’s  vows. 

Then  you  have  still  been  present  to  this  heart, 
And  not  a  thought  has  wander’d  from  its  duty. 

[Exeunt  Julia  and  Emmelina. 
Riv.  (looking  after  Julia.)  Oh,  generous  Julia! 
Or.  (aside  to  Ber.)  Mark  how  much  she  loves 
him  !  [fond  sex  have  always  ready. 
Ber.  (aside  to  Or.)  Mere  words,  which  the 
Riv.  F  orgive  me,  good  Orlando,  best  of  friends ! 
How  my  soul  joys  to  meet  thee  on  this  shore  ! 
Thus  to  embrace  thee  in  my  much-lov’d  Eng¬ 
land  !  [of  heroes. 

Guild.  England !  the  land  of  worth,  the  soil 
Where  great  Elizabeth  the  sceptre  sways. 

O’er  a  free,  glorious,  rich,  and  happy  people  !  ! 
Philosophy,  not  cloister’d  up  in  schools. 

The  speculative  dream  of  idle  monks, 


550 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Attir’d  in  attic  robe,  here  roams  at  large  ; 
Wisdom  is  wealth,  and  science  is  renown 
Here  sacred  laws  protect  the  meanest  subject. 
The  bread  that  toil  procures  fair  freedom  sweet- 
And  every  peasant  eats  his  homely  meal  [ens, 
Content  and  free,  lord  of  his  small  domain. 

I  Riv.  Past  are  those  Gothic  days,  and,  thanks 
to  heav’n. 

They  are  for  ever  past,  when  English  subjects 
Were  born  the  vassals  of  some  tyrant  lord  ! 
When  free-soul’d  men  were  basely  handed  down 
To  the  next  heir,  transmitted  with  their  lands. 
The  shameful  legacy,  from  sire  to  son  !  [boy, 
GuUd.  But  while  thy  generous  soul,  my  noble 
Justly  abhors  oppression,  yet  revere 
The  plain  stern  virtues  of  our  rough  forefathers ; 
O,  never  may  the  gallant  sons  of  England 
Lose  their  plain,  manly,  native  character. 
Forego  the  glorious  charter  nature  gave  them. 
Beyond  what  kings  can  give,  or  laws  bestow  ; 
Their  candour,  courage,  constancy,  and  truth ! 

{^Exeunt  Guildford  and  Rivers. 
Or.  Stay,  Bertrand,  stay — Oh,  pity  my  dis¬ 
traction  ! 

This  heart  was  never  made  to  hide  its  feelings  ; 
I  had  near  betray’d  myself. 

Ber.  I  trembled  for  you  ; 

Remember  that  the  eye  of  love  is  piercing, 

..Ind  Emmelina  mark’d  you. 

Or.  ’Tis  too  much : 

My  artless  nature  cannot  bear  disguise. 

Think  what  I  felt  when  unsuspecting  Rivers 
Press’d  me  with  gen’rous  rapture  to  his  bosom. 
Profess’d  an  honest  joy,  and  call’d  me  friend  ! 

I  felt  myself  a  traitor  :  yet  I  swear, 

Yes,  by  that  Power  who  sees  the  thoughts  of 
I  swear,  I  love  the  gallant  Rivers  more  [men, 
Than  light  or  life  !  I  love,  but  yet  I  fear  him : 

I  shrunk  before  the  lustre  of  his  virtue-— 

I  felt  as  I  had  wrong’d  him — felt  abash’d. 

I  cannot  bear  this  conflict  in  my  soul, 

And  therefore  have  resolv’d — 

Ber.  On  what  1 

Or.  To  fly. 

Ber.  To  fly  from  Julia  1 
Or.  Yes,  to  fly  from  all. 

From  every  thing  I  love  ;  to  fly  from  Rivers, 
From  Emmelina,  from  myself,  from  thee  : 

From  Julia  1  no — that  were  impossible. 

For  I  shall  bear  her  image  in  my  soul ; 

It  is  a  part  of  me,  the  dearest  part ; 

So  closely  interwoven  with  my  being. 

That  I  can  never  lose  the  dear  remembrance, 
Till  I  am  robb’d  of  life  and  her  together. 

Ber.  ’Tis  cowardice  to  fly. 

Or.  ’Tis  death  to  stay. 

Ber.  Where  would  you  go  1  How  lost  in 
thought  he  stands !  (Aside.) 

A  vulgar  villain  now  would  use  persuasion, 

And  by  his  very  earnestness  betray 

The  thing  he  meant  to  hide  ;  I’ll  coolly  wait. 

Till  the  occasion  shows  me  how  to  act. 

Then  turn  it  to  my  purpose.  Ho  !  Orlando  ! 
Where  would  you  go"! 

Or.  To  solitude,  to  hopeless  banishment ! 
Yes,  I  will  shroud  my  youth  in  those  dark  cells 
Where  disappointment  steals  devotion’s  name.. 
To  cheat  the  wretched  votary  into  ruin  ; 


There  will  I  live  in  love  with  misery ; 

Ne’er  shall  the  sight  of  mirth  profane  my  grief. 
The  sound  of  joy  shall  never  charm  my  ear, 

Nor  music  reach  it,  save  when  the  slow  bell 
Wakes  the  dull  brotherhood  to  lifeless  prayer. 
Then,  when  the  slow-retreating  world  recedes, 
When  warm  desires  are  cold,  and  passion  dead. 
And  all  things  but  my  Juha  are  forgotten, 

One  thought  of  her  shall  fire  my  langmd  soul, 
Chase  the  faint  orison,  and  feed  despair. 

Ber.  What!  with  monastic,  lazy  drones  retire, 
And  chant  cold  hymns  with  holy  hypocrites  1 
First  perish  all  the  sex  1  forbid  it,  manhood ! 
Where  is  your  nobler  self!  for  shame,  Orlando , 
Renounce  this  superstitious,  whining  weakness, 
Or  I  shall  blush  to  think  I  call’d  you  friend. 

Or.  What  can  I  do  I  [riage 

Ber.  {after  a  pause.)  Beg  she’ll  defer  the  mar 
But  for  one  single  day ;  do  this,  and  leave 
The  rest  to  me  ;  she  shall  be  thine. 

Or.  How  sayst  thoul 

What,  wrong  her  virtue  1  , 

Ber.  Still  this  cant  of  virtue  ! 

This  pomp  of  words,  this  phrase  without  ft 
meaning  I 

I  grant  that  honour’s  something,  manly  honour ; 
I’d  fight.  I’d  burn,  I’d  bleed.  I’d  die  for  honour  ; 
But  what’s  this  virtue  1 

Or.  Ask  you  what  it  is  1 

Why,  ’tis  what  libertines  themselves  adore  ; 
’Tis  that  which  wakens  love  and  kindles  rapture, 
Beyond  the  rosy  lip  or  starry  eye. 

Virtue  !  ’tis  that  which  gives  a  secret  force 
To  common  charms  ;  but  to  true  loveliness 
Lends  colouring  celestial.  Such  its  power, 
That  she  who  ministers  to  guilty  pleasures. 
Assumes  its  semblance  when  she  most  would 
Virtue  1  ’tis  that  ethereal  energy  [please, 

Which  gives  to  body  spirit,  soul  to  beauty.  {Exit. 
Ber.  Curse  on  his  principles!  Yet  I  shall 
shake  them ; 

Yes,  I  will  bend  his  spirit  to  my  will. 

Now,  while  ’tis  warm  with  passion,  and  will  take 
Whatever  mould  my  forming  hand  will  give  it. 
’Tis  worthy  of  my  genius  !  Then  I  love 
This  Emmelina :  true,  she  loves  not  me. 

But,  should  young  Rivers  die,  his  father’s  lands 
Would  then  he  mine — is  Rivers,  then,  immortall 
Come — Guildford’s  lands,  and  his  proud  daugh¬ 
ter’s  hand,  [genius ! 

Are  worth  some  thought.  Aid  me,  ye  spurs  to 
Love,  mischief,  poverty,  revenge,  and  envy  ! 

[Exit  Bsktra-ND. 

Enter  Emmelina  and  Rivers,  talking. 

Em.  Yet  do  not  blame  Orlando,  good  my 
brother ;  [lov’d ; 

He’s  still  the  same,  that  brave  frank  heart  you 
Only  his  temper’s  chang’d,  he  is  grown  sad  ; 
But  that’s  no  fault,  I  only  am  to  blame  ; 

Fond,  foolish  heart,  to  give  itself  away 
To  one  who  gave  me  nothing  in  return  ! 

Riv.  How’s  thisi  my  father  said  Orlando 
lov’d  thee. 

Em.  Indeed  I  thought  so ;  he  was  kinder  once; 
Nay,  still  he  loves,  or  my  poor  heart  deceives  me. 
Riv.  If  he  has  wrong'd  thee  !  yet  I  know  he 
could  not ; 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


551 


His  gallant  soul  is  all  made  up  of  virtues, 

And  I  would  rather  doubt  myself  than  him. 
Yet  tell  me  all  the  story  of  your  loves, 

And  let  a  brother’s  fondness  sooth  thy  cares. 

Em.  When  to  this  castle  first  Orlando  came, 
A  welcome  guest  to  all,  to  me  most  welcome  ; 
Yes,  spite  of  maiden  shame  and  burning  blushes. 
Let  me  confess  he  was  most  welcome  to  me  ! 

.  At  first  my  foolish  heart  so  much  deceiv’d  me, 

I  thought  I  lov’d  him  for  my  brother’s  sake  ; 
But  when  I  closely  search’d  this  bosom  traitor, 
I  found,  alas  !  I  lov’d  him  for  his  own. 

Riv.  Blush  not  to  own  it ;  ’twas  awell-plac’d 
I  glory  in  the  merit  of  my  friend,  [flame  ! 

And  love  my  sister  more  for  loving  him. 

Em.  He  talk’d  of  you  ;  I  listen’d  with  delight. 
And  fancied  ’twas  the  subject  ordy  charm’d  me  ; 
But  when  Orlando  chose  another  theme. 
Forgive  me.  Rivers,  but  I  listen’d  still 
With  undiminish’d  joy — ^he  talk’d  of  love. 

Nor  was  that  theme  less  grateful  than  the  former. 
I  seem’d  the  very  idol  of  his  soul ; 

Rivers,  he  said,  would  thank  me  for  the  friend- 
I  bore  to  his  Orlando  ;  I  believ’d  him.  [ship 
Julia  was  absent  then — ^but  what  of  Julia  1 
Riv.  Ay,  what  of  her  indeed!  why  nam’d 
you  Julia! 

You  could  not  surely  think!  no,  that  were  wild. 
Why  did  you  mention  Julia ! 

Em.  {confusedly.)  Nay,  ’twas  nothing, 

’Twas  accident,  nor  had  my  words  a  meaning  ; 
If  I  did  name  her — ’twas  to  note  the  time — 
To  mark  the  period  of  Orlando’s  coldness. 

The  circumstance  was  casual,  and  but  meant 
To  date  the  change  ;  it  aim’d  at  nothing  farther. 
Riv.  {agitated^  ’Tis  very  like — no  more — 
I’m  satisfied — 

You  talk  as  I  had  doubts  :  what  doubts  have  I! 
Why  do  you  labour  to  destroy  suspicions 
WTiich  never  had  a  birth !  Is  she  not  mine  ! 
Mine  by  the  fondest  ties  of  dear  affection ! — 
But  did  Orlando  change  at  her  return ! 

Did  he  grow  cold !  It  could  not  be  for  that ; 
You  may  mistake.  And  yet  you  said  ’twas  then : 
Was  it  precisely  then !  I  only  ask 
For  the  fond  love  I  bear  my  dearest  sister. 

Em.  ’Twas  as  I  said.  [melina ; 

Riv.  {recovering  himself .)  He  loves  thee,  Em- 
These  starts  of  passion,  this  unquiet  temper. 
Betray  how  much  he  loves  thee  :  yes,  my  sister. 
He  fears  to  lose  thee,  fears  his  father’s  will 
May  dash  his  rising  hopes,,  nor  give  thee  to  him. 

I  Em.  Oh,  flatterer  !  thus  to  sooth  my  easy 
With  tales  of  possible,  unlikely  bliss  !  [nature 
Because  it  may  be  true,  my  credulous  heart 
Whispers  it  is,  and  fondly  loves  to  cherish 
The  feeble  glimmering  of  a  sickly  hope.  [age 
Riv.  This  precious  moment,  worth  a  tedious 
Of  vulgar  time,  I’ve  stol’n  from  love  and  Julia ; 
She  waits  my  coming,  and  a  longer  stay 
Were  treason  to  her  beauty  and  my  love. 
Doubts  vanish,  fears  recede,  and  fondness 
triumphs.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  III.  ' 

Scene — A  Garden. 

Em.  Why  do  my  feet  unbidden  seek  this 
grove! 


Why  do  I  trace  his  steps !  I  thought  him  here 
This  is  his  hour  of  walking,  and  these  shades 
His  daily  haunt :  oft  have  they  heard  his  vows  : 
Ah  !  fatal  vows,  which  stole  my  peace  away  ! 
But  now  he  shuns  my  presence  :  yet  who  knows, 
He  may  not  be  ungrateful,  but  unlrappy  ! 

Yes,  he  will  come  to  clear  his  past  offences, 
With  such  prevailing  eloquence  will  plead. 

So  mourn  his  former  faults,  so  blame  his  cold¬ 
ness. 

And  by  ten  thousand  graceful  ways  repair  them. 
That  I  shall  think  I  never  was  offended. 

He  comes,  and  every  doubt’s  at  once  dispell’d : 
’Twas  fancy  all ;  he  never  meant  to  wrong  me. 

Enter  Oelando. 

Or.  Why  at  this  hour  of  universal  joy,  [ture, 
When  every  heart  beats  high  with  grateful  rap- 
And  pleasure  dances  her  enchanting  round  ; 

0,  tell  me  why,  at  this  auspicious  hour. 

You  quit  the  joyful  circle  of  your  friends  : 

Rob  social  pleasure  of  its  sweete.st  charm. 

And  leave  a  void  e’en  in  the  happiest  hearts. 
An  aching  void  which  only  you  can  fill ! 

Why  do  you  seek  these  unfrequented  shades  ! 
Why  court  these  gloomy  haunts,  unfit  for  beauty. 
But  made  for  meditation  and  misfortune ! 

Em.  I  might  retort  the  charge,  my  lord  Or¬ 
lando  ! 

I  might  inquire  how  the  lov’d  friend  of  Rivers, 
Whom  he  has  held  deep-rooted  in.  his  heart 
Beyond  a  brother’s  dearness,  sav’d  his  life. 

And  cherish’d  it  when  sav’d  beyond  his  own  ; — 
I  might  inquire,  why,  when  this  Rivers  comes. 
After  long  tedious  months  of  expectation. 

Alive,  victorious,  and  as  firm  in  friendship 
As  fondness  could  have  wish’d,  or  fancy  feign’d  • 
I  might  inquire  why  thus  Orlando  shuns  him — 
Why  thus  he  courts  this  melancholy  gloom. 

As  if  he  were  at  variance  with  delight. 

And  scorn’d  to  mingle  in  the  general  joy ! 

Or.  Oh,  my  fair  monitress  !  I  have  deserv’d 
Your  gentle  censure.  Henceforth  I’ll  be  gay. 
Em.  Julia  complains  too  of  you. 

Or.  Ah  !  does  Julia  % 

If  Julia  chides  me,  I  have  err’d  indeed  : 

For  harshness  is  a  stranger  to  her  nature,  [fore  1 
But  why  does  she  complain!  0,  tell  me  where- 
That  I  may  soon  repair  the  unwilling  crime. 
And  prove  my  heart  at  least  ne’er  meant  to 
Em.  Why  so  alarm’d !  [wrong  her. 

Or.  Alarm’d ! 

Em.  "  Indeed,  you  seem’d  so. 

Or.  Sure  you  mistake.  Alarm’d !  oh  no,  I 
was  not,; 

There  was  no  cause — I  could  not  be  alarm’d 
Upon  so  slight  a  ground.  Something  you  said. 
But  what,  I  know  not,  of  your  friend. 

Em.  Of  Julia  1 

Or.  That  Julia  was  displeas’d — was  it  not  so'* 
’Twas  that,  or  something  like  it. 

Em.  She  complains 

That  you  avoid  her. 

Or.  How  !  that  I  avoid  her  * 

Did  Julia  say  so !  ah  !  you  had  forgot — 

It  could  not  be. 

Em.  Why  are  you  te.nified  ! 

Or. 


No. 


552 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Not  terrified — I  am  not — ^but  were  those  [ing ; 
Her  very  words  I  you  might  mistake  her  mean- 
Did  Julia  say  Orlando  shunn’d  her  presence  1 
Oh  !  did  she,  could  she  say  so  1 

Em.  If  she  did, 

Wliy  this  disorder  1  there’s  no  cause. 

Or.  No  cause  1 

Oh !  there’s  a  cause  of  dearer  worth  than  em¬ 
pire  ! 

Quick  let  me  fly,  and  find  the  fair  upbraider ; 
Tell  her  she  wrongs  me,  tell  her  I  would  die 
Rather  than  meet  her  anger.  (Emmelina /atnts.) 

Ah,  she  faints  ! 

What  have  I  said  1  curse  my  imprudent  tongue  ! 
Look  up,  sweet  innocence  !  my  Emmeliha — 

My  gentle  friend,  awake  !  look  up,  fair  creature  ! 
’Tis  your  Orlando  calls. 

Em,  Orlando’s  voice ! 

Methought  he  talked  of  love — nay,  do  not  moc^ 
My  heart  is  but  a  weak,  a  very  weak  one  !  [me  ; 
I  am  not  well — perhaps  I’ve  been  to  blame. 
Spare  my  distress  ;  the  error  has  been  mine. 

[Exit  Emmelina. 
Or.  So  then,  all’s  over ;  I’ve  betrayed  my 
secret. 

And  stuck  a  poison’d  dagger  to  her  heart. 

Her  innocent  heart.  Why,  what  a  wretch  am  I ! 
Ruin  approaches — shall  I  tamely  meet  it. 

And  dally  with  destruction  till  it  blast  me  1 
No,  I  will  fly  thee,  Julia,  fly  for  ever. 

Ah,  fly  !  what  then  becomes  of  Emmelina  1 
Shall  I  abandon  her  1  it  must  be  so  ; 

Better  escape  with  this  poor  wreck  of  honour 
Than  hazard  all  by  staying.  Rivers  here  1 

Enter  Rivers. 

Riv.  The  same.  My  other  self!  my  own 
Orlando  ! 

I  came  to  seek  thee  ;  ’twas  in  thy  kind  bosom. 
My  suffering  soul  reposed  its  secret  cares. 
When  doubts  and  difficulties  stood  before  me  : 
And  now,  now  when  my  prosperous  fortune 
shines, 

And  gilds  the  smiling  hour  with  her  bright  beams. 
Shall  I  become  a  niggard  of  my  bliss. 

Defraud  thee  of  thy  portion  of  my  joys,  [them  1 
And  rob  thee  of  thy  well-earn’d  claim  to  share 
Or.  That  I  have  ever  lov’d  thee,  witness 
Heaven !  [sing 

That  I  have  thought  thy  friendship  the  best  bles- 
That  mark’d  the  fortune  of  my  happier  days, 

I  here  attest  the  sovereign  Judge  of  hearts  ! 
Then  think,  0  think  what  anguish  I  endure. 
When  I  declare,  in  bitterness  of  spirit. 

That  we  must  part - 

Riv.  What  does  Orlando  meani 

Or.  That  I  must  leave  thee.  Rivers ;  must 
Thy  lov’d  society.  [renounce 

'  Riv.  Thou  hast  been  injur’d  ; 

Thy  merit  has  been  slighted  ;  sure,  my  father, 
(Who  knew  how  dear  I  held  thee,  would  not 
wrong  thee. 

Or.  He  is  all  goodness  ;  no — there  is  a  cause — 
Seek  not  to  know  it. 

Riv.  Now,  by  holy  friendship  I 

I  swear  thou  shall  not  leave  me  ;  what,  just  now. 
When  I  have  safely  pass’d  so  many  perils, 
Escap’d  so  many  deaths,  return’d  once  more 


To  the  kind  arms  of  long  desiring  friendship  ^ 
Just  now,  when  I  expected  such  a  welcome. 
As  happy  souls  in  paradise  bestow 
Upon  a  new  inhabitant,  who  comes 
To  taste  their  blessedness,  you  coldly  tell  me 
"^ou  will  depart :  it  must  not  be,  Orlando. 

Or.  It  must,  it  must. 

Riv.  Ah,  must !  then  tell  me  wherefore  1 
Or.  I  would  not  dim  thy  dawn  of  happiness, 
Nor  shade  the  brighter  beams  of  thy  good  fortune 
With  the  dark  sullen  cloud  that  hangs  o’er  mine. 
Riv.  Is  this  the  heart  of  him  I  call’d  my 
friend, 

Full  of  the  graceful  weakness  of  affection  1 
How  have  I  known  it  bend  at  my  request ! 

How  lose  the  power  of  obstinate  resistance, 
Because  his  friend  entreated !  This  Orlando  ! 
How  is  he  chang’d  ! 

Or.  Alas,  how  chang’d,  indeed  I 

How  dead  to  every  relish  of  delight ! 

How  chang’d  in  all  but  in  his  love  for  thee ! 
Yet  think  not  that  my  nature  is  grown  harder, 
That  I  have  lost  that  ductile,  yielding  heart ; 
Rivers,  I  have  not — oh  !  ’tis  still  too  soft ; 

E’en  now  it  melts,  it  bleeds  in  tenderness — 
Farewell!  I  dare  not  trust  myself — farewell ! 
Riv  Then  thou  resolv’st  to  go  1 
Or.  This  very  day  f 

Riv.  What  do  I  hear  1  To-day  !  It  must  not 
This  is  the  day  that  makes  my  Julia  mine,  [be 
Or.  Wed  her  to-day  1 

Riv  This  day  unites  me  to  hei  ; 

Then  stay  at  least  till  thou  behold’st  her  mine. 
Or.  Impossible  !  another  day  were  ruin. 

Riv.  Then  let  me  fly  to  Julia,  and  conjure  her 
To  bless  me  with  her  hand  this  hour — this 
Or.  Oh  !  no,  no,  no  !  [moment, 

Riv.  I  will :  in  such  a  cause 

Surely  she  will  forego  the  rigid  forms 
Of  cold  decorum  ;  then,  my  best  Orlando  ! 

I  shall  receive  my  Julia  from  thy  hand ; 

The  blessing  will  be  doubled !  I  shall  owe 
The  precious  gift  of  love  to  sacred  friendship,! 
Or.  Canst  thou  bear  this,  my  heart  1 
Riv.  Then,  my  Orlando, 

Since  thy  unkind  reserve  denies  my  heart 
Its  partnership  in  this  thy  hoard  of  sorrows, 

I  will  not  press  to  know  it ;  thou  shall  go 
Soon  as  the  holy  priest  has  made  us  one  : 

For,  oh  !  ’twill  sooth  thee  in  the  hour  of  parting. 
To  know  I’m  in  possession  of  my  love, 

To  think  I’m  blest  with  Julia,  to  reflect 
Thou  gav’st  her  to  my  arms,  my  bride  !  my  wife  ! 
Or.  Ah !  my  brain  turns  ! 

Riv.  ’Tis  as  I  thought ;  I’ll  try  him. 

(Aside.): 

Now  answer  me,  Orlando,  and  with  truth  ; 

Hide  nothing  from  thy  friend — dost  thou  not 
love  1  [heart. 

Or.  Ha  !  how  !  I  am  betray’d  !  he  reads  my 
Riv.  Hast  thou,  with  all  that  tenderness  of 
soul. 

From  love’s  infection  kept  thy  yielding  heart  1 
Say,  couldst  thou  bask  in  all  the  blaze  of  beauty, 
And  never  feel  its  warmth  1 — Impossible  ! 

Oh  !  I  shall  prohe  thy  soul,  till  thou  confess 
The  conqu’ring  fair  one’s  name — ^but  why  egn- 
Come.  comt,  I  know  full  well —  ffefe  ? 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


553 


Or.  Ha !  dost  thou  know  1 

And  knowing,  dost  thou  suffer  me  to  live  1 
And  dost  thou  know  my  guilt,  and  call  me  friend  1 
He  mocks  but  to  destroy  me  ! 

Riv.  Come,  no  more  : 

Love  is  a  proud,  an  arbitrary  god. 

And  will  not  choose  as  rigid  fathers  bid  ; 

I  know  that  thine  has  destin’d  for  thy  bride 
A  Tuscan  maid  ;  but  hemts  disdain  all  force. 
Or.  How’s  this  1  what,  dost  thou  justify  my 
passion  1 

Riv.  Applaud  it — glory  in  it — will  assist  it. 
She  is  so  fair,  so  worthy  to  be  lov’d. 

That  I  should  be  thy  rival,  were  not  she 
My  sister. 

Or.  How ! 

Riv.  She  is  another  Julia. 

Or.  I  stood  upon  a  fearful  precipice — 

I’m  giddy  still — oh,  yes  !  I  understand  thee — 
Thy  beauteous  sister  !  what  a  wretch  I’ve  been ! 
Oh,  Rivers !  too  much  softness  has  undone  me. 
Yet  I  will  never  wrong  the  maid  I  love. 

Nor  injure  thee ;  first  let  Orlando  perish  ! 

Riv.  Be  more  explicit. 

Or.  For  the  present  spare  me. 

Think  not  too  hardly  of  me,  noble  Rivers  ! 

I  am  a  man,  and  full  of  human  frailties  ; 

But  hate  like  hell  the  crime  which  tempts  me  on. 
When  I  am  ready  to  depart  I’ll  see  thee, 

Clear  all  my  long  accounts  of  love  and  honour. 
Remove  thy  doubts,  embrace  thee,  and  expire. 

[Exit  Orlando. 

Manet  Rivers. 

Riv.  It  must  be  so — to  what  excess  he  loves 
her ! 

Yet  wherefore  not  demand  her  1  for  his  birth 
May  claim  alliance  with  the  proudest  fortune. 
Sure  there’s  some  hidden  cause — ^perhaps — ah, 
no !  [suspicion ; 

Turn  from  that  thought,  my  soul !  ’twas  vile 
And  I  could  hate  the  heart  which  but  conceiv’d  it. 
’Tis  true  their  faiths  are  different — then  his 
father, 

Austere  and  rigid,  dooms  him  to  another. 

That  must  not  be — these  bars  shall  be  remov’d ; 
I’ll  serve  him  with  my  life,  nor  taste  of  bliss 
Till  I  have  sought  to  bless  the  friend  I  love. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  Orlando. 

Or.  Wed  her  to-day  1  wed  her  perhaps  this 
hour  1 

Hasten  the  rites  for  me!  I  give  her  to  him  1 
/  stand  a  tame  spectator  of  their  bliss  1 
J  live  a  patient  witness  of  their  joy  1  [bipod. 
First  let  this  dagger  drink  my  heart’s  warm 
[Takes  a  dagger  from  his  bosom,  then  sees  Julia.) 
The  sorceress  comes  !  oh,  there’s  a  charm  about 
her  [live. 

Which  holds  my  hand,  and  makes  me  wish  to 
I  shudder  at  her  sight !  open,  thou  earth. 

And  save  me  from  the  peril  of  her  charms  ! 

^  {Puts  up  the  dagger.) 

Enter  Julia. 

Julia.  Methought  I  heard  the  cry  of  one  in 
pain ; 

VoL.  I. 


From  hence  it  came  ;  ah,  me  !  my  lord  Orlando  I 
What  means  that  sigh  1  that  agonizing  voice  1 
Those  groans  which  rend  your  heart  1  those 
frantic  looks  1 

Indeed  I’m  terrified.  What  would  you  do  1 
Or.  {furiously.)  Die  ? 

Julia.  Talk  you  of  death  1  renounce  the  fatal 
Live  for  my  sake,  Orlando.  [thought ; , 

Or.  For  thy  sake  1 

That  were  indeed  a  cause  to  live  for  ages. 
Would  nature  but  extend  the  narrow  limits 
Of  human  life  so  far. 

Julia.  And  for  the  sake 

Of  Rivers  ;  live  for  both ;  he  sends  me  here 
To  beg  you  would  delay  your  purpos’d  parting ; 
His  happiness,  he  swears,  if  you  are  absent. 
Will  be  but  half  complete. 

Or.  Is  it  to-night  1 

This  marriage,  Julia,  did  you  say  to-night  t 
Julia.  It  is,  and  yet  you  leave  us. 

Or.  No. — I’ll  stay. 

Since  you  command,  stay  and  expire  before  you. 

Julia.  What  mean  you  1 
""  Or.  That  I’ll  perish  at  the  feet 

Of — Rivers. 

Julia.  Tell  your  sorrows  to  my  lord ; 

Upon  his  faithful  breast  repose  the  weight 
That  presses  you  to  earth, 

Or.  Tell  Aim  Tell  Rivers  f' 

Is  he  not  yours  1  Does  not  the  priest  now  wait. 
To  make  you  one  1  Then  do  not  mock  me  thus  r 
What  leisure  can  a  happy  bridegroom  find 
To  think  upon  so  lost  a  wretch  as  I  ami 
You  hate  me,  Julia. 

Julia.  Hate  you  !  how  you  wrong  me.! 

Live  to  partake  our  joy. 

Or.  Hope  you  for  joy  1 

Julia.  Have  I  not  cause  1  Am  I  not  lov’d 
by  Rivers  1 

Rivers,  the  best,  the  bravest  of  his  sex  ! 

Whose  valour  fabled  heroes  ne’er  surpass’d. 
Whose  virtues  teach  the  young  and  charm  the 
Whose  graces  are  the  wonder  of  our  sex,  [old ; 
And  envy  of  his  own. 

Or.  Enough !  enough ! 

0  spare  this  prodigality  of  praise. 

But,  Julia,  if  you  would  not  here  behold  me 
Stretch’d  at  your  feet  a  lifeless  bloody  corpse,  j 
Promise  what  I  shall  now  request. 

Julia.  What  is  itl 

Or.  That  till  to-morrow’s  sun,  I  ask  no  longer, 
You  will  defer  this  marriage. 

Julia.  Ah  !  defer  it ! 

Impossible  ;  what  would  my  Rivers  think  1  ( 

Or.  No  matter  what ;  ’tis  for  his  sake  I  ask  it;: 
His  peace,  his  happiness,  perhaps  his  life 
Depends  on  what  I  ask. 

Julia.  His  life  !  the  life  of  Rivers  I 

Some  dreadful  thought  seems  lab’ring  in  your 
Explain  this  horrid  mystery.  [breast ; 

Or.  I  dare  not. 

If  you  comply,  before  to-morrow’s  dawn. 

All  will  be  well,  the  danger  past :  then  finisli 
These — happy  nuptials  :  but  if  you  refuse. 
Tremble  for  him  you  love  ;  the  altar’s  self 
Will  be  no  safeguard  from  a  madman’s  rage. 
Julia.  What  rage  1  what  madman  1  what  ra- 
morseless  villain  1 


554 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


Orlando— will  not  you  protect  your  friend  1 
Think  how  he  loves  you — he  would  die  for  you — 
Then  save  him,  on  my  knees  I  beg  you  save 
him—  {Kneels.) 

Oh !  guard  my  Rivers  from  this  bloody  foe. 

Or.  Dearer  than  life  I  love  him — ask  no  more, 
But  promise  in  the  awful  face  of  heaven. 

To  do  what  I  request— and  promise  further. 

Not  to  disclose  the  cause. 

Julia.  Oh,  save  him !  save  him ! 

Or.  ’Tis  to  preserve  him  that  I  ask  it :  promise. 
Or  see  me  fall  before  you. 

{He  draws  the  dagger,  she  still  kneeling.) 
Julia.  I  do  promise. 

Hide,  hide  that  deadly  weapon — I  do  promise. 

{Rises.) 

How  wild  you  look !  you  tremble  more  than  I. 
I’ll  call  my  Rivers  hither. 

Or.  Not  for  worlds. 

If  you  have  mercy  in  your  nature,  Julia, 

Retire.  Oh,  leave  me  quickly  to  myself ; 

Do  not  expose  me  to  the  strong  temptation 
Which  now  assaults  me. — Yet  you  are  not  gone. 
Julia.  Be  more  composed  ;  I  leave  you  with 
regret.  [its  seat ! 

.(As  she  goes  out.)  His  noble  mind  is  shaken  from 
What  may  these  transports  mean  1  heav’n  guard 
my  Rivers ! 

As  Julia  goes  out,  enter  Bertrand  ;  he  speaks 
behind. 

Ber.  Why,  this  is  well ;  this  has  a  face  ;  she 
weeps. 

He  seems  disorder’d. — Now,  to  learn  the  cause. 
And  then  make  use  of  what  I  hear  by  chance. 
As  of  a  thing  I  knew.  {He  listens.) 

'  Or.  {after  a  pause.)  And  is  she  gone  1 
Her  parting  words  shot  fire  into  my  soul ; 

Did  she  not  say  she  left  me  with  regret  1 
Her  look  was  tender,  and  the  starting  tear 
Fill’d  her  bright  eye  ;  she  left  me  with  regret — 
•She  own’d  it  too. 

Ber.  ’Twill  do. 

{Comes  forward.)  What  have  you  done  1 

The  charming  Julia  is  dissolv’d  in  wo  ; 

Her  radiant  eyes  are  quench’d  in  floods  of  tears  ; 
For  you  they  fall ;  her  blushes  have  confess’d  it. 
Or.  For  me  1  what  sayst  thou  1  Julia  weep 
for  me  ! 

Yet  she  is  gentle,  and  she  would  have  wept 
For  thee  ;  for  any  who  but  seem’d  unhappy. 
Ber.  Ungrateful ! 

Or.  How  1 

Ber.  Not  by  her  tears,  I  judge. 

But  by  her  words,  not  meant  for  me  to  hear. 
Or.  What  did  she  say  1  What  didst  thou 
hear,  good  Bertrand  1 
Speak — I’m  on  fire. 

Ber.  It  is  not  safe  to  tell  you. 

Farewell !  I  would  not  injure  Rivers. 

Or.  Stay, 

Or  tell  me  all,  or  I  renounce  thy  friendship. 
Ber.  That  threat  unlocks  my  tongue  ;  I  must 
not  lose  thee. 

Sweet  Julia  wept,  clasp’d  her  fair  hands,  and 
Why  was  I  left  a  legacy  to  Rivers,  [cried, 
Robb  i  6f  the  power  of  choice  1  Seeing  me 
■he  started, 


W‘ould  have  recall’d  her  words,  blush’d,  and 
retir’d.  [my  ruin. 

Or.  No  more ;  thou  shalt  not  tempt  me  to 
Deny  what  thou  hast  said,  deny  it  quickly, 

Ere  I  am  quite  undone ;  for,  oh  !  I  feel 
'Retreating  virtue  touches  its  last  post, 

And  my  lost  soul  now  verges  on  destruction. 
Bertrand  !  she  promis’d  to  defer  the  marriage, 
Ber.  Then  my  point’s  gain’d ;  that  will  make 
Rivers  jealous,  {Aside.) 

She  loves  you. 

Or.  No  ;  and  even  if  she  did 

I  have  no  hope. 

Ber.  You  are  too  scrupulous. 

Be  bold,  and  be  successful ;  sure  of  this, 

There  is  no  crime  a  woman  sooner  pardons 
Than  that  of  which  her  beauty  is  the  cause. 

Or.  Shall  I  defraud  my  friend  1  he  bled  to 
gain  her  ! 

What !  rob  the  dear  preserver  of  my  life 
Of  all  that  makes  the  happiness  of  his  1 
And  yet  her  beauty  might  excuse  a  falsehood  i 
Nay,  almost  sanctify  a  perjury. 

Perdition’s  in  that  thought — ’twas  born  in  hell. 
My  soul  is  up  in  arms,  my  reason’s  lost. 

And  love,  and  rage,  and  jealousy,  and  honour, 
Pull  my  ivided  heart,  and  tear  my  soul.  [Dxtf. 

Manet  Bertrand. 

Ber.  Rave  on,  and  beat  thy  wings ;  poor 
bird !  thou’rt  lim’d. 

And  vain  will  be  thy  struggles  to  get  loose. 
How  much  your  very  honest  men  lack  prudence  ! 
Though  all  the  nobler  virtues  fill  one  scale, 

Yet  place  but  indiscretion  in  the  other. 

In  worldly  business,  and  the  ways  of  men. 

That  single  folly  weighs  the  balance  down. 
While  all  the  ascending  virtues  kick  the  beam. 
Here’s  this  Orlando  now,  of  rarest  parts. 
Honest,  heroic,  generous,  frank,  and  kind. 

As  inexperience  of  the  world  can  make  him;, 

Y et  shall  this  single  weakness,  this  imprudence, 
Pull  down  unheard-of  plagues  upon  his  head. 
And  snare  his  heedless  soul  beyond  redemption ; 
While  dull,  unfeeling  hearts,  and  frozen  spirits. 
Sordidly  safe,  secure  because  untempted, 

Look  up,  and  wonder  at  the  generous  crime 
They  wanted  wit  to  frame,  and  souls  to  dare. 

ACT  IV. 

Scene — An  Apartment. 

Em.  How  many  ways  there  are  of  being 
wretched  ! 

The  avenues  to  happiness  how  few  ! 

When  will  this  busy,  fluttering  heart  be  still  t 
When  will  it  cease  to  feel  and  beat  no  more  1 
E’en  now  it  shudders  with  a  dire  presage 
Of  something  terrible  it  fears  to  know. 

Ent’ring,  I  saw  my  venerable  father 
In  earnest  conference  with  the  Count  Orlando ; 
Shame  and  confusion  fill’d  Orlando's  eye. 
While  stern  resentment  fir’d  my  father^  cheek. 
And  look,  he  comes,  with  terror  on  his  brow ! 
But,  0  !  he  sees  me,  sees  his  cliild ;  iind  now 
The  terror  of  his  look  is  lost  in  love. 

In  fond,  paternal  love. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


555 


Enter  Guildford. 

Guild.  Come  to  my  arms, 

And  there  conceal  that  penetrating  eye, 

Lest  it  should  read  what  I  would  hide  for  ever. 
Would  hide  from  all,  but  most  would  hide  from 
thee — 

Thy  father’s  grief,  his  shame,  his  rage,  his  tears. 
Em.  Tears !  heaven  and  earth  !  see  if  he 
does  not  weep  !  £my  eyes 

Guild.  He  who  has  drawn  this  sorrow  from 
Shall  pay  me  back  again  in  tears  of  blood. 

’Tis  for  thy  sake  I  weep. 

Em.  Ah,  weep  for  me ! 

Hear,  heaven,  and  judge  ;  hear,  heaven,  and 
If  any  crime  of  mine —  [punish  me  ! 

Guild.  Thou  art  all  innocence  ; 

Just  what  a  parent’s  fondest  wish  would  frame ; 
No  fault  of  thine  e’er  stain’d  thy  father’s  cheek ; 
For  if  I  blush’d,  it  was  to  hear  thy  virtues. 

And  think  that  thou  wast  mine  :  and  if  I  wept. 
It  was  from  joy  and  gratitude  to  heaven. 

That  made  me  father  of  a  child  like  thee. 
Orlando— 

Em.  What  of  him  1 

Guild.  I  cannot  tell  thee  ; 

An  honest  shame',  a  virtuous  pride  forbids. 

Em.  Oh,  speak !  [father  1 

Guild.  Canst  thou  not  guess,  and  spare  thy 
Em.  ’Tis  possible  I  can — and  yet  I  will  not ; 
Tell  me  the  worst  while  I  have  sense  to  hear. 
Thou  wilt  not  speak — ^nay,  never  turn  away  ; 
Dost  thou  not  know  that  fear  is  worse  than  grief  ? 
There  may  be  bounds  to  grief,  fear  knows  no 
bounds ; 

In  grief  we  know  the  worst  of  what  we  feel, 
But  who  can  tell  the  end  of  what  we  fear  1 
Grief  mourns  some  sorrow  palpable  and  known. 
But  fear  runs  wild  with  horrible  conjecture. 
Guild.  Then  hear  the  worst,  and  arm  thy  soul 
to  bear  it. 

My  child  ! — he  has — Orlando  has  refus’d  thee. 
Em.  {after  along  pause.)  ’Tis  well — ’tis  very 
well — ’tis  as  it  should  be.  [wo, 

Guild.  Oh,  there’s  an  eloquence  in  that  mute 
Which  mocks  all  language.  Speak,  relieve  thy 
heart. 

Thy  bursting  heart ;  thy  father  cannot  hear  it. 
Am  I  a  man  1  no  more  of  this,  fond  eyes  ! 

I  am  grown  weaker  than  a  chidden  infant. 
While  not  a  sigh  escapes  to  tell  thy  pain. 

Em.  See,  I  am  calm ;  I  do  not  shed  a  tear ; 
The  warrior  weeps,  the  woman  is  a  hero  ! 

G^ild.  {embraces  her.)  My  glorious  child ! 
now  thou  art  mine  indeed  ! 

Forgive  me  if  I  thought  thee  fond  and  weak. 

I  have  a  Roman  matron  for  my  daughter. 

And  not  a  feeble  girl.  And  yet  I  fear. 

For,  oh  !  I  know  thy  tenderness  of  soul, 

I  fear  this  silent  anguish  but  portends 
Some  dread  convulsion  soon  to  burst  in  horrors. 
Em.  I  will  not  shame  thy  blood ;  and  yet, 
my  father, 

Methinks  thy  daughter  should  not  be  refus’d  ! 
Refused  !  It  is  a  harsh,  ungrateful  sound ; 

Thou  shouldst  have  found  a  softer  term  of  scorn. 
And  have  I  then  been  held  so  cheap  1  Refus’d  1 
Been  treated  like  the  light  ones  of  my  sex. 

Held  up  to  sale  1  been  ofler’d,  and  refused  1 


Chiild.  Long  have  I  known  thy  love ,  ] 
thought  it  mutual ; 

I  met  him — talk’d  of  marriage — 

Em.  Ah!  no  more: 

I  am  rejected ; — does  not  that  suffice  1 
Excuse  my  pride  the  mortifying  tale  ; 

Spare  me  particulars  of  how  and  when. 

And  do  not  parcel  out  thy  daughter’s  shame. 
No  flowers  of  rhetoric  can  change  the  fact. 

No  arts  of  speech  can  varnish  o’er  my  shame  ; 
Orlando  has  refus’d  me. 

Guild.  "Villain !  villain ! 

He  shall  repent  this  outrage. 

Em.  Think  no  more  on’t : 

I’ll  teach  thee  how  to  bear  it ;  I’ll  grow  proud. 
As  gentle  spirits  still  are  apt  to  do 
When  cruel  slighter  killing  scorn  assails  them 
Come,  virgin  dignity,  come,  female  pride. 

Come,  wounded  modesty,  come,  slighted  love, 
Come,  conscious  worth,  come  too,  O  black 
despair ! 

Support  me,  arm  me,  fill  me  with  my  wrongs  1 
Sustain  this  feeble  spirit !  Yes,  my  father. 

But  for  thy  share  in  this  sad  tale  of  shame, 

I  think  I  could  have  borne  it. 

Guild.  Thou  hast  a  brother ; 

He  shall  assert  thy  cause. 

Em.  First  strike  me  dead— 

No,  in  the  wild  distraction  of  my  spirit, 

In  this  dread  conflict  of  my  breaking  heart. 

Hear  my  fond  pleading — save  me  from  that 
curse ; 

Thus  I  adjure  thee  by  the  dearest  ties  {kneels) 
Which  link  society ;  by  the  sweet  names 
Of  parent  and  of  child  ;  by  all  the  joys 
These  tender  chains  have  yielded,  I  adjure  time 
Breathe  not  this  fatal  secret  to  my  brotherSi 
Let  him  not  know  his  sister  was  refused  I 
0,  spare  me  that  consummate,  perfect  ruin ! 
Conceive  the  mighty  wo — I  cannot  speak : 

And  tremble  to  become  a  childless  father. 

{Exit  Emmelina. 
Guild.  What  art  thou,  life  1  thou  lying  vanity ! 
Thou  promiser,  who  never  mean’st  to  pay  ! 

This  beating  storm  will  crush  my  feeble  age  1 
Yet  let  me  not  complain  J  I  have  a  son, 

Just  such  a  son  as  heaven  in  mercy  gives. 

When  it  would  bless  supremely  ;  he  is  happy ; 
His  ardent  wishes  will  this  day  be  crown’d ; 

He  weds  the  maid  he  loves  ;  in  him,  at  least, 
My  soul  will  yet  taste  comfort. — See,  he’s  here  ; 
He  seems  disorder’d. 

Enter  Rivers  {not  seeing  Guildford.) 

Rin.  Yes,  I  fondly  thought 

Not  all  the  tales  which  malice  might  devise. 

Not  all  the  leagues  combined  hell  might  form. 
Could  shake  her  steady  soul. 

Guild.  What  means  my  son  1 

Where  is  thy  bride  1 

Riv.  O,  name  her  not ! 

Guild.  Not  name  her  1 
Riv.  No,  if  possible,  not  think  of  her ; 

Would  I  could  help  it ! — Julia  !  oh,  my  .Tulia  ! 
Curse  my  fond  tongue  !  I  said  I  would  not  name 
I  did  not  think  to  do  it,  but  my  heart  [her  ; 

Is  full  of  her  idea  ;  her  lov'd  imago 

So  fills  my  soul,  it  shuts  out  other  thoughts ; 


666 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


My  lips  resolving  not  to  frame  the  sound, 

Dwell  on  her  name,  and  all  my  talk  is  Julia ! 
Guild.  ’Tis  as  it  should  be ;  ere  the  mid¬ 
night  bell 

Sound  in  thy  raptured  ear,  this  charming  Julia 
Will  be  thy  wife. 

Riv.  No. 

Guild.  How  1 

Jtix,.  She  has  refused. 

Guild.  Saystthoul 
Riv.  She  has. 

Guild.  Why,  who  would  be  a  father  ! 

Who  that  could  guess  the  wretchedness  it  brings. 
But  would  entreat  of  heaven  to  write  him  child¬ 
less  ! 

Riv.  ’Twas  but  a  little  hour  ago  we  parted. 
As  happy  lovers  should  ;  but  when  again 
I  sought  her  presence,  with  impatient  haste, 
Told  her  the  priest,  the  altar,  all  was  ready ; 

She  blushed,  she  wept,  and  vowed  it  could  not  be ; 
That  reasons  of  importance  to  our  peace 
Forbade  the  nuptial  rites  to  be  performed 
Before  to-morrow. 

Guild.  She  consents  to-morrow  ! 

She  but  defers  the  marriage,  not  declines  it. 

Riv.  Mere  subterfuge  !  mere  female  artifice  ! 
What  reason  should  forbid  our  instant  union  1 
Wherefore  to-morrow  1  wherefore  not  to-nightl 
What  difference  could  a  few  short  hours  have 
made  1 

Or  if  they  could,  why  not  avow  the  cause  1 
Guild.  I  have  grown  old  in  camps,  have  lived 
in  courts  ; 

The  toils  of  bright  ambition  have  I  known. 
Woo’d  greatness  and  enjoy’d  it,  till  disgust 
^o^ow’d  possession  ;  still  I  fondly  look’d 
Ttough  the  false  perspective  for  distant  joy, 
H^’d  for  the  hour  of  honourable  ease, 

When,  safe  from  all  the  storms  and  wrecks  of 
My  shatter’d  bark  at  rest,  I  might  enjoy  [fate, 
An  old  man’s  blessings,  liberty  and  leisure. 
Domestic  happiness  and  smiling  peace. 

The  hour  of  a^e  indeed  is  coma  !  I  feel  it ; 
Feel  it  in  all  its  sorrows,  pains,  and  cares  ; 

But  where,  oh  where’s  th’  untasted  peace  it 
promis’d  1  [Exit  Guildford. 

Riv.  I  would  not  deeper  wound  my  father’s 
peace  ; 

But  hide  the  secret  cause  of  my  resentment. 
Till  all  be  known  ;  and  yet  I  know  too  much. 
It  must  be  so — ^his  grief,  his  sudden  parting  : 
Fool  that  I  was,  not  to  perceive  at  once — 

But  friendship  blinded  me,  and  love  betray’d. 
Bertrand  was  right,  he  told  me  she  was  changed. 
And  would,  on  some  pretence,  delay  the  mar¬ 
riage  ; 

I  hop’d  ’twas  malice  all. — ^Yonder  she  comes. 
Dissolved  in  tears  ;  I  cannot  see  them  fall, 

And  be  a  man  ;  I  will  not,  dare  not  meet  her ; 
Her  blandishments  would  sooth  me  to  false 


Kneel  at  thy  feet,  and  sue  for  thy  forgivenes#^ 
He  hears  me  not — alas  !  he  will  not  hear. 
Break,  thou  poor  heart,  since  Rivers  is  unkind. 

Enter  Orlando. 

Or.  Julia  in  tears  ! 

Julia.  Alas !  you  have  undone  me ! 

Behold  the  wretched  victim  of  her  promise  ! 

I  urged,  at  your  request,  the  fatal  suit 
Which  has  destroy’d  my  peace ;  Rivers  sus- 
And  I  am  wretched  !  [pects  me^ 

Or.  Better  ’tis  to  weep 

A  temporary  ill,  than  weep  for  ever  ; 

That  anguish  must  be  mine. 

Julia.  Ha  !  weep  for  ever ! 

Can  they  know  wretchedness,  who  know  not 
love*1  [honour ! 

Or.  Not  love  !  oh  cruel  friendship !  tyrant 
Julia.  Friendship !  alas,  how  cold  art  thou 
to  love ! 

Or.  Too  well  I  know  it ;  both  alike  destroy  me,. 
I  am  the  slave  of  both,  and,  more  than  either. 
The  slave  of  honour. 

Julia.  If  you  then  have  felt 

The  bitter  agonies — 

Or.  Talk  you  of  agonies? 

You  who  are  lov’d  again  !  No  !  they  are  mine 
Mine  are  the  agonies  of  hopeless  passion  ; 

Yes,  I  do  love — I  dote,  I  die  for  love  ! 

{falls  at  her  feet.)  Julia! 

Julia.  Howl 

Or.  Nay,  never  start — I  know  I  am  a  villain  t 
I  know  thy  hand  is  destin’d  to  another,  , 

That  other  too  my  friend,  that  friend  the  man 
To  whom  I  owe  my  life  1  Yes,  I  adore  thee ; 
Spite  of  the  black  ingratitude,  adore  thee  ; 

I  dote*tlpon  my  friend,  and  yet  betray  him 
I’m  bound  to  Emmelina,  yet  forsake  her ; 

I  honour  virtue,  while  I  follow  guilt ; 

I  love  the  noble  Rivers  more  than  life. 

But  Julia  more  than  honour. 

Julia.  Hold !  astonishment 

Has  seal’d  my  lips  ;  whence  sprung  this  mon- 
Or.  {rises.)  From  despair,  [strous  daring  1 
Julia.  What  can  you  hope  from  me  ? 

Or.  Hope  !  nothing. 

I  would  not  aught  receive,  aught  hope  but  death. 
Think’st  thou  I  need  reproach  1  think’st  thou  I 
To  be  reminded  that  my  love’s  a  crime  1  [need 
That  every  moral  tie  forbids  my  passion  1 
But  though  I  know  that  heaven  has  plagues  in 
store. 

Yet  mark — I  do  not,  will  not,  can’t  repent ; 

I  do  not  even  wish  to  love  thee  less  ; 

I  glory  in  my  crime  ;  pernicious  beauty  ! 

Come,  triumph  in  thy  power,  complete  my  woes ; 
Insult  me  with  the  praises  of  my  rival. 

The  man  on  earth — whom  most  I  ought  to  love  ! 

Julia.  I  leave  thee  to  remorse,  and  to  that 
Thy  crime  demands,  {going.)  [penitence 

Or.  A  moment  stay. 

Julia.  I  dare  not. 

Or.  Hear  all  my  rival’s  worth,  and  all  my 
The  unsuspecting  Rivers  sent  me  to  thee,  [guilt. 
To  plead  his  cause  ;  I  basely  broke  my  trust, 
And,  like  a  villain,  nk.aded  for  myself. 

Julia.  Did  he?  Did  Rivers'!  Then  he  loves 
Quick  let  me  seek  him  out.  [me  still — 


peace. 

And  if  she  asked  it,  I  should  pardon  all.  [Exit. 
Enter  Julia. 

Julia.  Stay,  Rivers !  stay,  barbarian !  hear 
me  speak ! 

Return,  inhuman  ! — best  belov’d  I  return  : 

Oh .  I  will  tell  thee  all,  restore  thy  peace, 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


557 


Or.  (taies  out  the  dagger.)  First  take  this 
dagger ; 

Had  you  not  forced  it  from  my  hand  to-day, 

I  had  not  liv’d  to  know  this  guilty  moment ; 
Take  it,  present  it  to  the  happy  Rivers  ; 

Tell  him  to  plunge  it  in  a  traitor’s  heart ; 

Tell  him  his  friend,  Orlando,  is  that  traitor ; 
Tell  him  Orlando  forg’d  the  guilty  tale  ; 

Tell  him  Orlando  was  the  only  foe 

Who  at  the  altar  would  have  murder’d  Rivers, 

And  then  have  died  himself. 

Julia.  Farewell — repent — think  better. 

\_Exit  Julia. 

(As  she  goes  out,  he  still  looks  after  her.) 

Enter  Rivers. 

Kio.  Turn,  villain,  turn ! 

Or.  Ha !  Rivers  here  1 

Riv.  ■  Yes,  Rivers. 

Or.  Gape  wide,  thou  friendly  earth,  for  ever 
hide  me ! 

Rise  Alps,  ye  crushing  mountains,  bury  me  ! 
Riv.  Nay,  turn,  look  on  me. 

Or.  Rivers  !  oh,  I  cannot, 

I  dare  not,  I  have  wrong’d  th^e. 

Riv.  Doubly  wrong’d  me  ; 

Thy  complicated  crimes  cry  out  for  vengeance. 
Or.  ,  Take  it. 

Riv.  But  I  would  take  it  as  a  man. 

Draw.  (Rivers  draws'.) 

Or.  Not  for  a  thousand  worlds. 

Riv.  Not  fight  I 

Why,  thou’rt  a  coward  too  as  well  as  villain : 

I  shall  despise  as  well  as  hate  thee.  > 

Or.  Do ; 

Yet  wrong  me  not,  for  if  I  am  a  coward 
’Tis  but  to  thee  :  there  does  not  brea4jje  the 
Thyself  excepted,  who  durst  call  me  so,  [man. 
And  live  ;  but,  oh  !  ’tis  sure  to  heaven  and  thee, 
I  am  the  veriest  coward  guilt  e’er  made. 

Now,  as  thou  art  a  man,  revenge  thyself ; 

Strike ! 

Riv.  No,  not  stab  thee  like  a  base  assassin. 
But  meet  thee  as  a  foe. 

Or.  Think  of  my  wrongs. 

Riv.  I  feel  them  here. 

Or.  Think  of  my  treachery. 

Riv.  Oh,  wherefore  wast  thou  false  1  how 
have  I  lov’d  thee  ! 

Or.  Of  that  no  more  :  think  of  thy  father’s 
Of  Emmelina’s  wrongs —  [grief, 

Riv.  Provoke  me  not. 

Or.  Of  Julia — 

Riv.  Ha  !  I  shall  forget  my  honour. 

And  do  a  brutal  violence  upon  thee, 

Would  tarnish  my  fair  fame.  Villain  and  cow- 
Traitor  !  will  nothing  rouse  thee  ^  [ard  ! 

Or.  (drawing.)  Swelling  heart ! 

Yet  this  I  have  deserv’d,  all  this,  and  more. 

As  they  prejmre  to  fight,  enter  Emmelina  hastily. 

Em.  Lend  me  your  swiftness,  lightnings — 
’tis  too  late. 

See,  they’re  engaged — oh  no — they  live,  both 
Hold,  cruel  men  !  • 

Riv.  Unlucky  !  ’tis  my  sister: 

Em.  Ye  men  of  blood  !  if  yet  you  have  not 
All  sense  of  human  kindness,  love,  or  pity :  [lost 


If  ever  you  were  dear  to  one  another  ; 

If  ever  you  desire  or  look  for  mercy. 

When,  in  the  wild  extremity  of  anguish. 

You  supplicate  that  Judge  who  has  declared 
That  vengeance  is  his  own — oh,  hear  me  now ; 
Hear  a  fond  wretch,  whom  misery  has  made 
bold ;  [souls. 

Spare,  spare  each  other’s  life — spare  your  own 
Or.  (to  Rivers.)  Thou  shouldst  have  struck 
at  once  !  0,  tardy  hand !  [curtail’d  1 
Em.  Does  death  want  engines  1  is  his  power 
Has  fell  disease  forgotten  to  destroy  I 
Are  there  not  pestilence  and  spotted  plagues, 
Devouring  deluges,  consuming  fires. 
Earthquakes,  volcanoes,  hurricanes,  and  famine, 
That  man  must  perish  by  the  hand  of  man  1 
Nay,  to  complete  the  horror,  friend  by  friend  1 
Riv.  What !  shall  I  then  endure  this  outrage 
tamely  1  [love 

Em.  No. — If  you  covet  death ;  if  you’re  in 
With  slaughter  and  destruction — does  not  war 
Invite  you  to  her  banner  1  Far  and  wide 
Her  dire  dominion  reaches. — There  seek  death. 
There  fall  without  a  crime.  There,  where  no 
No  individual  rage,  no  private  wrong,  [hate. 
Arms  man  against  his  brother. — Not  as  here. 
Where  both  are  often  murderers  in  the  act ; 

In  the  foul  purpose — always. 

Riv.  Is  honour  nothing  1 

Em.  Honour!  0,yes,  I  know  him.  ’Tis  a 
phantom ; 

A  shadowy  figure  wanting  bulk  and  life , 

Who,  having  nothing  solid  in  himself,  • 

Wraps  his  thin  form  in  Virtue’s  plunder’d  robe. 
And  steals  her  title.  Honour  !  ’tis  the  fiend 
Who  feeds  on  orphans’  tears  and  widows’  groans. 
And  slakes  his  impious  thirst  in  brothers’  blood. 
Honour  !  why,  ’tis  the  primal  law  of  hell  I 
The  grand  device  to  people  the  dark  realms 
With  noble  spirits,  who,  but  for  this  curst  honour. 
Had  been  at  peace  on  earth,  or  bless’d  in  heaven. 
With  this  false  honour,  Christians  have  no  com- 
Religion  disavows,  and  truth  disowns  it.  [merce. 
Or.  (throws  away  his  sword.)  An  angel  speaks, 
and  angels  claim  obedience. 

Riv.  (to  Orlando.)  This  is  the  heart  thou 
hast  wrong’d. 

Em.  (comes  up  to  Orlando.)  I  pity  thee  ; 
Calamity  has  taught  me  how  to  pity  : 

Before  I  knew  distress,  my  heart  was  hard ; 
But  now  it  melts  at  every  touch  of  wo  ; 

And  wholesome  sufferings  bring  it  back  to  virtue. 
Rivers,  he  once  was  good  and  just  like  thee  : 
Who  shall  be  proud,  and  think  he  stands  secure. 
If  thy  Orlando’s  false  1  « 

Riv.  Think  of  his  crime. 

Em.  Oh,  think  of  his  temptation  !  think  ’twas 
Julia ; 

Thy  heart  could  not  resist  her ;  how  should  his  ? 
It  is  the  very  error  of  his  friendship. 

Your  souls  were  fram’d  so  very  much  alike. 

He  could  not  choose  but  to  love  whom  Rivers 
lov’d.  [like  this  1 

Or.  Think’st  thou  there  is  in  death  a  pang 
Strike,  my  brave  friend !  be  sudden  and  be 
Death,  which  is  terrible  to  happy  men,  [silent. 
To  me  will  be  a  blessing :  I  have  lost  [friend  ; 


All  that  could  make  life  dear;  I’ve  lost  my 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


5Ji8 

I’ve  stabb’d  the  peace  of  mind  of  that  faircrea- 
I  have  surviv’d  my  honour  :  this  is  dying  !  [ture, 
The  mournful  fondness  of  officious  love 
Will  plant  no  thorns  upon  my  dying  pillow ; 

No  precious  tears  embalm  my  memory, 

But  curses  follow  it. 

Em.  See,  Rivers  melts  ; 

He  pities  thee. 

Or.  I’ll  spare  thy  noble  heart 

The  pain  of  punishing  ;  Orlando’s  self 
Revenges  both. 

(Goes  to  stab  himself  vnth  the  dagger.) 
Em.  Barbarian  !  kill  me  first. 

Eiv.  (snatching  the  dagger.)  Thou  shalt  not 
die  !  I  swear  I  love  thee  still : 

That  secret  sympathy  which  long  has  bound  us, 
Pleads  for  thy  life  with  sweet  but  strong  en¬ 
treaty. 

Thou  shalt  repair  the  wrongs  of  that  dear  saint, 
And  be  again  my  friend. 

Or.  Oh,  hear  me, 

Em.  No. 

I  cannot  stoop  to  live  on  charity. 

And  what  but  charity  is  love  compell’d  1 
I’ve  been  a  weak,  a  fond,  believing  woman. 
And  credulous  beyond  my  sex’s  softness  : 

But  with  the  weakness,  I’ve  the  pride  of  woman. 
I  loved  with  virtue,  but  I  fondly  loved  ; 

That  passion  fixed  my  fate,  determined  all, 

And  marked  at  once  the  colour  of  my  life. 
Hearts  that  love  well,  love  long  ;  they  love  but 
once.  [mine ; 

My  peace  thou  hast  destroyed,  my  honour’s 
She  who  aspired  to  gain  Orlando’s  heart. 

Shall  never  owe  Orlande’s  hand  to  pity. 

[Exit  Emmelina. 

Or^f  after  a  pause.)  And  I  still  live  ! 

Rw.  Farewell !  should  I  stay  longer 

t  might  forget  my  vow. 

Or.  Yet  hear  me,  Rivers. 

[Exit  Rivers,  OrIjAndo  following. 

Enter  Bertrand  on  the  other  side. 

« 

Ber.  How’s  this  1  my  fortune  fails  me,  both 
alive ! 

I  thought  by  stirring  Rivers  to  this  quarrel. 
There  was  at  least  an  equal  chance  against  him. 
I  work  invisibly,  and,  like  the  tempter. 

My  agency  is  seen  in  its  effects. 

Well,  honest  Bertrand !  now  for  Julia’s  letter. 
(Takes  out  a  letter.)  This  fond  epistle  of  a  love¬ 
sick  maid, 

I’ve  sworn  to  give,  but  did  not  swear  to  whom. 
“  Give  it  my  love,”  said  she,  “  my  dearest  lord !” 
Rivers,  she  meant ;  there’s  no  address — that’s 
lucky. 

Then  where’s  the  harm  1  Orlando  is  a  lord 
As  well  as  Rivers,  loves  her  too  as  well. 
(Breaks  open  the  letter.)  I  must  admire  your 
style — ^your  pardon,  fair  one. 

(Runs  over,  it.)  I  tread  in  air — methinks  I  brush 
the  stars,  [me. — 

And  spurn  the  subject  world  which  rolls  beneath 
There’s  not  a  word  but  fits  Orlando’s  case 
As  well  as  Rivers’  ? — tender  to  excess — ■  [less ; 
No  name — ’twill  do ;  his  faith  in  me  is  bound- 
Then,  as  the  brave  are  still,  he’s  unsuspecting, 
And  credulous  beyond  a  woman’s  weakness. 


(Going  out  he  spies  the  dagger.)  Orlando’s  daj^- 
ger !  ha !  ’tis  greatly  thought. 

This  may  do  noble  service  ;  such  a  scheme  ! 

My  genius  catches  fire  !  the  bright  idea 
Is  formed  at  once,  and  fit  for  instant  action. 

[Exit: 

ACT  V. 

Scene — The  Garden. 

Ber.  ’Twas  here  we  were  to  meet ;  where  ■ 
does  he  stay  1 

This  compound  of  strange  contradicting  parts. 
Too  flexible  for  virtue,  yet  too  virtuous 
To  make  a  flourishing,  successful  villain  ! 
Conscience  !  be  still,  preach  not  remorse  to  me 
Remorse  is  for  the  luckless,  failing  villain. 

He  who  succeeds  repents  not ;  penitence 
Is  but  another  name  for  ill  success. 

Was  Nero  penitent  when  Rome  was  burnt  I 
No.;  but  had  Nero  been  a  petty  villain. 

Subject  to  laws  and  liable  to  fear, 

Nero  perchance  had  been  a  penitent. 

He  comes. — This  paper  makes  him  all  my  own. 

Enter  Orlando. 

Or.  At  length  this  wretched,  tempest-beatea- 
bark 

Seems  to  have  found  its  haven  ;  I’m  resolved ; 
My  wavering  principles  are  fixed  to  honour ; 

My  virtue  gathers  force,  my  mind  grows  strong, 

I  feel  an  honest  confidence  within, 

A  precious  earnest  of  returning  peace. 

Ber.  Who  feels  secure,  stands  on  the  verge 
of  ruin.  (Aside.) 

Trust  me,  it  joys  my  heart  to  see  you  thus  ; 
What  h^ye  I  not  attempted  for  your  sake  ! 

My  love  for  you  has  warped  my  honest  nature. 
And  friendship  has  infringed  on  higher  duties. 

Or.  It  was  a  generous  fault. 

Ber.  Yet  ’twas  a  fault. 

Oh  for  a  flinty  heart  that  knows  no  weakness. 
But  moves  right  onward,  unseduc’d  by  friend- 
And  all  the  weak  affections  !  [ship. 

Or.  Hear  me,  Bertrand 

This  is  my  last  farewell ;  absence  alone 
Can  prop  my  stagg’ring  virtue. 

Ber.  You’re  resolv’d : 

Then  Julia’s  favours  come  too  late  : 

Or.  What  favours  1 

Ber.  Nay,  nothing ;  I  renounce  these  weak 
affections ; 

They  have  misled  us  both.  I  too  repent. 

And  will  return  the  letter  back  to  Julia. 

Or.  Letter !  what  letter  1  Julia  write  tome 
I  will  not  see  it.  What  would  Rivers  say  1 
Bertrand  !  he  sav’d  my  life  ; — I  will  not  see  it 
Ber.  I  do  not  mean  you  should ;  nay,  I  refus’d 
To  bring  it  you. 

Or.  Refus’d  to  bring  the  letter  1 

Ber.  Yes,  I  refus’d  at  first. 

Or.  Then  thou  hast  brought  it  T 

My  faithful  Bertrand  ! — come. 

Ber.  ’Twere  best  not  see  it. 

Or.  Not  see  it !  how !  not  read  my  Juba’s 
fbtter  ! 

An  empire  should  not  bribe  me  to  forbear. 

Come,  come. 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


ssa.' 


Ber.  Alas,  how  frail  is  human  virtue  ! 

My  resolution  melts,  and  though  I  mean  not 
To  trust  you  with  the  letter,  I  milst  tell  you 
With  what  a  thousand,  thousand  charms  she 
gave  it.  [it, 

“  Take  this,”  said  she,  “  and,  as  Orlando  reads 
Attend  to  every  accent  of  his  voice ; 

Watch  every  little  motion  of  his  eye ; 

Mark  if  it  sparkles  when  he  talks  of  Julia ; 

If  when  he  speaks,  poor  Julia  he  the  theme  ; 

If  when  he  sighs,  his  bosom  heave  for  Julia : 
Note  every  trifling  act,  each  little  look, 

For,  oh  !  of  what  importance  is  the  least 
To  those  who  love  like  me  !” 

Or.  Delicious  poison  ! 

O  how  it  taints  my  soul !  give  me  the  letter. 

(Bertranb  offer^t,  Orlando  refuses.) 
Ha  !  where’s  the  virtue  which  but  now  I  boasted  1 
’Tis  lost,  ’tis  gone — conflicting  passions  tear  me. 
I  am  again  a  villain.  Give  it — no  : 

A  spark  of  honour  strikes  upon  my  soul. 

Take  back  the  letter ;  take  it  back,  good  Ber- 
Spite  of  myself  compel  me  to  be  just ;  [trand  ! 
I  will  not  read  it. 

Ber.  How  your  friend  will  thank  you  ! 

Another  day  makes  Julia  his  for  ever. 

Even  now  the  great  pavilion  is  prepar’d ; 

There  will  the  nuptial  rites  be  solemnized. 

Julia  already  dress’d  in  bridal  robes, 

Like  some  fair  victim — 

Or.  0,  no  more,  no  more. 

What  can  she  write  to  me  1 

Ber.  Some  prudent  counsel. 

Or.  Then  wherefore  fear  to  read  it  1  come, 
I’ll  venture ; 

WTiat  wondrous  harm  can  one  poor  letter  do  1 
The  letter — quick — ^the  letter. 

Ber.  Since  you  force  me.  {Gives  it.) 

Or.  Be  firm,  ye  shivering  nerves !  It  is  her 
hand.  [you  this. 

(Reads.)  “  To  spare  my  blushes,  Bertrand  brings 
How  have  you  wrong’d  me  !  you  believ’d  me 
false ;  [you. 

’Twas  my  compassion  for  your  friend  deceiv’d 
Meet  me  at  midnight  in  the  great  pavilion  ; 

But  shun  till  then  my  presence  ;  from  that  hour 
My  future  life  is  yours ;  your  once-lov’d  friend 
I  pity  and  esteem  ;  but  you  alone 
Possess  the  heart  of  Julia.” 

This  to  me ! 

I  dream,  I  rave,  ’tis  all  Elysium  round  me, 

And  thou,  my  better  angel !  this  to  me  ! 

Ber.  I’m  dumb  ;  oh,  Julia !  what  a  fall  is 
thine ! 

Or.  What,  is  it  such  a  crime  to  love  1  away — 
Thy  moral  comes  too  late  ;  thou  shouldst  have 
Thy  scruple  sooner,  or  not  urg’d  at  all :  [urg’d 
Thou  shouldst — alas  !  I  know  not  what  I  say — 
But  this  I  know,  the  charming  Julia  loves  me, 
Appoints  a  meeting  at  the  dead  of  night ! 

She  loves  !  the  rest  is  all  beneath  my  care. 

Ber.  Be  circumspect;  the  hour  is  just  at  hand ; 
Since  all  is  ready  for  your  purpos’d  parting, 

See  your  attendants  be  dispos’d  aright,  „ 

Near  the  pavilion  gate. 

Or.  Why  so  1 

Ber.  ’Tis  plain, 

Julia  must  be  the  partner  of  your  flight : 


’Tis  what  she  means,  you  must  not  mind  her 
A  little  gentle  violence  perhaps,  [struggles  ; 
To  make  her  yield  to  what  she  had  resolv’d, 
And  save  her  pride  ;  she’ll  thank  you  for  it  after. 
Or.  Take  her  by  force  1  I  like  not  that,  O 
Bertrand, 

There  is  a  mutinous  spirit  in  my  blood. 

That  wars  against  my  conscience.  T ell  my  Julia 
I  will  not  fail  to  meet  her. 

Ber.  I  obey. 

Be  near  the  garden ;  I  shall  soon  return. 

[Exit  Bertrand. 
Or.  This  giant  sin,  whose  bulk  so  lately  scared 
Shrinks  to  a  common  size  ;  I  now  embrace  [me,. 
What  I  but  lately  fear’d  to  look  upon. 

Why,  what  a  progress  have  I  made  in  guilt ! 
Where  is  the  hideous  form  it  lately  wore  1 
It  grows  familiar  to  me  ;  I  can  think. 

Contrive,  and  calmly  meditate  on  mischief, 

Talk  temp’rately  of  sin,  and  cherish  crimes  • 

I  lately  so  abhorr’d,  that  had  they  once 
But  glanced  upon  the  surface  of  my  fancy 
I  had  been  terrified.  Oh,  wayward  conscience  I" 
Too  tender  for  repose,  too  sear’d  for  penitence  I' 

[Exit  Orlando. 

Scene  changes  to  another  fart  of  the  Garden — 
A  grand  Pavilion — The  Moon  shining. 

Enter  Rivers,  in  a  melancholy  attitude. 

Riv.  Ye  lovely  scenes  of  long-remember’di 
bliss ! 

Scenes  which  I  hop’d  were  fated  to  bestow 
Still  dearer  blessings  in  a  beauteous  bride  ! 
Thou  gay  pavilion,  which  art  dress’d  so  fair 
To  witness  my  espousals,  why,  ah,  why 
Art  thou  adorn’d  in  vain  1  Yet  still  I  court  thee, 
For  Julia  lov’d  thee  once  : — dear,  faithless  Julia*" 
Yet  is  she  false  1  Orlando  swore  she  was  not ; 
It  may  be  so,  yet  she  avoids  my  presence. 

Keeps  close  from  every  eye,  but  most  from 
mine. 

Enter  Orlando. 

Or.  Ah !  Rivers  here  1  would  I  had  shunn’d 
his  walks ! 

How  shall  I  meet  the  man  I  mean  to  wrong! 

Riv.  Why  does  Orlando  thus  expose  his 
To  this  cold  air  1  [health 

Or.  I  ask  the  same  of  Rivers  1 

Riv.  Because  this  solitude,  this  silent  hour, 
Feeds  melancholy  thoughts,  and  sooths  my 
My  Julia  will  not  see  me.  [soul. 

Or.  How  1 

Riv.  She  denies  me 

Admittance  to  her  presence. 

Or.  (aside.)  Then  I’m  lost, 

Confirm’d  a  villain,  now  ’tis  plain  she  loves  me.- 
Riv.  She  will  not  pardon  me  one  single  fault 
Of  jealous  love,  though  thou  hadst  clear’d  up- 
all.  [known. 

Or.  Wait  till  to-morrow,  all  will  then  be- 
Riv.  Wait  till  to-morrow !  Look  at  that 
pavilion ; 

All  was  prepar’d ;  yes,  I  dare  tell  thee  all. 

For  thou  art  honest  now. 

Or.  (aside.)  That  wounds  too  deeply. 

Riv.  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  gave  the  glad 
summons, 


560 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE. 


This  dear  pavilion  had  beheld  her  mine. 

Or.  All  will  be  well  to-morrow,  {aside.)  If  I 
stay  '  [Rivers. 

I  shall  betray  the  whole. — Good  night,  my 
Riv.  Good  night ;  go  you  to  rest ;  I  still  shall 
walk.  {Exit  Oklando. 

Yes,  I  will  trace  her  haunts  ;  my  too  fond  heart. 
Like  a  poor  bird  that’s  hunted  from  its  nest. 
Dares  not  return,  and  knows  not  where  to  fix  ; 
Still  it  delights  to  hover  round  the  spot 
Which  lately  held  its  treasure  ;  eyes  it  still. 

And  with  heart-breaking  tenderness  surveys 
The  scene  of  joys  which  never.may  return.  [Exit. 

Scene  changes  to  another  fart  of  the  garden. 
Re-enter  Orlando. 

Or.  Did  he  say  rest  1  talk’d  he  of  rest  to  me  1 
'■Can  rest  and  guilt  associate  1  but  no  matter, 

I  cannot  now  go  back ;  then  such  a  prize, 

Such  voluntary  love,  so  fair,  so  yielding, 

Would  make  archangels  forfeit  their  allegiance  ! 
I  dare  not  think ;  reflection  leads  to  madness. 

Enter  Bertrand. 

Bertrand !  I  was  not  made  for  this  dark  work : 
My  heart  recoils — ^poor  Rivers  ! 

Ber.  What  of  Rivers  1 

Or.  I’ve  seen  him. 

Ber.  Where  1 

Or.  Before  the  great  pavilion. 

Ber.  (aside.)  That’s  lucky,  saves  me  trouble  ; 
were  he  absent. 

Half  of  my  scheme  had  failed. 

Or.  He’s  most  unhappy ; 

He  wish’d  me  rest,  spoke  kindly  to  me,  Bertrand ; 
How,  how  can  I  betray  him  1 

Ber.  He  deceives  you  ; 

He’s  on  the  watch,  else  wherefore  now  abroad 
At  this  late  hour  1  beware  of  treachery. 

Or.  I  am  myself  the  traitor. 

Ber.  Come,  no  more  ! 

The  time  draws  near,  you  know  the  C)rpress 
’Tis  dark.  [walk, 

Or.  The  fitter  for  dark  deeds  like  mirte. 
Ber.  I  have  prepar’d  your  men  ;  when  the  bell 
Go  into  the  pavilion ;  there  you’ll  find  [strikes 
Tie  blushing  maid,  who  with  faint  screams  per¬ 
haps 

Will  feign  resentment.  But  you  want  a  sword. 
Or.  A  sword  ! — I’ll  murder  no  one — why  a 
sword  1  [take  mine  ; 

Ber.  ’Tis  prudent  to  be  arm’d  ;  no  words. 
There  may  be  danger,  Julia  may  be  lost. 

This  night  secures  or  loses  her  for  ever. 

The  cypress  walk — spare  none  who  look  like 
spies. 

Or.  (looking  at  the  sword.)  How  deeply  is  that 
soul  involv’d  in  guilt. 

Who  dares  not  hold  communion  with  its 
Nor  ask  itself  what  it  designs  to  do  !  [thoughts. 
But  dallies  blindly  with  the  gen’ral  sin. 

Of  unexamin’d,  undefin’d  perdition! 

[Exit  Orlando. 
Ber.  Thus  far  propitious  fortune  fills  my  sails. 
Yet  still  I  doubt  his  milkiness  of  soul ; 

My  next  exploit  must  be  to  find  out  Rivers, 
Arid,  as  from  Julia,  give  him  a  feign’d  message, 
To  join  .er  here  at  the  pavilion  gate  ; 


There  shall  Orlando’s  well-arm’d  servants  meet 
him. 

And  take  his  righteous  soul  from  this  bad  world. 
If  they  should  fail,  his  honest  cousin  Bertrand 
Will  help  him  onward  in  his  way  to  heav’n. 

Then  this  good  dagger,  which  I’ll  leave  beside 
him. 

Will,  while  it  proves  the  deed,  conceal  the  doer ; 
’Tis  not  an  English  instrument  of  mischief, 
And  who’ll  suspect  good  Bertrand  wore  a  dag- 
gerl 

To  clear  me  further,  I’ve  no  sword — unarm’d — , 
Poor  helpless  Bertrand  !  Then  no  longer  poor. 
But  Guildford’s  heir,  and  lord  of  these  fair  lands. 

[Exit  Bertrand. 

Enter  Orlando  the  other  side. 

Or.  Draw  thy  dun  curtain  round,  oh,  night ! 
black  night  ! 

Inspirer  and  concealer  of  foul  crimes ! 

Thou  wizard  night !  who  conjur’st  up  dark 
thoughts,  [guilt ! 

And  mak’st  him  bold,  who  else  would  start  at 
Beneath  thy  veil  the  villain  dares  to  act. 

What  in  broad  day  he  would  not  dare  to  think. 
Oh,  night  I  thou  hid’st  the  dagger’s  point  from 
men. 

But  canst  thou  screen  the  assassin  from  himself  1 
Shut  out  the  eye  of  heav’n  1  extinguish  con¬ 
science  1 

Or  heal  the  wounds  of  honour  1  Oh,  no,  no,  no  '. 
Yonder  she  goes — the  guilty,  charming  Julia  ! 
My  genius  drives  me  on — Julia,  I  come. 

(Runs  off.) 

Scene — The  Pavilion. 

An  arched  door,  through  which  Julia  and  her 
maid  come  forward  on  the  stage. 

Julia.  Not  here  1  not  come  1  look  out,  my 
faithful  Anna. 

There  was  a  time — oh,  time  for  ever  dear  ! 
When  Rivers  would  not  make  his  Julia  wait. 
Perhaps  he  blames  me,  thinks  the  appointment 
Too  daring,  too  unlike  his  bashful  Julia ;  [bold. 
But  ’twas  the  only  means  my  faithful  love 
Devis’d,  to  save  him  from  Orlando’s  rashness. 

I  have  kept  close,  refus’d  to  see  my  Rivers  ; 
Now  all  is  still,  and  I  have  ventured  forth. 

With  this  kind  maid,  and  virtue  for  my  guard. 
Come,  we’ll  go  in,  he  cannot  sure  be  long. 

(They  go  into  the  pavilion.) 

Enter  Orlando,  his  sword  drawn  and  bloody, 
his  hair  dishevelled. 

Or.  What  have  I  done  1  a  deed  that  earns 
damnation ! 

Where  shall  I  fly  1  ah  !  the  pavilion  door  ! 

’Tis  open — it  invites  me  to  fresh  guilt ; 

I’ll  not  go  in — let  that  fallen  angel  wait. 

And  curse  her  stars  as  I  do. 

(The  rrddniglti  bell  strikes.)  Hark  !  the  bell ! 
Demons  of  darkness,  what  a  peal  is  that ! 

Again  !  ’twill  wake  the  dead — I  cannot  bear  it ! 
’Tis  terrible  as  the  last  trumpet’s  sound  ! 

That  was  the  marriage  signal !  Powers  of  hell. 
What  blessings  have  I  blasted  !  Rivers  !  Julia  ! 

(Julia  comes  out.) 


/ 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE 


Julie,  My  Rivers  calls;  I  come,  I  come. — 
■  Orlando ! 

Or.  Yes, 

Thon  beautiful  deceiver  !  ’tis  that  wretch. 
Julia,  That  perjur’d  friend. 

Or.  That  devil ! 

Julia.  I’m  betrayed. 

Why  art  thou  here  1 

Or.  Thou  canst  make  ruin  lovely. 

Or  I  would  ask,  why  didst  thou  bring  me  here  1 
^  Julia.  I  bring  thee  here  1 
Or.  Yes,  thou,  bright  falsehood  !  thou. 
Julia.  No,  by  my  hopes  of  heaven !  where  is 
Some  crime  is  meant.  [my  Rivers  1 

Or.  (catches  her  hand.)  Julia!  the  crime  is 
done. 

Dost  thoii  not  shudder  1  art  thou  not  amaz’d  1 
Art  thou  not  cold  and  blasted  with  my  touch  1 
Is  not  thy  blood  congeal’d  1  does  no  black  horror 
Fill  thy  presaging  soul  1  look  at  these  hands  ; 
Julia  !  they’re  stain’d  with  blood  ;  blood,  Julia, 
Nay,  look  upon  them.  [blood  ! 

Julia.  Ah  !  I  dare  not.  Blood  ! 

Or.  Yes,  thou  dear  false  one,  with  the  noblest 
That  ever  stain’d  a  dark  assassin’s  hand,  [blood 
Had  not  thy  letter  with  the  guilty  message 
To  meet  thee  here  this  hour,  blinded  my  honour. 
And  wrought  my  passion  into  burning  phrensy. 
Whole  worlds  should  not  have  bribed  me. 

Julia.  Letter  and  message  1 

I  sent  thee  none. 

Or.  Then  Bertrand  has  betrayed  me  ! 

And  I  have  done  a  deed  beyond  all  reach. 

All  hope  of  mercy — I  have  murder’d  Rivers. 
Julia.  Oh  !  (She  falls  into  her  maid’s  arms.) 
Or.  0  rich  reward  which  love  prepares  for 
Thus  hell  repays  its  instruments  !  [murder ! 

Enter  Guildford  urith  servants. 

Guild.  Where  is  he  1 

Where  is  this  midnight  murderer  1  this  assassin  1 
This  is  the  place  Orlando’s  servant  nam’d. 

Or.  The  storm  comes  on.  ’Tis  Guildford, 
good  old  man ! 

Behold  the  wretch  accurst  of  heaven  and  thee. 
Guild.  Accurst  of  both  indeed.  How,  Julia 
fainting ! 

Or.  She’s  -pure  as  holy  truth ;  she  was  de- 
And  so  was  I.  [ceiv’d. 

Guild.  Who  tempted  thee  to  this  1 
Or.  Love,  hell,  and  Bertrand. 

Julia,  (recovering.)  Give  me  back  my  Rivers ; 
I  will  not  live  without  him.  Oh,  my  father  ! 
Guild.  Father !  I’m  none ;  I  am  no  mure  a 
father ; 

I  have  no  child  ;  my  son  is  basely  murder’d. 
And  my  svveet  daughter,  at  the  fatal  news. 

Is  quite  bereft  of  reason. 

Or.  Seize  me,  bind  me  : 

If  death’s  too  great  a  mercy,  let  me  live  : 

Drag  me  to  some  damp  dungeon’s  horrid  gloom. 
Deep  as  tl^e  centre,  dark  as  my  offences  ; 

Come,  do  your  office,  take  my  sword  ;  oh,  Ber¬ 
trand, 

Yet,  ere  I  perish,  could  it  reach  thy  heart  I 

( They  seue  Orlando.  ) 
Julia.  I  will  not  long  survive  thee,  oh,  my 
Rivers ! 

VoL.  1. 


56K- 

Enter  Rivers  vnth  the  dagger. 

Riv.  Who  calls  on  Rivers  with  a  voice  so  sad, 
So  full  of  sweetness  1 

Guild.  Ah,  my  son  ! 

Julia,.  ’Tis  he,  ’tis  he  ! 

Julia  and  Rivers  run  into  each  other's  arms. 
Orlando  breaks  from  the  guards,  and  falls 
on  his  knees. 

Or.  He  lives,  he  lives  !  the  godlike  Rivers 
lives ! 

Hear  it,  ye  host  of  heaven  !  witness,  ye  saints  ! 
Recording  angels,  tell  it  in  your  songs  ; 

Breathe  it,  celestial  spirits,  to  your  lutes. 

That  Rivers  lives ! 

Julia.  Explain  this  wondrous  happiness  1 
Riv.  ’Twas  Bertrand  whom  Orlando  killed  ; 
the  traitor 

Has  with  his  dying  breath  confess’d  the  whole. 
Or.  Good  sword,  I  thank  thee ! 

Riv.  In  the  tangled  maze 

Orlando  miss’d  the  path  he  was  to  take,  [ceal’d 
And  pass’d  through  that  where  Bertrand  lay  con- 
To  watch- th’  event :  Orlando  thought  ’twas  me,. 
And  that  I  play’d  him  false  :  the  walk  was  dark. 
In  Bertrand’s  bloody  hand  I  found  this  dagger. 
With  which  he  meant  to  take  my  life  ;  but  how 
Were  you  alarm’d  1 

Guild.  One  of  Orlando’s  men. 

Whom  wealth  could  never  bribe  to  join  in  mur- 
Or.  Murder  !  I  bribe  to  murder  1  [der — i 

Riv.  No  ;  ’twas  Bertrand 

Brib’d  them  to  that  curst  deed ;  he  lov’d  my. 
Or.  Exquisite  villain  1  [sister. 

Guild.  Fly  to  Emmelina, 

If  any  spark  of  reason  yet  remain. 

Tell  her  the  joyful  news.  Alas,  she’s  here ! 
Wildly  she  flies  !  Ah,  my  distracted  child  ! 

Enter  Emmelina  distracted. 

Em.  Off,  off!  I  will  have  way  !  ye  shall  nots 
hold  me  : 

I  come  to  seek  my  lord ;  is  he  not  here  1 
Tell  me,  ye  virgins,  have  ye  seen  my  love. 

Or  know  you  where  his  flocks  repose  at  noon  ? 
My  love  is  comely — sure  you  must  have  seen, 
him; 

’Tis  the  great  promiser !  who  vows  and  swears 
The  perjur’d  youth !  who  deals  in  oaths  andi 
breaks  them. 

In  truth  he  might  deceive  a  wiser  maid. 

I  lov’d  him  once ;  he  then  was  innocent ; 

He  was  no  murderer  then,  indeed  he  was  not ; 
He  had  not  kill’d  my  brother. 

Riv.  Nor  has  now  ; 

Thy  brother  Uves. 

Em.  I  know  it — yes,  he  lives 

Among  the  cherubim.  Murd’rers  too  will  live 
But  where  1  I’ll  tell  you  where — down,  down, 
down,  down. 

How  deep  it  is  !  ’tis  fathomless — ’tis  dark  ! 

No — there’s  a  pale  blue  flame — ah,  poor  Or- 
Guild.  My  heart  will  burst.  [lando  ! 

Or.  Pierce  mine,  and  that  will  ease  it. 

Em.  (comes  wp  to  her  father.)  I  knew  a  maid 
who  lov’d — but  she  was  mad — 

Fond,  foolish  girl !  Thank  heav’n,  I  am  not  mad  ; 

2N 


562 


THE  WORKS  OF  HANNAH  MORE.  ' 


Yet  the  afflicting  angel  has  been  with  me ; 

But  do  not  tell  my  father,  he  would  grieve  ; 
Sweet,  good  old  man — ^perhaps  he’d  weep  to 
hear  it : 

I  never  saw  my  father  weep  but  once  ; 

I’ll  tell  you  when  it  was.  I  did  not  weep  ; 
’Twas  when — but  soft,  my  brother  must  not 
know  it. 

’Twas  when  his  poor  fond  daughter  was  refus’d. 
Guild.'^  "Who  can  bear  this  1 
Or.  I  will  not  live  to  bear  it. 

Em.  {comes  up  to  Orlando.)  Take  comfort, 
thou  poor  wretch  !  I’ll  not  appear 
Against  thee,  nor  shall  Rivers  ;  but  blood  must, 
Blood  will  appear ;  there’s  no  concealing  blood. 
What’s  that  1  my  brother’s  ghost — it  vanishes  ; 

{Catclies  hold  0/ Rivers.) 
Stay,  take  me  with  thee,  take  me  to  the  skies  ; 
I  have  thee  fast ;  thou  shalt  not  go  without  me. 
But  hold — may  we  not  take  the  murd’rer  with  us  1 


That  look  says — No.  Why  then  I’ll  not  go 
with  thee. 

Yet  hold  me  fast — ’tis  dark — I’m  lost — I’m 
gone.  {Dies.) 

Or.  One  crime  makes  many  needful ;  this 
day’s  sin 

Blots  out  a  life  of  virtue.  Good  old  man  ! 

My  bosom  bleeds  for  thee  ;  thy  child  is  dead, 
And  I  the  cause.  ’Tis  but  a  poor  atonement ; 
But  I  can  make  no  other.  {Stabs  himself.) 
Riv.  What  hast  thou  done  1 

Or.  Fill’d  up  the  measure  of  my  sins.  OB', 
mercy ! 

Eternal  goodness,  pardon  this  last  guilt ! 
Rivers,  thy  hand ! — farewell !  forgive  me, 
heaven ! 

Yet  is  it  not  an  act  which  bars  forgiveness, 

And  shuts  the  door  of  grace  for  ever  1 — Oh  ! 

{Dies.) 

{The  curtain  falls  to  soft  music.) 


EPILOGUE. 

WRITTEN  BY  E.  B.  SHERIDAN,  ESQ. - SPOKEN  BY  MR.  LEE  LEWES. 


Unhand  me,  gentlemen,  by  heaven,  I  say, 

•I’ll  make  a  ghost  of  him  who  bars  my  way. 

{Behind  the  scenes. 

Forth  let  me  come — A  poetaster  true, 

As  lean  as  envy,  and  as  baneful  too  ; 

On  the  dull  audience  let  me  vent  my  rage. 

Or  drive  these  female  scribblers  from  the  stage. 
For  scene  or  history,  we’ve  none  but  these. 
The  law  of  liberty  and  wit  they  seize  ; 

In  tragic — comic — ^pastoral — they  dare  to  please. 
Each  puny  bard  must  surely  burst  with  spite. 
To  find  that  women  with  such  fame  can  write  ; 
But,  oh,  your  partial  favour  is  the  cause. 

Which  feeds  their  follies  with  such  full  applause. 
Yet  still  our  tribe  shall  seek  to  blast  their  fame. 
And  ridicule  each  fair  pretender’s  aim  ; 

Where  the  dull  duties  of  domestic  life 
Wage  with  the  muse’s  toils  eternal  strife. 

What  motley  cares  Gorilla’s  mind  perplex. 
While  maids  and  metaphors  conspire  to  vex ! 

In  studious  dishabille  behold  her  sit, 

A  letter’d  gossip,  and  a  housewife  wit ; 

At  once  invoking,  though  for  different  views. 
Her  gods,  her  cook,  her  milliner,  and  muse. 
Round  her  strew’d  room  a  frippery  chaos  lies, 
A  checker’d  wreck  of  notable  and  wise  ; 

Bills,  books,  caps,  couplets,  combs,  avaried  mass. 
Oppress  the  toilet,  and  obscure  the  glass ; 
'Unfinish’d  here  an  epigram  is  laid,  ■* 

And  there  a  mantuamaker’s  bill  unpaid : 
jHere  newborn  plays  foretaste  the  town’s  ap¬ 
plause. 


There,  dormant  patterns  pine  for  future  gauze ; 
A  moral  essay  now  is  all  her  care, 

A  satire  next,  and  then  a  bill  of  fare  : 

A  scene  she  now  projects,  and  now  a  dish, 
Here’s  act  the  first — and  here — remove  with 
Now  while  this  eye  in  a  fine  phrensy  rolls,  [fish. 
That,  soberly  casts  up  a  bill  for  coals  ; 

Black  pins  and  daggers  in  one  leaf  she  sticks. 
And  tears,  and  thread,  and  balls,  and  thimbles 
mix. 

Sappho,  ’tis  true,  long  vers’d  in  epic  song. 
For  years  esteem’d  all  household  studies  wrong ; 
When  dire  mishap,  though  neither  shame  nor  sin, 
Sappho  herself,  and  not  her  muse,  lies  in. 

The  virgin  Nine  in  terror  fly  the  bower. 

And  matron  Juno  claims  despotic  power ; 

Soon  Gothic  hags  the  classic  pile  o’ertum, 

A  caudle-cup  supplants  the  sacred  urn  ; 

Nor  books  nor  implements  escape  their  rage. 
They  spike  the  inkstand,  and  they  rend  the  page  ; 
Poems  and  plays  one  barbarous  fate  partake, 
Ovid  and  Plautus  suffer  at  the  stake. 

And  Aristotle’s  only  sav’d — to  wrap  plumcake. 

Y et,  shall  a  woman  tempt  the  tragic  scene  1 
And  dare-^but  hold — I  must  repress  my  spleen ; 
I  see  your  hearts  are  pledg’d  to  her  applause, 
"While  Shakspeare’s  spirit  seems  to  aid  her 
cause ; 

Well  pleas’d  to  aid — since  o’er  his  sacred  bier 
A  female  hand  did  ample  trophies  rear. 

And  gave  the  greenest  laurel  that  is  worshipp’d 
there. 


MORNING  SOLILOQUY. 


rs 


OEMS. 


iriie  following  lines  were  written  by  Hannah  More  for 
her  own  use,  in  early  life ;  but  a  copy  having  been  given 
to  a  friend,  the  author  was  importuned  to  print  it.  She 
complied,  and  prefixed  to  the  piece  the  following — 


Soft  slumbers  now  mine  eyes  forsake, 

My  powers  are  all  renew’d  ; 

May  my  freed  spirit  too  awake, 

With  heavenly  strength  endued  ! 

Thou  silent  murderer  Sloth,  no  more 
My  mind  imprison’d  keep  ; 

Nor  let  me  waste  another  hour 
With  thee,  thou  felon  Sleep. 

Hark,  O  niy  soul,  could  dying  men 
One  lavish’d  hour  retrieve, 

Though  spent  in  tears,  and  pass’d  in  pain, 
What  treasures  would  they  give ! 

But  seas  of  pearl,  and  mines  of  gold. 
Were  offer’d  them  in  vain ; 

Their  pearl  of  countless  price  is  lost,* 
And  where’s  the  promis’d  gain  1 

Lord,  when  thy  day  of  dread  account 
For  squander’d  hours  shall  come, 

•Oh,  let  them  not  increase  th’  amount. 

And  swell  the  former  sum  ! 

*  See  Matthew  xiii.  46. 


Teach  me  in  health  each  good  to  prize, 
I,  dying,  shall  esteem ; 

And  every  pleasure  to  despise 
I  then  shall  worthless  deem. 

For  all  thy  wondrous  mercies  past 
My  grateful  voice  I  raise. 

While  thus  I  quit  the  bed  of  rest 
Creation’s  Lord  to  praise. 


ON  MR.  SHAPLAND, 

An  eminent  Apothecary  in  Bristol. 

WouLDST  thou  inquire  of  him  vyho  sleeps  be¬ 
neath,  [dust, 

This  tomb  shall  tell  thee,  ’tis  no  common 
That,  crush’d  at  length  by  oft  defeated  death. 
Fills  the  cold  um  conunitted  to  its  trust. 

Stranger  !  this  building  fallen  to  decay. 

Was  once  the  dwelling  of  an  honest  mind — 
A  spirit  cheerful  as  the  light  of  day — 

The  soul  of  friendship — milk  of  human  kind. 

His  art  lorbade  th’  expiring  wretch  to  die. 
Empower’d  the  nerveless  tongue  once  more 
to  speak. 

Restor’d  its  lustre  to  the  sunken  eye. 

And  spread  fresh  roses  on  the  livid  cheek. 

Each  various  duty  bound  on  social  man, 

’Twas  his  with  glowing  duty  to  perform, 

As  crystal  pure,  his  stream  of  conduct  ran. 
Unstain’d  by  folly,  undisturb’d  by  storm. 

With  me,  then,  stranger  !  mourn  departed 
worth ; 

Steel’d  is  the  heart  that  can  forbear  to  sigh ; 
Let  deep  regret  call  all  thy  sorrows  forth — 
Live  as  he  liv’d — and  fear  not  then  to  die.* 

*  Dr.  Stonhouse  had  the  highest  esteem  for  Mr.  Shap- 
land,  who  attended  his  family,  as  well  as  that  of  Mrs. 
More,  even  after  he  had  left  off  general  practice.  Dr. 
Stonhouse,  in  1789,  presented  to  Mr.  Shapland  a  piece 
of  plate  as  a  testimony  of  his  gratitude  for  the  rofitara 
tion  of  health,  through  the  blessing  of  God.” 


“  As  early  rising  is  very  conducive  to  health, 
and  to  the  improvement  of  the  mind  in  knowl¬ 
edge  and  piety,  this  soliloquy  is  designed  to  pro¬ 
mote  so  important  an  end ;  and  is  recommended 
more  particularly  to  young  persons,  as,  by  con¬ 
tracting  a  habit  of  rising  early  in  the  days  of 
their  youth,  they  would  be  less  liable  togdepart 
from  such  a  custom  as  they  advance  in  life. 
The  last  stanza  is  expressive  of  the  action  of 
rising,  in  order  that  those  who  repeat  it  may 
have  no  excuse  for  not  quitting  their  beds  im¬ 
mediately.” 


END  OF  VOL.  I. 


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Jim 


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